By,Samuel Otieno
email: samihotieno@gmail.com
I was back home. It had been donkey's years. The air was ever
rancid and the usual brackishness in the rivers throttled my nostrils. Teens in
high schools still smoked pot like they were on the streets of Kingston and
some got themselves pregnant during the baby making sprees and had the baby
bumps as circumstantial evidence that some douche bag was fertile. The days
still sauntered in hope and sometimes they stumbled in paranoia, perhaps in
fear of an imminent unspecified malevolence. But this time I was back to the
flow of tears and deafening wails of sentimental womenfolk. Ma and my sisters,
Lucy and Muna had the strength to come and meet. Lucy was visibly pregnant and
I didn't ask questions as it was not the time and place.Well, to put it rightly,
I was their baby brother and all through the years I've never been in a
position to ask my sisters about anything. I had led a largely obscure
personality and the innumerable minor cares didn't really stick in.
Papa's elder brother, Uncle Masilus had probably come to size
me up. Age had overtaken him. It had been what?-two years? I'd lost count. He
was seething under his breath and his face contorted in displeasure as if a
thorn had pricked his heels. He hadn't changed much. It was going to be an all
out war. Wars. There never seemed to enough of them around here. There was
somebody always churning out the past looking for the most potent weapons to
harm others, as if they were wondering out aloud 'now where is that machete
when you need it?' Papa's funeral would be in a couple of days. If all went
well I'd keep my head and go back to Kigali unscathed.
That night, the funeral dances got wild as it was the last
night for the body to stand above the earth. There were whispers about a son
from far away who had come to his estranged father's funeral. I expected the
indifference. There were no secrets about Papa and I. They have a theory here
that the spirit of the dead would hover around well until after the funeral to
witness the ceremony. When I was about seven years old I'd laugh because it was
just too outrageous. Right now, I still hold the same mind but I don't laugh anymore.
The half drunken dancers in the courtyard made an uncoordinated jiggle to the
sound of the animated music until the acrid smell of perspiration punctured the
night. Most of them were there for the fun of it. A group of men sat pensively
around the bonfire, almost nodding off into the caramel flames licking out the
wooden embers.
I twisted, I turned, and I got into a dither. Then I twisted
and turned some more as if trying to fathom the mystery of the dark embrace
that engulfed my bosom. The night slowly grew weary, like a hospice patient.
The mourners were drowning away in sleep as a few mongrels howled meekly in the
distant darkness. The fire was dying out. Yet I sat and kept vigil, watching
the bronze casket, meticulously draped in a cherry cloth and mounted on a
couple of high stools. I could make out the facial features of the dead being
beneath the dolorous spacing within the monumental casket; it was Papa. The
medics said it was emphysema that took him down; something you get when you smoke
too much pipe. Ma had told me that on the night that he passed on, he produced
a wheezing noise from his chest and the chaps at the referral centre had to use
some stuff they call bronchodilators on him. They were immense-less. His lungs
were shattered. The cruel hands of death had sown. I didn’t know why I came but
I came anyway. Muna, the eldest sister had called me to send 700,000 Rwandan
Francs to foot the medical bill, buy the coffin, feed the mourners, hire the
grave diggers, appease the elders, hire a clergyman and cater for other funeral
expenses.
He stirs a little. No, it must have been the insomnia driving
me bonkers. His large lips were moist, his facial skin was tout, his once
glassy and smoky eyes sockets were tightly shut in eternal slumber. His face
shone pale against the dim light of the bulb from my mother's veranda. She had
grown tired from seven days of mourning and her sore feet weren’t helping
either. She had danced. She had sang. The dead heard her. She was a widow with
two daughters and an only son who had been away living in Kigali and had sired
an outlandish speaking child and married a BaTusi lady named Angelique
Mukantagara. My heart stood empty with
an occasional monument of guilt and smoke building up then crashing against my
rib cage. There were no tears. At least not an ounce from me. No one could
blame me. Since I came from Kigali two days earlier I’d been trying to
understand the thing that lay motionless in the casket, plundered by ill-health
though there were undertones that it was ill-will. He was my father. That was
it. But we had fights. Not the usual ones. The ones you fight alone against the
devil and his army. There was everything to fight over. We fought when I came
with Angelique to Busia when she had agreed to marry me. He had gone to swear
that I was nothing to him. Of course Angelique made out the unpleasant
conversation by instincts and when I filled her in later that day she was
casual about it.
"He’s such a radical, “She said
calmly.
Silence
"Babarira," she apologised after seeing my expression.
"It’s okay. I like to call him
that too, you know. I’m a painful coward."
"That means you are not marrying
me,huh?"
"Nonsense! We are getting
married at The Attorney General’s in Nairobi, “I announced decidedly.
"Do you think my dad will like
it?"
"Good question."
When I told Ma about my plans she frowned and mumbled
something about invoking a curse from Papa. She was on my side. She even stood
up for me when Papa wanted to cut me with a machete in Form 2 for allegedly
stealing twenty-five thousand shillings from under his mattress. It was his
earnings from a week’s fish sales. I ran
away from home for the better part of the day. It was my thing, you know.
Burying my head in the sand and hoping to myself the storm had died out. Well,
it had not. A few minutes after I had
stealthily sneaked back to my hut, the door came crashing. A couple of hands
menacingly grabbed my silhouette and I was flipped to the wall. There was a
rumpus in my head from the unexpected crash as I made out Papa's voice and that
of his brother Masilus. Then followed an
Oscar winning debauchery. Blows. Kicks. Stools. Sticks. Every weapon had been
mobilised. My mouth had that rusty taste of blood from a broken jaw. I spat on
the earthen floor and cried out my innocence. The homestead woke up to it and
Ma came to the rescue.
''Leave him! You are hurting him. You
are both being childish.''
''Childish you say? Ask this monkey
where he took my money! ‘Came Papa's retort with a kick to my mid-section as if
punctuating the remark.
''I said leave him!''
''I will kill this one for you!''
I would have died had Lucy not confessed to taking-not
stealing-the money. The most outrageous thing is that she got off the hook with
a pinch to the ear and a stern warning because of her pregnancy. The two
brothers walked from the scene of the barbarous onslaught, remorseless.In the
morning,Ma's brother, Osonyo put me on a rickety wheelbarrow and wheeled me to
the local clinic. The young trainee nurse who came to dress my wounds gasped
when she saw the extent of my injuries and I swear she had tears in her eyes
for me when she went to sterilise the scissors in the sink. Sometimes she
sniffed and had to excuse herself to keep it together. I told her an edited
version of the story that some thugs attacked me on my way from remedial studies.
I didn't want people make a palaver out of it.
''How could they do this to you?'' She
was almost kissing me. ‘They could have killed you'.
''I don't know. I guess that's life
ma'am.''
''Those people deserve to be in jail.
Have you gone to the police?'' She was dabbing at the sewn cut on my left eye
with a piece of cotton laced in surgical spirit.
''What? Police? No. Ouch!''
''Sorry. I'm almost done.''
The drub kept me off-school for a week and it got worse
because I had to put up with a red discharge every time I took a piss. When the
area assistant chief heard about it, the two brothers were summoned and were
ordered to report to his office for a week for manual work. Yet an uproar ran wild
in my heart. It was not revenge. It was a sense of longing to run away then
turn right round and forget that I had roots here. I waited for that day and
when it came I jumped on it like it was a heaven-bound chariot.
On a different occasion he came to St Clare's Boys High
School and threatened to give a sizeable punch-up to the principal for
summoning him to stupid meetings about ‘your son’s unpaid fees’. He had sworn
not to use his hard earned money on a futile scoundrel like me. He had caused
such a scene in the school that the chaplain had to call in the police to
escort him out of the compound. Plus, he caused me such an embarrassment. It
was my maternal grandfather, Jared who had offered to pay my fees for two years
until I had finished Form 4 then went to university where I got into the
government sponsored programme.
On a different occasion after being in Kigali for a year
working for Radio Flash Fm as the Head of News, I came home and told Ma that I
wanted her to lead the delegation during the dowry negotiations. She shook her head and
spat on the floor telling me that women do not know these things. It was taboo.
I wanted to tell her that it was bullshit. I knew Papa won't hear none of it.
Osonyo came to Kigali instead. He had to lie that Papa was
down under the weather with a bad throat and was not much of a long distance
traveller due to his old age.
Angelique's father Mugiraneza
bought the story. That was some start; lying to the in-laws on the first
meeting. The negotiations were long and
tedious because there was this chap who had to translate from Kinyarwanda to
Swahili and vice versa because both parties could not settle on an agreeable lingua franca to make matters easier. Kinyarwanda
is a mouthy dialect with French influences while the Swahili in Kigali was in
over our heads. Our in-laws even agreed to the marriage ceremony at the AG's in
Nairobi on terms that they would also have a formal ceremony of their own afterwards.
When the dowry was set for 3,000,000 Rwandan Francs I did not object because
Angelique's father had put it to me in clear terms that he was losing a huge
amount of labour in his household.
Yes, I travelled five hundred and twenty-four miles across
Uganda and into Rwanda to Kigali to marry a woman I had met in university when
I was in my third year and even had a son, Patrice Mugiraneza who has started
developing a heavy French accent when he speaks Swahili. He's three now and
maybe next year he'll attend kindergarten and will never see his paternal
grandfather alive . I wouldn't tell how my father would react if he were to set
eyes on him.
The only one thing that connected Patrice to Busia was a
family photo we took last year during Christmas and when I showed it to Ma when
I came for the funeral, she socked it with tears. Muna and Lucy fussed all over
it and said the boy resembled his father with his slender nose and his
characteristic lop-sided smile. My heart drowned as I watched the three worshiping the photo. I wished I could bring him there and let them savour his
touch and his vibrant spirit. I couldn't. Some people would kill him with their
eyes. Ma had told me so. She was very grave when she said it. Still I didn't
know why I came. I didn’t know if I came to make peace, or to laugh because the
one person I'd crossed swords with a million times was no more, or to cry
because I had tears to spare for the funeral of a person who was barely my kin
half the time.
Morning came. It was the day of the burial. The clutter of in
the main kitchen broke my chain of thought and the moments of synoptic sleep
patterns. The commotion in the courtyard jerked me and I went closer to
investigate. A tent had been erected near the cowshed. Ma, Lucy and Muna were
all looking solemn in their black frocks as they appeared from what used to be
Papa's favourite hut. The elders stood near the casket and spoke in hushed
tones. The ceremony would begin soon and I had not freshened up. I was still in
the same clothes I had slept in and my hair looked a bit ruffled up. Masilus
was there alright; acting as the self appointed idiot. He was trying to pick up
a quarrel as he told me that I was committing a sacrilege by looking all shabby
during my father's burial. I told him that I was sure Papa would appreciate the
fact that at least I cared enough to come and show my respects. Ma beheld the play-let
and came to warn Masilus not to cause a scene when she was trying to mourn her
husband. Masilus drew back and threateningly flared his darting eyes at me. He
disappeared behind the courtyard. He was not defeated.
I followed Ma and my elder sisters to the coffin. Ma stepped
up to it and made one last look at the face inside the glass casing. It was thick,
sad and freckled. She immediately broke down into fitful sobs and sat on the
loamy earth. The karma had dawned on her. Muna went to help her up as a handful
of people kept their distance watching the spectacle. It was distressful. I
found myself fitting into the character of a mourner. Not for the dead guy. I
didn't know if I was capable of feeling anything for him. Time and distance
washed away any feelings of affection between us. Death had made it even worse.
It was the family he left behind that I cared about the most. Ma was strong but
sometimes she was not entirely unbreakable. Muna had a husband working in
Mombasa and Lucy was just like Ma. As for me, I had a stratum of thick skin to
show for years tribulation. Maybe I would survive and help them live on. I
would.
The ceremony dragged on endlessly. Speaker after speaker gave
anecdotes. It was the usual things you say at burials. How the dead guy bought
gave you two acres of land and didn't ask for payment, how some evil forces had
cast a spell on him and the sort. Damn! I just hoped that they wouldn't call
me. Why would they call me? Muna was the
eldest. Surely I could not speak. Or would I? They called Ma first and as she
stood up her feet failed her and she collapsed in a faint. Several mourners
rushed at her and carried her out of the tented area and laid her on a mat and
proceeded to use their lessos to fan
her.
Thankfully, they called Muna to speak on behalf of the
family. There was a murmur in the crowd. Everybody was looking for the brother
of the deceased. No one had seen him for an hour or so. Could they just carry on without him? Now everyone is giving him undue
attention. As if he was the one in the casket, waiting to be buried. I
swore I would on the next plane out of this country the minute the clergyman said,
‘ashes to ashes…'Then news came in that he was nowhere to be found. Great! Can we go on now? The clergyman looked sort of impatient. Obviously
the turn of events was taking a toll on him. He rose up and from his seat and
walked up to Ma who had by then recovered.
They seemed to be conferring about going on with the final rites of
burial although from where I sat I could barely make out what it was all about.
Amongst the crowd somebody shouted that Masilus had been
spotted at the graveside, a minute walk from where the congregation sat. It was
reported that he had jumped into the six-foot hole and was demanding to see his
brother's widow; otherwise there would be no burial. Moments later the whole
lot found themselves at the graveside. Sure enough, Masilus was sitting
comfortably in the hole looking like an old record. He was drunk. Ma was stood
at the edge trying to coax him out his drunken stupor.
''Masilus, I know you don't have much
respect for me. I can live with that. But please respect my husband's memory.''
''Your husband? He is my brother!''
''So?''
'' Blood is thicker than water!''
Came the drunken slur from beneath the hole.
''And so if it is? What is the
meaning of all this?''
''That's what I want to talk to you
about.''
''Aren't you talking to me?'' I could
tell that Ma was getting impatient.
''No! I want you to come here in this
hole and talk privately. I don't want everybody to hear, jump here now!''
''Masilus you are being silly.''
Then he broke down and wailed like a toddler. He wailed
himself to sleep. There was a general sense of confusion as Ma instructed a couple
of gravediggers to go down and hoist him up on a ladder. They were careful not
to wake him up from his inebriation and carried him to his hut. Now everyone
knows my family is a demented lot and this uncle of mine was the best of them.
The clergyman, obviously trying to play calm told everyone to go back to the
tent and resume the ceremony where he hurried on with the prayers before
requesting that the casket be carried to burial grounds.
Ma, Lucy, Muna and I stood beside the casket. We held hands.
We were the family he left behind. We saw his face. The last time we ever saw
it. Then everything I remembered about him rushed right back. It was like being
caught in the middle of a sudden storm and there was no cover to run to. The
times we crossed swords, the times he wished I was never his son. It was too
heavy a burden. When did it all start? You
were my father. There were two of us among three ladies until something got
caught up in between. I don't know what it was but whatever it was it eroded
the camaraderie between us during the times we stood at war, never caring we
were on the same side. We were never enemies. Just son and father. It was that
simple. Now it's too late for a truce. Now it's just too complicated…
My knees failed me. I saw myself alone on a dark street, groping,
searching for something. But what? I didn't know. It was too dark. I could only
make out my on silhouette and sledge hammer pounded an anvil in my bosom. It
got louder and louder until I held my palms in my ears. It was all in vain. The
deafening noise was hurting me. There was blood in my eyes, in my ears, in my
mouth and in my nose. There was a sudden clanking noise. Then a frantic heave.
There was red everywhere and I was soaking wet. I got off my shirt, my boots
and my trousers. I stood naked. I circled and bumped my head into something
hard. I clawed violently into the emptiness, madly cursing at an invisible tormentor.
What was happening to me?
''Are you okay bro?'' It was Muna. I
was lying on a couch with a wet cloth on my forehead.
''Where I am I? What happened?''
''You passed out at the burial.''
When I asked where Ma was she told me that she had stayed put
at the graveside when everybody left. I told Muna I had to go and see her. Muna
insisted on escorting me lest I passed out again but I told her that I could
manage.
She was kneeling beside the mound of earth, like she was
narrating a silent elegy to 'him'. She was undisturbed even as I made a crunchy
noise crushing the foliage under my feet with my boots. She did not turn to
look at me and I did not make to pull her out of her world. She seemed so
detached. I knelt beside her and she took my hand into hers without staring at
my face. I was glad she didn't because the guilt in my eyes would give me away. We both stared at the heap wreath of neatly
arranged carnations on the raised earth. An inexplicable spell held our gaze on
the grave for a couple of minutes. It was as If we were replaying back the
events that happened, then we played it to this particular scene and paused to
take a closure look.
''You should go back to your people Edgar,
‘she broke the silence.
''And you? You are not my people?''
''Your wife and child need you more.
I have two daughters to look after me.''
''And a grandchild.''
''I thought you didn't know, ‘she
flared that confused smiled.
''I know these things Ma. I'm not a
child anymore,'' came the equally relaxed humour. ''How are going to survive
with all the bile brewing up here.''
''You mean Masilus? We’ll wait and
find out, won’t we?''
I told her that we would. I detached my hands from her subtle
grip. I paused momentarily before I rising to my feet and walked towards the
main house where Muna held up my cell phone for me, saying Angelique was on the
phone. Then Ma's counsel all made sense. I would go back to my people. I had
people in Busia. I had people in Kigali. I would go back to them. Even the one
who was newly resting beneath us, his spirit probably keeping an eye on his
home and the one who was somewhere sleeping off his inebriation. I didn't
forget the unborn one. All my people. My family.
-End-
