Adhiambo Mercy's Kenya

     The still evening air was disturbed by the“Trap! Trap!” sound that was coming from the hillside. It was followed by a loud stampede of hooves – a sign that the children were returning home from the forest after a whole day of herding.

   They cracked their woven sisal whips on the cattle’s back with  fierce blows and as they edged closer to the homestead; the “Trap!” sound became more distinct. Most of them had scars on their body.It was a constant reminder of  the difficulties that they faced while herding in the forest.

   Their entrance in the homestead was accompanied by a huge cloud of dust as the cattle struggled to make their way into their pen.

   The strong smell of boiling fish, frying white ants and burning ugali dominated the compound. Women with wailing babies strapped on their backs made numerous trips to and from their kitchens, earnestly working hard to have their food ready before their husbands returned home from the fields.

   “Nyaloka, give me a pinch of salt. I sent my son Juma to buy me a packet, and that playful thing hasn’t come back yet. Today I will beat him up until I break his tooth”. My co wife, the third wife to my husband said to me.

  I smiled. My co wife was very skinny, and picturing him breaking her son’s tooth was amusing to me. On several occasions, I had found her panting after carrying a small jerry can, so I knew that she did not  have enough strength to punish a child – no wonder her children were always having problems with my other co wives on matters to do with discipline.

    She entered my hut and from the smell on her clothes, I knew she was cooking fish. Her whole body reeked of mbuta – nile perch.

    “What are you cooking for our husband this evening?” I asked her just as she was stepping out.

   From the look on her face, I knew that my question had offended her.

    “Rice – I am cooking rice and meat Nyaloka”.

     I stifled my laughter. Her response did not surprise me. No woman, no matter how friendly, would openly tell her Nyiek, her husband’s other wife that she was having Mbuta for supper; it would make her look poor and low.

    “I love rice. Please serve for me some when it is ready. I do not think I will be cooking this evening”.

   “I wish I could, but I did not cook much and my little ones are getting such a big appetite.  I will go to the riverside tomorrow and collect for them deworming herbs.”

   I noticed with amusement that her eyes were fixed on the ground; she was avoiding my eyes – a sure sign that she was lying. I decided to pull the game further.

   “But surely, don’t you have an extra plateful to spare? Suppose our husband comes to your hut with a visitor this evening, what will you do? It is against our tradition to cook food enough only for your family…”

  The frown on her forehead got deeper.

  “I have to go now Nyaloka, I can hear my baby who was asleep crying. Thank you for the salt.”

   She left with her cupped hand full of salt, and I heard her saying something under her breath.

   The cold wind from the lake blew hard on my face. I shut my door and sat crossed legged on the mat in my kitchen. Loneliness dominated the room.

   I looked at the rats that were chasing each other on my roof. They seemed to be increasing in number with each passing day. Perhaps they were aware that I needed their company so much, and it gave them courage to dance liberally in my house.

  They squeaked in excitement and I saw their little eyes dart mischievously in the darkness of my hut.

  “You will die of hunger today. Why don’t you go over to Mama Juma’s place? She has just said that she is cooking rice.

   The rats stopped their movements – as if they were actually listening to me.

   “Yes, if I were you, I’d go over to her hut where there is rice. Only make sure that you come back before she starts deworming her little ones…she might deworm you too”.

    I burst into a loud fit of laughter that scattered the rats in different directions; and the hut become silent again.

   The setting sun disappeared behind the great hills where sacrifices were offered to the ancestors and darkness closed in. My husband’s whistle could be heard as he entered the compound. I always marveled at how he carried a tune for so long. His footsteps thumped the ground heavily and it went in rhythm with his whistling.

   He passed my hut in a rush and I heard him curse loudly when he stumbled on a stone by my door. It was very difficult to know the house he would spend a night in – but one thing I was sure of was that it would not be my house.

  I knew the reason why he would not waste his time coming to my house. To him, I was a disappointment. I was a failure because I had refused to give him a child yet I was a mikayi; the first wife.

   I had refused to lift up his name by producing a child for him. From me, he had no child who would take over his name and represent him when he is dead. I had disgraced him by letting his second wife be the one to give him his first child.

   I sat still in my hut and smeared wet ash on my forehead to relieve the headache that was rising on my temples. Slowly by slowly in circular motions, I rubbed the ash on my forehead.

  “Obong’o, the God of our ancestor’s. You who holds the wombs of all women in your single hand. You who give offspring to everybody, including the undeserving like the venomous snakes. I beseech thee, look down and give me a child…” I whisperd as i continued rubbing.

  The wind blew faster and made a whoosh sound outside.

  “Obong’o, our God who sits beyond the skies, you who makes all things on earth, mould a child for me. What is a woman without a child? How do I prove that I am a woman without breastfeeding a baby even once?”

   I said my prayers and my head continued to throb.

  Outside, I could here children laughing. I peered outside and saw them gathering towards the great fire that was burning hungrily at the center of the homestead.

  “Kwaru, tell us a story”, one of them said.

  “Yes, tell us about why the greedy hyena limps”, the others joined in.

  Kwaru, the oldest man in our village, laughed, exposing his toothless gums. He rubbed his had over his balding head and laughed more as the children continued persuading him to tell them a story.

  “Okey, I will tell you one”, he finally started.

  The children gathered closer around him, and some of them threw wooden logs into the burning fire.

“A long time ago, before the birds learnt how to fly, and before the tortoise broke its shell, all animals used to stay together in one very large compound…” he began, and I could see that all the children were attentive to him.

  This was the time – I had to go now. Nobody would see me now. All the children were with Kwaru, and their parents were in their respective huts.

  It was a moonless night and I groped in the darkness, holding on to  the leaves of maize plants to prevent me from falling down.

   I finally came to the clearing where the hut that I wanted stood. A strong wind blew and a rustle of twigs was heard overhead.

   I knocked the door faintly. Nothing.

  I knocked again, and the door cracked open. There was no light in the hut.

  “Woman, may I help you”

   “ I want help”

 I got uncomfortable under the darkness.

   “What can I do for you?”

  “I want a child ”.

My teeth chattered in the cold.

  “Come in”, he told me without a hint of emotions in his voice.

  I followed him from behind, and he lit a lamp. He brought it under my face and its parrafin smell hit my nose; leaving me with nausea.

  “How long have you been married?’

  “Eight Seasons Sir”.

  “No child yet?”

  “No child Sir”.

  He went into his inner room and came back with a guard. He rattled it over my head, then placed it on his ear.

  He folded his face as if in pain then looked at me.

  “Woman, the ancestors are not happy with you”.

   “Why?” I asked confused.

  “Your great-grandmother displeased them”.

  “How?”

  “She committed an abomination – she ate a vulture”.

  The revelation shocked me. My head began to spin. My great grandmother could not have eaten a vulture!

  “But Sir, that is not possible.”

  He shrugged his shoulder and cast his eyes upwards. He rattled his guard and spread some herbs beneath my feet. Fear seized my entire being.

  “The ancestors have refused to be consoled, they are mad at what your great grandmother did.” he said in a sad tone.

   “Please Sir, tell them that I want a child. I want to have a child like other women!” I felt hot tears sting my eyes.

  He shook the guard more vigorously, and his whole frame moved with him. He popped the guard’s cork, and took out three pebble like seeds from it.

 “Chew this”

  I hesitated.

“Woman, do as I say if you want help”.

One by one, I pushed the seeds into my moth and chewed on them slowly. Their bitterness stung my tongue.

  He spread out his hands and went into a daze. I stared at him in expectation. The bitterness in my tongue remained.

  He opened his eyes wide and clicked.

  “Your great grandmother killed and ate a vulture during the famine that hit their village. The ancestors are paying back”.

   “Please talk to them,” I said desperately.

  He stood and opened the door for me.

  “You have to leave now woman. It is getting rather late. Go home; wild animals will soon start roaming the land. Go the ancestors have refused to listen”.

   I started walking slowly; the road ahead of me was black and blank. I silently wished that the wild animals the witch doctor had mentioned would come out and attack me.

  I reached my hut when the whole village was asleep. Across the land, an angry howl of a jackal was heard. I could not find sleep. I stared at the walls of my hut, which stretched on ahead of me – just like my future.

  The witchdoctor’s words came back to me, and the more I tried to understand, I got more confused.

  I knew that I had to go back to the witchdoctor at the crack of dawn to find out more about my great grandmother, the vulture, and more importantly, how I came in…tomorrow.

   The jackal’s haul got slow, and the sound became more like the cry of a mourning woman…. slow and sad.

  

I huddled at the corner of the bed, holding my small transistor radio closer to my chest. I stroked it absent-mindedly and let its music fill up the whole room.
I’ll tell the whole world
About the carpenter’s son,
About thirty-nine strokes.
I’ll tell the whole world
About flesh torn to ribbons
About the cross, sweat, whips, tears and blood….”
I shut my eyes, taking in the song completely. I hummed the tune and felt my entire self moving into the song. The room ceased to exist – I became one with the song. Arossi burst into the room clutching a big parcel under her armpit. Her perfume came in with her.
“For Heaven’s sake, this is a bedroom, not a pub. Reduce that volume,” she said without looking at me. She threw the parcel on the bed, and it landed next to me.
I sighed and turned the volume knob until the song became a whisper in the background. Her back was turned on me, but I could see from the mirror on the wall that she was applying a layer of lip balm on her lips. She dusted baby powder on her face and proceeded to rub her face furiously.
“Arossi, three people dropped messages for you on phone”.
“Who did they say they are?” she asked without a trace of interest.
“Marriko, Fena and…”
She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner and said that they were bothering her with calls. I wished people would bother me with calls.
“Mama, come!” Arossi shouted, still dusting her face with powder.
Mama did not respond. There was clattering of plates in the kitchen.
“Mama…” she called, raising her voice.
“ Ehe!”
“Come, hurry!”
“What is it Arossi? Why do you shout as if the house is on fire?”
Mama came to the room wiping her wet hands on her skirt. Her eyes were fixed on the huge parcel on the bed. She did not look at me; she just looked at the parcel.
Arossi unwrapped it slowly but carefully. For some unknown reasons, I found myself wishing she would get through with it. A smile cracked her lips.
She pulled out a dress and they both let out a loud shriek of excitement. Mama hugged Arossi. They did not seem to notice my presence in the room.
Beneath the low voltage bulb of our room, the dress glittered. From my sitting position, I could see that it was made of expensive and unique material. I felt the urge to feel its smoothness between my fingers rise within me.
“Sammy and I ordered it from a boutique in Nairobi” Arossi managed to say. She was still squeezed in Mama’s tight embrace.
“You will be very beautiful that day”
“Mama, I have always been beautiful”
Mama poked her in the stomach and they laughed playfully. They did not look at me. Arossi hummed a wedding song and Mama joined her. Holding hands, they made some dignified moves before the mirror on the wall. They were in their own world – a world of weddings, joy and beauty. They locked me out of their world; they always did.
“So, is everything ready now?”
“No Mama, there is one thing still. The maids”
“Who will you take?”
Arossi shrugged her shoulders and slumped herself on the edge of the bed. Mama settled next to her. There was a brief silence. They did not recognize my presence.
“Can I be your maid?” I broke the silence.
They turned and looked at me.
“Maid?” Arossi asked as if she was hearing the word for the first time. Mama stared at me.
“Yes, I want to be a maid at your wedding”
“You?”
“Yes.”
Mama whispered something under her breath. I did not catch it.
“But you cannot be my maid!” Arossi shouted.
“Why cant I? I am your sister.”
“Fariji, cant you see…please understand”
“Understand what?”
“That you cannot come to the wedding!”
A needle passed through my lungs. My breathing made the needle pierce deeper. I felt anger rise up within me but I determined not to cry. – I had cried enough. No more tears. Arossi looked at me, probably expecting me to cry. I didn’t.
Mama rose and walked out of the room. She did not say anything, she just walk out.
“Arossi, I am your only sister, I want to attend your wedding.” I said trying to hide the tears in my voice.
“Surely Fariji, you cant come”
“Why don’t you want me to come?”
“Don’t make it difficult for me Fariji, I said you cannot come!”
“I want to see your husband, you have never introduced me to him, I want to know him”. I said, and I felt my lips fluttering.
Arossi clicked. I cold see that she was beginning to get angry. Anytime I mentioned meeting her friends, she got angry. Whenever her friends came to visit, she locked the bedroom’s door from outside and went with the key. She had never let me see her friends.
Once, when they were chatting in the house, I had heard her telling her friends that she was an only child to Mama. She did not mention my name in any of her conversation. Mama never mentioned me either. To them, I did not exist.
“Arossi, let me come and play my flute on your wedding day. I know how to play the flute…” I said and reached for my bag to show her the flute I had made of reeds. It was my companion.
She drew deep breath and shot an angry look at me. I felt terrible under her gaze.
“Fariji, if you stay in the house on the wedding day, I will buy you a present”
“What present”
“A scarf, I don’t know… I will think of something. Please promise that you will stay behind”.
“I do not want a scarf or anything that you will think of. I want to come to the wedding.” My voice was beginning to get high.
“No, you cannot come. I will not argue with you anymore!”
“Why Arossi, don’t you want me to see you as you wed the man you love”
“No, you will spoil my happy day, you will not come”
“How will I spoil it?”
“Fariji, you are my sister, but I hate you. You are ugly. You are an albino, that is why you will not attend my wedding. I am ashamed of you. I do not want to associate with you!”
Her words tore me to shreds. I had never seen Arossi so furious. Her powdered face became paler, almost ashen in colour. Her words reechoed in my head and everything before me swallowed up in some kind of yellow flash. My emotions were towered, and I could not contain it anymore. I felt hot tears sliding from my eyes.
“Arossi, whose fault is it that I am not who you want me to be? Whose fault…”
More tears. More pain. More bitterness. Severe headache.
“I would love to be as pretty as you; but tell me Arossi, what can I do to change myself? Just tell me now and I will do it. Tell me what I can do!”
The needle in my lungs got sharper. I breathed shallowly. Arossi’s fierce eyes never left me.
“Mama!”
No reply. The clattering of plates in the kitchen continued.
“Mama!” I screamed until I felt pain in my throat.
“Ehe!”
“Mama, it is your fault! Mama why did you make me an Albino? Why didn’t you give me colour like Arossi?”
There was silence. Deathly silence. My words bounced back to me, and they entered the depth of my heart. I was tired – fed up. Fed up of being hidden in the dingy bedroom. Fed up of being bribed with scarves so that I remain locked in the bedroom.
“Mama and Arossi, what am I to you? What am I?”
I asked them the question I have always wanted to ask them. My tears went it to the sores on my cheeks and it itched. I scratched my cheeks; the itching continued. I continued scratching and scratching. The itch got worse. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. The sores were bleeding. Just like the carpenter’s son who they had put on the cross I felt Sweat, tears and blood on my face.
“Mama, tell me something, why do you treat me so?”
Mama leapt towards me and lifted my chin.
“Fariji, is this about the wedding? We did not know you want to come so bad…”
I pushed her hand away. She didn’t understand. It was not about the wedding; it was about me. I wanted to be a part of them. I wanted liberty.
Arossi whispered something in Mama’s ear but Mama’s face remained expressionless.
“Fariji, don’t you see that you will scare the guest at the wedding” Arossi said to me. Her words killed something in me.
“Arossi, forget the wedding, I do not think I want to come. I will stay in the room.”
I covered my head with a blanket and shut my eyes, hoping I would fall asleep. Thirty-nine whips. Whips in my heart. My heart being whipped – thirty-nine strokes. My heart being stripped to ribbons, just like they did to the carpenter’s son.
###########################################

Three years after the wedding, Arossi comes to visit. She is holding her two-year-old daughter. The little one is Clarissa. Her eyes are shy. She steals a glance at me and smiles. I stretch out my hand toward her and she hurries towards me. She is drawn to me. It is the first time we are meeting. Arossi is avoiding my eyes.
Clarissa is pretty, but not like her mother. She is pretty like me. She does not have colour like me, her hair is brown like mine, but I know she is pretty. Her smile is cute. I put her on my laps and she leans on my chest.
“When you grow older, I will tell you the story of the carpenter’s son. About whips, sweat, blood and tears. It is a story of victory amidst suffering and pain”, I whisper to her and she holds me tighter, and smiles. The attachment has just begun.
I hear a sob. I look at Clarrissa. No it is not her crying…. it is Arossi.
“I do not know what to say to you”, she whispers.
“Do not say anything, Clarissa has already told it all!”
Arossi continues to cry, just like I had done on her wedding day!

(Posted on Wednesday, July 29, 2009)

I know the color of death,

It is yellow.

And it creeps stealthly by night,

Like that ragged T – shirt my papa used to wear,

Holding a cane in his hand,

That is what death looks like…ragged and yellow.

I know the shape of death,

It is a huge bird,

It skirts the sky,

In the depth of the evening.

And it flies so high,

It blocks the sky…

yes, death is a huge black bird,

That blocks the sun.

I know the tune of death.

It is that slow spanish song,

the one that they sing by the islands,

and have their tears soak their ochestral instruments.

I know the message of death,

it comes at 8.17pm,

when peas and groundnuts sit on the table,

waiting for to be devoured,

then the message of death comes,

just like that.

I know what death can do,

it picks up the strongest,

and weakens them to maggots,

it is more than the vultures,

it eats all the creatures

I have seen death…

I know what it can do.

It took the person I cherish away.

Posted on Thursday, July 23

The heavy down pour had just stopped but it was still drizzling lightly outside. My six-year-old sister was humming one of the new rhymes she had learnt in school that day, and the monotony of the song was beginning to irritate me.

I did not want to comment. Doing so would only led to a fight. Of course I would win, but she would have the last laugh as my parents would always take her side and rebuke me for being inconsiderate.

“For heaven’s sake, she is five years younger than you!” they would always say.

What I did not quite understand was why they never told my sister that I was five years older than her and so she should respect me and give me the peace that I want.

I stared wide-eyed into the blackness of our bedroom. I could not find sleep. Not with my sister singing the same song over and over right under my ears. It was so nauseating. I tossed and turned, trying hard to ignore her. I could not, she was unbearable.

I needed my own room. I had told my mother on several occasions but she just would not hear of it. I wanted my own space. A place away from my sister’s interference.

Anytime I mentioned that I wanted to have a room of my own, she would narrate to me how they- all the nine sisters – had shared a room smaller than ours. They had all slept huddled in hard papyrus mats, and they had never even thought of complaining.

I was tired of listening to the same old story. Those were their days. Times had changed. I wanted to be like my other friends. I wanted to have a huge room with a big music system and a television. I wanted a room with clothes full of trendy clothes.

My father had promised that we would move to a larger house where I would have my own room, but that would only come after six years. Six years of waiting! Six unbearable years of sharing a room with my sister. Six long years of being different from my friends. It seemed so far.

“ Give me a pie, give me cake…” my sister’s shrill voice droned on. She was starting the song over for the eighty ninth time!

I placed a pillow on my head and let my mind wader. I imagined myself in a beautifully decorated room, listening to loud rock music. It was so much fun. My friends were flipping through cool fashion magazines and we were all admiring the fabulous dresses the fashion idols were wearing. Some of my friends were checking out the new clothes that were sprawled all over my bed.

My thoughts were interrupted by my sister calling me. There was urgency in her voice. I rolled my eyes. It was so like her to remove me from my fantasy world just to ask me her kiddish questions.

“Mercy, did you hear that noise?’ she whispered.

I did not respond. I knew it was one of her many tricks. I was tired of them- fed up!

She started shaking me vigorously. My patience was running out.

“What is the matter with you Judy?” I whispered back.

“There is somebody moving outside. I have heard some movements,” she replied, alarmed.

I remained silent, and tried to listen. There was nothing. I felt intense anger and hatred towards my sister rise up within me. These feelings flashed through me till I felt my breathing being laboured. I slapped her hard across the face. I

Slapped her again. And again. My body shook in rage.

She did not yell as expected of her. She just let a low moan and sobbed silently. I covered my ears and turned to face the wall. I felt my tears flow.

Then-I heard it. Somebody was coughing outside. The sound came from right next to the bedroom window.

Stealthly, I tiptoed towards the window and parted the curtains. I peered outside but I did not see anything. There was deep darkness outside. For a timeless moment, I stood staring outside, hoping to see the cause of the noise, but there was nothing.

I went back to bed. Lying on my back, several thoughts crossed my mind. Maybe it was someone waiting for the night to close in so that he attacks.

I heard a muffled cough. I became alarmed.

“Daddy, Dad!” I called out. I got no response.

My sister was still sobbing. I looked at her but said nothing.

“Daddy!” I tried again, increasing my volume.

“Mercy, I hope you are not waking us up to convince us that you need your own room, your eight aunts and I shared an even smaller room when we were much older than you…” came my mother’s voice.

I knew the story word by word. I had heard it ever since my sister was born. It was so boring. I particularly hated the part where they would fight for one blanket-the nine of them! It got even worse when my aunts came visiting. They would gladly show me the scars they got from fighting for the blanket.

“Mum, it is not that. Somebody is walking outside.” I stuttered.

I heard my father saying that my obsession with having my own room was beginning to affect me psychologically and that something should be done. My mother suggested boarding school and then they both came to our room.

“Have you two been fighting again?” asked my mother, holding my sister’s hand.

“It is Mercy who started it all,” said my sister.

I did not want to start an argument. There was somebody walking around our house and I thought it was more important than knowing who started the fight.
“There is somebody outside”, I interrupted.

Nobody was listening to me. My parents were busy fussing over my sister as usual. I threw myself on my bed just as my father began to lecture me on how I should respect the age difference between my sister and I.

As they were leaving the room, they were startled to hear muffled sounds of someone crying outside.

My father rushed to his room to get a torch. My mother reached for the whistle. They instructed us to lock our door and stay still and then hurried outside.

I was scared. I stayed huddled in the corner of my bed.

After about ten minutes, I heard my mother rapping on our bedroom window.

“Get me methylated spirit,” she ordered.

Barefoot, I rushed outside with the methylated spirit. My sister was following me from a distance.

I strained my eyes to adjust them to the darkness. I was surprised to see my mother squatting next to a young girl who was shaking from the impact of the night’s cold.

Her body was bruised and blood was oozing from her temple. My mother wiped her bruises gently and time and again, she winced in pain, but she did not cry.

“What is your name,” my father asked. Silence. She did not reply. Her gaze remained on the ground.

“Where are your parents little one?” my mother inquired, stroking the girl’s therwise shaggy hair.

“I have no parents Ma’am,” she answered weakly. A cold wind blew my face. There was deep nocturnal silence. I felt a sharp pain on my stomach.

“And where do you stay Sweety?’ my mother broke the silence. Her eyes searched my mother’s face.

“ I have no home. I stay in the bus park, but today the big boys sent me away. They want my marble.” She replied. Tears streamed her face. Her fist was clenched tightly.

“Do not send me away. Let me shelter from the rain outside here. I swear I will not steal anything.” She said amidst sobs.

My eyes moistened. I felt the need to be close to somebody. I held my sister’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

My mother helped the little girl rise from her sitting position. Her blue dress was tattered and I noticed that her hair was longer than mine, only that hers had not been combed.

When we reached the house, my father gave her maandazi and milk. She ate greedily as we watched.

“What is your name,” my father asked again.

“ I am Kelyn,” she whispered. Her face remained expressionless and she stared blankly at the wall hangings in our dining room.

I saw her rugged marble. She was holding it tightly in her right hand. Her face was pale, but she was pretty. Her blue dress must also have been very nice when it was new.

“Kelyn, come let us go to bed. Our room is very big…” I found myself saying.

My parents looked at me in surprise. My father held my shoulders, my mother held my hand, and kelyn smiled. Yes, she did. She had the sweetest smile I had ever seen. Her neatly arranged teeth had a gap in front.

That night as I lay on my bed, I cried. They were not the first tears I was shedding in that room, but they were the first ones I was shedding for my selfishness.

I realized that I had been thinking about myself and crying for a bigger room, yet there were children out there, children younger than myself who were crying for a room, regardless of the size.

I looked at kelyn. She was deep asleep. Maybe it was the first time she was sleeping on a bed. I was greatly challenged.

In the morning when I woke up, my mother informed us that Kelyn was being taken to an institution that caters for children like her. I did not question her.

That was the last I saw of Kelyn, but her face stayed in my memory to this day. It is engraved in my mind.

Kelyn changed me overnight. I ceased complaining bout the small room. I had received the great awakening. I started seeing our room as a very big room. It was too big for just the two of us.

I could not believe it. So much had happened in such a short time- I had changed so quickly. And the changed had happened within me.

“Your room is nice,” Kelyn had said to me when we were having breakfast. Her words had meaning, and so did the smile she wore when she said them.

I watched as my parents took her with them. She waved at my sister and I, till they disappeared from our vicinity.

I went to our room and found her marble on the bed she had slept on. I kept it to this day- a part of Kelyn had remained in our room.

I had learnt a lesson from a girl younger than myself.

Posted on Thursday, July 23, 2009

The shrieking of my cell phone stirred me from sleep. I sighed. The ringing persisted. I stared wide-eyed into the blackness of my bedroom hoping that the ringing would stop. It did not.

I rubbed my fingers into my hair and clicked loudly. I was too tired. My day at work had been too hectic and all I wanted after that was sleep-good sleep, and not somebody calling me at night!

I groped for my phone but I missed it and I landed heavily on the floor. I bit my lips so hard to stop the swear word that I was almost shouting.

Before I could answer the phone, the ringing stopped. I switched on my bedside light and strained my eyes to check the time. It was seventeen minutes past midnight. I threw myself on the bed and placed a pillow on my head. I was too exhausted.

I had hardly slept for two minutes when the phone rang again. I clicked loudly and reached for the phone.

“Hallo!” I said in a low tone. There was silence. No reply.

I rolled my eyes. Surely, was someone calling just to disturb my sleep?

“Who is there?” I tried again, this time increasing my volume.

I was surprised to hear loud groans and pants from the other end of the line; then the line went dead.

The number displayed on the screen was unknown to me. I tried getting back to the caller but my call went unanswered. A feeling of panic awashed me.

I went back to bed. Lying on my back, I stared absent mindedly at the ceiling board. I could not find sleep-not with this strange call on my mind.

Something was definitely amiss. My mind wandered to all the possible places where the call could have come from, but I could not quite figure out who was calling.

The phone rang again, interrupting my thoughts.

“Who is speaking?” I asked, trying to hide the anxiety in my voice.

“Doctor, hurry up and come-please…” came the voice from the other end of the line.

“Who are you, and where are you?” I asked perplexed.

I got no reply. The line went dead-again! I was confused. I tried to place the voice, but I couldn’t. It was a female’s voice, but who?

I made a phone call at the hospital which I work for to inquire if a patient asking for me had checked in, but I was informed that none had done.

I informed them that should anybody asking for me arrive, I should be informed without delay.

Barefoot, I paced up and down, trying to collect my shaking self. So many thoughts crossed my mind. Maybe it was someone who had been involved in a road accident, maybe a patient calling from home, or maybe a female stalker. The last one made me smile, but it was possible, you never know these days!

My phone started ringing again.

“Hallo!” I said.

“Pete, come and help me. Come now”, she said, then hanged up.

It came to me in one flashing insight. I recognized the voice immediately. It was her…Brenda! Yes, Brenda calling me.

“But that is impossible”, I muttered to myself.

My head began to spin. I had a strange feeling. The kind of feeling you get when you have been running around in circles for a long time.

I parted the curtains and peered outside. It was raining heavily. I rested my head on the wall and felt tears stinging my eyes. Memories flooded back, and I could not hold them back, and neither could I hold back my tears. I remembered clearly…

Brenda was the girl I had always wanted to marry. All the marriage plans were ready and what was remaining was the payment of dowry.

All of a sudden, as if overnight, our country was rocked by war. Fear and uncertainty loomed in the air and insecurity stemmed into our once peaceful land. All we could do was to wait for the fighting to subside.

Walking on the streets became a nightmare. Skulls and skeletons lay sprawled all over. Days went by, turned into months and finally years, yet the war did not stop.

Songs were composed about Rwanda my country. Peacekeepers tried their best and we kept on hoping.

Brenda was staying in a neighbouring village, so I could not meet her. I longed to see her but the sounds of gunshots and cries of dying people prevented me from going past my doorstep. The air smelled of blood and death.

Gradually, the war faded, but the aftermath was devastating. Villages had been ruined and there remained only a shadow of what had been our country.

I wasted no time. I went to seek Brenda.

Their once beautiful house had been reduced to ashes. I looked for her all over. I really did; but I couldn’t find her.

I was overcome by a sudden inhuman weariness and loss of interest in life. A part of me was surely gone.

It was with great difficulty that I picked myself from the pain of losing Brenda and buried myself in books there on.

I was awarded a scholarship to study medicine in Canada and eight years later I returned to Africa and was employed as a doctor in one of the hospitals in Kenya.

I dedicated myself to my work. I had lost my family members in the war, and I had lost Brenda too. I worked knowing that they are dead…gone!

Now, here she was, calling me in the middle of the night, asking for my help. I pulled my raincoat from the hanger and slipped it over my shoulders.

I had to go. I had to. I hurried to the car park and drove on, not knowing where I was going. Lightning flashed and huge raindrops hit my windscreen with a vengeance.

The road was puddle with rainwater and the paddles glowed in the pale light from the street lamps. It was rather slippery and at one occasion, my car tilted sharply sideways, but I saved it on time.

I was about six kilometers from home when I saw a figure lurking ahead of me. The street was abandoned ad she was the only one on sight. I slowed down.

The figure continued to move. I pulled the brakes then stepped out of the car. I recognized her immediately.

For a timeless moment, we stared at each other, not uttering a word.

“Brenda”, I finally whispered.

“Pete”, she answered.

My gaze remained on her. She was still the same pretty girl I had first known when we were attending primary school in Rwanda , but something about her had changed. I could not actually put a finger to it.

“Pete, they took me, those soldiers. They killed my parents…” she said as sobs rocked her body.

I reached for her and embraced her. My heart was ablaze. My long held feelings were breached and my pent up emotions of years were released. I cried.

Then-I noticed it. The bulge in her stomach. My Brenda was pregnant!

“You have to help me. I am due. I do not have an identity card in Kenya, I am a refugee. The hospital will not help me”, she said.

Her face was ashen and her clothes were soaked by the rain.

“Everything is in my small bag”, she said breathlessly, handing it to me.

Her legs gave way and she fell to her knees. Her breathing was heavy and she groaned in pain.

I was confused. It was not what I had expected.

I springed into action.

“Push”, I screamed as I helped her deliver. She was sweating and it was obvious that she was in pain.

She gave one mighty push, and I held a baby girl-so tiny, so cute.

Name her Bahati. Thank you Peter.” She whispered.

My eyes searched the baby’s face. She resembled her mother.

“Let us go to hospital”, I said to Brenda.

I got no reply.

“Brenda, be strong”, I urged.

Silence.

I held her hand. They were cold. She was dead.

“Brenda!” I yelled. Nothing. My voice was echoed in the silent night.

The baby let out a loud yell.

“Bahati”, I whispered, stroking the baby’s face.

My tears flowed. They were not the first tears I was shedding for Brenda, but they were the first I was shedding for myself, and for Bahati.

I held the baby closer to me, and the rain came down in torrents, on us…Brenda, Bahati and I.

Posted on Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Akinyi rocked baby Otis gently on her laps, praying inwardly that he would fall asleep. Her patience was slowly running out and the sound of Baby Otis laughing playfully was beginning to irritate her. It was obvious that he was not going to sleep soon. She patted his back gently in rhythm to the lullaby that she was singing. It was a slow song and it sounded more like a dirge than a lullaby.
The baby’s eyes searched her face — It was expressionless. He reached for her hair and tugged hard. She raised her hand as if to hit him, and the baby let out a loud yell.

“Hush! The hyenas will hear you and come to eat you up,” she whispered to her crying baby.

This made him cry even louder.

Akinyi sighed in exasperation. She knew that her husband was almost coming home and he would give her a thorough beating if he found his food not ready. She remembered how he had beaten her two weeks ago for not preparing food on time and had it not been her brother in law’s intervention, he would have probably killed her.

The thought springed her into action. She hastily placed baby Otis on a mat that was spread under the mango tree next to her hut. The baby clung to her skirt and cried. She looked at him and felt tears stinging her eyes. She wished she could carry him and play with him for as long as he wanted, but her husband would not hear of that. He always said that children should not be carried, as this would spoil them. He had never carried baby Otis ever since he was born, and anytime he found Akinyi carrying the baby, he would threaten to send her back to her people.

“Let me go and cook for you,” Akinyi said to baby Otis, trying to loosen his grip from her skirt.

The baby clung tighter making Akinyi hold her skirt against her waist to prevent it from falling. She forced herself free from the baby’s grip, and the impact was too great, and he fell heavily on his back.

His cries were lost to her as she entered the kitchen. For a timeless moment, she stood in her dark kitchen, wondering what to do. There was a heap of unsplit firewood in the corner of her kitchen. She dragged one heavy log to the compound and went to borrow an axe from her neighbour Nyaseme.

Baby Otis having seen her started crying again. She paid no attention to him, and increased her pace towards her neighbour’s hut. A strange feeling awashed her. She felt a sudden hatred for everything. She missed her mother and sisters. She wished she could go back home.

Tears filled her eyes and she struggled hard to fight them. She reached Nyaseme’s house and found a huge padlock on Nyaseme’s door. Her mood soured. She was sure her husband would not understand. She had to act fast.

She decided to run to her friend Nyaduse’s house. She would give her the axe, and she might even give her some of her split firewood. Nyaduse lived in the neighbouring and there was a river separating their villages.

She ran, and not once did she stop, until she reached the river. She plunged into the ice-cold water and walked across. The water had risen and it was almost reaching her shoulders. She had crossed the river so many times before, those days before she had gotten married. Those days that seemed so far…

Akinyi found Nyaduse seated by the door when she arrived. She tried to smile, but the sight of her best friend lowered her defenses. The tears that she had stoically held back came tumbling.

“What is the matter Akinyi, are your people fine?” Nyaduse asked in alarm.

A severer sob rocked her. She could not find words to express herself. She hugged her friend tightly, and more of her tears flowed.

Nyaduse wondered what had happened to her friend. They had been so close and had even shared a locker in standard three, a year before Akinyi got married.

“Nyaduse, it is my husband. He treats me so bad.” She managed to say amidst sobs.

Nyaduse felt pity for her friend. She was barely two years into her marriage and she had shed so much weight.

Akinyi was her age-mate. They were both fourteen years old, but Akinyi’s father had married her off to the richest fisherman in the area. His wife had just died, and Akinyi’s father had thought that she would make a good wife to the fisherman.

He had personally gone to the fisherman’s house two nights after the death of his wife and told him that he had a mature girl who would make a good wife to him.

Three weeks after the visit, Akinyi was taken to the fisherman’s house. Her friends had really envied her. Most of them had said openly that they would have loved to trade places with her, and Akinyi had felt a tinge of excitement and pride. But today as she stood before her friend, there remained only an empty shell of her former self.

“Nyaduse, I came to borrow an axe, I left baby Otis all by himself. I have to leave soon.” There was urgency in her voice, and Nyaduse understood.

She gave her the axe and made her promise that she would come back soon. As she turned leave, Nyaduse noticed her grief-stricken face and realized that she looked older.

“Bye,” she whispered, placing the axe on her shoulder, and with that, she was gone.

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“Where have you been woman?” Akinyi’s husband shouted when she appeared in the vicinity.

Her heart leapt.

“I had gone to borrow an axe,” she muttered.

Her husband looked at her menacingly. Time seemed to stand still.

“Axe! For one hour! Didn’t you know that you have a baby?” he yelled, and his eyes bulged in anger.

Baby Otis screamed in fear. As her husband drew closer to her, Akinyi threw the axe on the ground.

He grabbed her by the collar and rained blows on her. He pulled her closer and hit her on the head. He slapped her hard across the face and she spat blood.

She screamed for help, but he did not let her go. He kicked her heavily on the stomach. The pain was unbearable. She kicked her over and over and she tossed and turned on the dusty ground. Her hair was covered by dust.

Baby Otis screamed even louder. Neighbours assembled around them, and it is then that her husband gave her a final kick and walked away.

The pain in her stomach was piercing. She held her stomach and cried in pain. An old woman in the crowd helped her rise, and they noticed the blood in her skirt. She was bleeding heavily.

“Were you heavy with child?” The woman asked her, but she did not reply. Her vision became blurred.

She heard her son’s cry in what seemed to be a far distance. And that cry, it was a long sad cry, he was mourning.

“She has had a miscarriage, she was one month pregnant,” somebody said.

Those words struck her. They droned on and on in her ears. She felt bitterness cross strike her. Her husband was a murderer. He had killed her baby. Yes, he had killed her baby. He had killed the tomorrow that she was carrying in her womb.

“Arise, let us go”, somebody said from the crowd. There was meaning in those words—she had to rise. With difficulty, she stood and limped towards her hut. Somebody reached for her shoulders to support her but she pushed the hands away. She wanted everybody to see that she was strong.

With blood trickling down her legs, she walked and picked Baby Otis from the ground. She did not wash herself. She had the lingering fear that her husband might find her and try stopping her from liberating herself. There was no time for showering.

She tied Baby Otis securely on her back and left. She did not take anything with her. She did not take anything more. She did not want anything that would remind her of the past—she was getting into the future.

Barefoot, with her baby on her back, she started the journey towards her freedom.

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Nyaduse wept bitterly when she saw her friend. Her skirt was stained with blood and the baby on her back was weighing heavily on her, making her walk with a stoop. She fell on Akinyi’s feet and shed tears.

Akinyi also cried. They were not the first ones she was shedding since she was married, but they were the first she was shedding for the girl child.

Then, Nyaduse took Baby Otis from Akinyi’s back and took him into the house.

“He is hungry”, Akinyi whispered wiping her tears.

“I will give him porridge; go and wash yourself, I will give you clothes to change”, Nyaduse replied.

After feeding, the baby fell asleep, and it is then that Akinyi narrated to Nyaduse what had happened. Both of them had their eyes in tears when Akinyi said that she had suffered a miscarriage.

Nyaduse noticed that Akinyi’s face was ashened. She had lost so much blood and needed immediate treatment. She ran to their farm where her mother was planting potatoes and informed her that Akinyi needed help. Together they took her to Nyanam Dispensary, leaving Otis with Nyaduse’s eldest sister.

Akinyi was admitted as an in-patient in the dispensary and word was sent to her father that she was ill.

He came immediately and the sight of his daughter lying helplessly on the bed set his heart ablaze.

“She is asleep, she is so tired”, Nyaduse’s mother broke the silence.

He did reply. He just nodded and sighed. Heavy silence reigned. Akinyi’s father sat on a stool beside Akinyi’s bed and buried his face in her palms.

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When Akinyi woke up, she was surrounded by so many people.

“How are you feeling now”, her father asked with concern in his voice.

“Better”, Akinyi replied.

“I am sorry for what happened, I wish I knew”, her father said.

Akinyi felt a wave of mixed emotions. She could hardly believe that her father was apologizing.

“I do not know what I can do to…”he started.

“Take me to back to school.” Akinyi interrupted.

Her words were heavy; her determination was solid.

“You want to go back to school?” Her father asked.

“Yes Baba”, she replied.

Her father informed her that her husband was being held by the chief for assaulting her.

“He murdered my baby, he shattered my dream, he crashed my life, he stole my innocence…” she said.

“You will go to school as soon as you are well”, her father said, squeezing her hand.

“I am going to be a writer, and I will write to fight for the girl child”, Akinyi said.

Tears tinged her eyes. She could not hold them back. They were her tears of freedom. A cold wind blew across the room—the wind of liberation—and she felt a new feeling that has remained up to now. The feeling of freedom.

Posted on Friday, June 12, 2009

The candle that was burning in the otherwise dark room cast an eerie shadow of us, huddled in the corner of the room. I moved closer to the woman who was seated next to me to protect myself from the impact of the night’s cold. None of us spoke. We stared on- at nothing. Our gazes were fixed on empty space; our thoughts occupied with what lay ahead.

“I want my Mama,” a little boy whispered behind me. Silence reigned. “When will we go back home?” he pressed. The woman seated next to me muttered something under her breath, then a severe sob rocked her body.

“Your mother is dead,” somebody whispered. Those words cut the stillness of the night. I felt a lump on my throat and I struggled to hold back my tears.

“Dead… why?” the boy asked in a teary voice.

“She was shot dead,” the voice that had whispered replied.

“But Mama was no thief!” he stammered, and I saw his tears flow. I reached out for his shaky hand and squeezed it. I looked in the depths of his eyes and I saw innocence. He wiped his tears with the back of his hands, and more flowed. “Madam, is it true that my mama is dead?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied weakly. There was a sudden tensing in the crowd. The night momentarily held its breath.

“Then take me where Papa and the rest are,” he said.

“They died too,” I said in a low tone.

He breathed heavily and held his gaze on me. I felt my heart being set ablaze. “Who shot them?” he asked.

“They were killed after the elections,” I whispered, tightening my hold on his shaky fingers. Tears filled the corner of my eyes.

“Is elections a bad thing?”

“No, it is not”.

“Then why are people shot after elections?” I was unprepared for the question that hit me. Words froze in my throat. I looked on and said nothing. “What are we doing here?” he asked. Big tears slid from his eyes.

“We are waiting for the war to subside… for the fighting to cease,” I said.

“When will the war end?” he asked amidst sobs.

“Things will be better soon.” There was uncertainty in my voice. Suddenly, the night’s silence was interrupted by a thunder of sounds. A shrill scream rent the air, followed by a stampede of feet. We moved closer to one another, and one man rose to go and bolt the door. He secured it by placing several chairs behind it. The rest of us remained spellbound as mothers clutched their babies closer to their stomachs, and most of them wailed openly. Outside, people were running around, earnestly looking for a place to shelter and escape the night’s terror.

“Please do not kill him!” we heard a child screaming outside. My heart leapt and I felt blood rushing through my temples. We were on the threshold of death- we woke up daily to the sounds of people screaming and dying, and would fall asleep to the same sounds. There was a knock at our door- violent knocking.

“Open up!” somebody yelled. My stomach lurched and I covered my ears tightly. Children screamed holding whoever was close to them. Some hid behind the many lockers in the room. “Open up!” the order was repeated.

“We have done nothing, we are just seeking refuge in this building,” somebody dared to reply. The door flew open, letting in a cold rush of wind that blew out the candle flame. There was pitch darkness in the room. For a timeless moment, a hush fell over the room and I felt the love I once had for my country being consumed in flames. There was commotion all over as people struggled to escape. I did not rise from my sitting position. I smelled petrol fumes. Yes, they were setting the building on fire. I was overcome by a sudden inhuman weariness and I was incapable of thinking of anything at all. My senses were blunted, everything blurred, as in a fog, and the instinct of self-defence deserted me.

“Are these the people who killed Mama and Papa?” the little boy asked, choking on the fumes of petrol.

“Maybe,” I replied.

“Why do they want to kill me, I did not go to the Elections!” he added. His words struck me, and I felt the need to rise up and save him, his innocence, and his future. I used all my remaining strength to carry him towards the door. People pushed at the door, and several children were trampled on as we struggled to get out. I saw death; I smelled death; it was drawing nearer and nearer… so close to us.

From a distance, I heard someone whisper my name as I lunged out of the building. It was a relief to breath in fresh air. The building went up in flames moments later. I heard people scream inside the building, and I swear I will never forget how I stood watching helplessly that night as my fellow Kenyans were burnt up in the building. A part of me burnt with them; there remained only a shape that looked like me. A dark flame had entered my heart and devoured it. I stopped being me.

I stood staring at the burning building, unable to think or to do anything. In the background, I could hear sirens. The Kenya Red Cross Ambulance was coming. It hooted just behind me, but I did not move. I had gone through so much that night that nothing could scare me anymore. I was not scared of death, in fact, I so longed for it. In one ultimate moment, it seemed to me that we were damned souls, wandering in the half-world, souls condemned to die in their prime without achieving their dreams. The hooting got louder, and I felt somebody push me. I fell heavily on the ground and used all my remaining strength to weep.