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Creative Fiction


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Creative Fiction

FATE (part 2)

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Photo Courtesy : Salem_Beliegraphy

 

“You are still poor. Why did you come back now? Today precisely?! Just when I was leaving to UK?! Do you know what it meant to me? That scholarship?!” He snapped.

“Please forgive me my son. I came back so that I can see you, see how you’ve grown and…apologize to both you and your mum. I have countable days remaining…”

Rashid staggered out of the hut. His mum was standing there, her forehead formed lines and her eyes were squinted. She was nervously playing with her hands as if it was her judgement day. Rashid looked at her for a while before pulling a stool from the side of the hut and made his mum sit down. There was a moment of dead silence. Then he started;

“How…” he looked at her in the eyes, “how did you survive after he left?”

She sighed loudly.

“Mwanangu (my son)…You know what they say? That when you truly love someone you let them go. You let them be happy…but it’s a lie. It means making a tough choice; a selfish one. It’s either they remain happy and you don’t, or you stay happy and they don’t. It’s a sacrifice no one wants to make especially when another woman is involved…and letting him go cost us our happiness. ..” Darkness had filled the compound and all that could be heard were random voices here and there from the neighbours. Rashid could see the tears forming in his mother’s eyes. He held her hand tightly and nodded at her to go on.

“For many years after your father left, I neglected my entire life. I neglected myself. I neglected you…I neglected you Rashid. I gave up on life. I was like a dead woman walking. Like a miserable zombie. I never worked and we survived on the money that your father left behind but also that came to an end. We had rent arrears and debts from shops. We had to shift here. We were too poor, too messed up. You grew up like an orphan child yet you had your mother with you,” she rised her hand and touched his face.

Rashid swallowed a bitter lump of bile that was now on his lips. How could he forget all those days he would beg his mum to take him to school and those nights he would cry out of fear yet she would turn on her bed like she was suddenly deaf. He would push her body back and forth vigorously calling out ‘mama’…all in vain.

“Perhaps you don’t remember everything…but came the day when I carelessly left hot ashes outside the house without warning you and you stepped on them. I still remember your shriek. It was like a wake up call for me. It was a reminder that I had a son. That I had a gift from God. That I had something worth living my life for….”

“Everything changed after that incident,” she gave him a weak smile. “Your feet were horribly burnt and you couldn’t walk for almost one month. I decided to re-start again. It was not too late. It never is. I got a job in the market to help a friend sell her vegetables while she went on with her other businesses. I took you to school and we had a new life altogether. It wasn’t the best kind of life but it was the best I could offer. I worked as a tailor after that, then a house maid, then sold viazi karai (fried potatoes), mahamri and mbaazi. After that I worked as a mchoraji wa piko na henna (henna tattoing) and finally was able to get my own kibanda (small stall)….You know it all from there…”

Rashid leaned forward and hugged her quickly, picked up his bag before disappearing out of the compound without a word. He stopped by a palm tree and leaned on it to support his weak knees. His eyes were wet when he heard some footsteps coming towards him. He quickly rubbed his eyes with his arms and disappeared once again. He didn’t come back until the next day.

 

Rashid walked into their home compound just to see his mother in the arms of their neighbour mama Fatuma. They were vividly in tears. He fastened his steps as his breathe got heavy.  They both turned around, their eyes red and tired.

“Rashid!!” Mama Fatuma said loudly, her eyes suddenly popped out like she had just seen a ghost.

“Mama…what happened?!” He said as his heart beat furiously…”did something happen to…dad?”

Rashid’s mother rushed into his arms and cried on his broad chest.

“We thought…I thought…you are gone…You have never slept outside before and you took your bag with you.”

“Rashid! I am so relieved you are back! We thought you had gone after the bus to go to UK…the bus crashed last night,” mama Fatuma said.

Rashid swallowed a rather huge lump of saliva.

“The bus crashed?!”

“Yes…we heard it on the radio this morning.  16 passengers passed away and the rest are all injured.”

“Whoa! That was a close shave!” He exclaimed as he stood still in his place; pertubed.

“Nyamaza kulia sasa mama Rashid (Stop crying now mama Rashid)…haven’t you already seen your son? He is fine Alhamdulilah,” mama Fatuma said as she dabbed her eyes with her leso and blew her nose loudly.

” I was at a friend’s place mum. I just needed…”

“It’s okay…I’m just grateful to have you back. Oh Rashid how would I live without you?!”

Rashid patted her back and led her inside the hut. She needed some rest.

 

Four days after, Rashid’s father passed on. Rashid sat next to his silently weeping mother throughout the funeral. He didn’t cry. Not a single tear. At least not for someone whom he considered a stranger. But there was that irresistible heart ache that was banging on his chest. Whatever the case, the deceased was still his father. Whether he liked the fact or not, he had to deal with it.

Right after burying him, an old limping man came towards him. He was leaning on his bakora as he took small but rather quick steps. His head was entirely grey which immediately gave Rashid the instinct that he could be one of his father’s associates.

“Assalam aleikum.  You must be Rashid right?”

Rashid looked at him in puzzlement before replying the greeting and saying yes.

“You have really grown my son mashallah…” he said as he gave him a broad smile.

“Pardon, I haven’t recognized you.”

“You can’t remember me. You were too young. Come, come my son. I have a message from your late father.” He led him into a more silent corner and they sat on large rocks. They were quiet for a moment, staring at the scattered bushes and green grass around.

“I couldn’t risk waiting any longer to talk to you. I am very old and my grave is calling me.” The old man smiled weakly. Rashid never said a word.

“My son,  once upon a time I was your father’s lawyer. I was in charge of all his dealings and his wealth. Those days your father had started building his own empire and your mother had his back always…well, that was until when Salma, his second wife appeared in his life. I believe you know about her by now?”

Rashid nodded.

“I’ll just try to cut this story short. After Salma left with all his wealth, what she didn’t know is that he had an offshore secret bank account. There was no much money in it but it was enough to make him live comfortably for a few more months or perhaps a year. But he decided that that money should be kept for you as a gift from him.”

“Strange…Why didn’t he mention that to me when we talked?”

“Because he didn’t want you to think he is buying you back. He just needed you and your mother to forgive him.”

Rashid was silent.

“Here,” the old man handed him the parcel. “This is exactly 500,000 shillings and God knows I didn’t deduct or add a single penny on it.”

“500,000?!”

“Yes.”

Rashid’s mouth was agape. He had never touched even a quarter of that amount.

“But why? He died so poor…he sold all his property to survive. Why didn’t he use this?”

“Because he regretted what he did to the only woman who sacrificed her entire life for his sake and to you…his only son. He cleared all his debts before he died and doesn’t have much left remaining, just a few clothes, shoes and such…but I will surely come to your home and deliver what is rightfully for you and your mother.”

Rashid was speechless. He stared once again at the horizon then at the skies. Perhaps trying to understand what was happening to his life.

“Son, I have done what was upon me…goodbye” he patted Rashid’s shoulder and started walking away.

“Excuse me…what is your name uncle?”

“Ibrahim…” he smiled again then continued, “I was not just your father’s lawyer,  he was my childhood friend and a brother to me. Perhaps you doubt this but your father…he was a kind man; a good man. He may have made his mistakes in his youth but he really loved you, and worried about you throughout.”

“Why didn’t he ever search for me then?”

“Because he was ashamed…I hope you find it in you to forgive him. Take care of yourself son. Meet you soon in shaa Allah. ”

 

Rashid watched the old man limp away. He looked at the parcel in his hand and sighed loudly.

“Oh God!” He thought to himself.

He recounted all the recent events in his life; mum’s phone call, his father, the lost scholarship, the bus crash, his father’s death and then this…He could have died in the bus crash. He wouldn’t have met his father. He wouldn’t have known the truth. He would have left his mother alone. He wouldn’t have gotten this fortune. He sighed again. His mother would be shocked about the money…but this would help them greatly.  Perhaps start his own business, work while he pays his own college fees. It is better to stay around with his mother. He needed her more than anything. For once, he remembered to thank God for the cancelled trip to UK. For sure better things were yet to come.

“Truly fate is full of surprises. ..” Rashid said to himself as he walked back home. He had a lot to tell her.

 

 

 

 

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Coast & Culture

A ‘SIMPLE’ SWAHILI WEDDING

By

By: Imran Abdallah Said

Photo courtesy: http://blackgirllonghair.com/

 

A word of caution for non-Swahili speakers, the Swahili-English translations used in this writing are as primitive as they could get, both for comic reasons and because Swahili is awesome. Learn it so I wont have to translate next time.

 

Deal?

 

Proceed…

 

It’s supposed to be the wedding of the decade. The daughter of a chief marrying the son of a respected doctor. She’s an accountant and he’s a secondary school history teacher. She’s good with numbers, he’s good with dates and today’s is a date that’s been long time coming. She being a pedantic realist and he being a nostalgic dreamer means that they will complete the proverbial ying yang loop, form the perfect couple, and half the stars in the sky will go supernova and turn night into day. At the moment, however, heavy clouds crease the night sky which beams down with malcontent.

 

For the third time tonight it threatens to pour as the groom and his flock of minions walk into the mosque and make a beeline for the front, where the imam and the bride’s father await, the expressions on their faces radiating an unimpressed mien. Between him and his destination, a crazed sea of white and black and green and blue kanzus stretches the mosque’s capacity to its choking point. Kofia-donned heads literally turn as the man of the day passes by, dragging his wedding gear, from the over-size black robe laced with gold trimmings and the blunt ceremonial wooden sword tucked in his belt, to the massive turban on his head that precariously flirts with the physical principles of balance and gravity.

 

He deposits himself immediately opposite the imam and nods to his future father-in-law who is either too distracted by the groom’s excessive decorations or unhappy at his wanton disregard for punctuality, since he doesn’t nod back. The imam begins the ceremony with a short lecture about the highs and lows of marriage and quotes a few verses from the Quran.

 

Then he holds the groom’s right hand and asks him to repeat what seems, to the groom at least, like the recitation of a full twenty-page chapter of the Quran in a single breath. The groom’s heart does the tachycardia thing, a hamster racing a hamster wheel off its hinges. He mumbles and stutters. The imam sighs and repeats, enunciating each word carefully like a nursery school teacher. The groom does better this time, but only just.

 

“I…Matano bin Mashaka…accept…” a year-long pause, “…to marry…” a decade flits by, “…Zubeda.”

“Zulekha.” The imam corrects.

“Zulekha…bin…”

“Bint!” The imam corrects again.

“Bint…uh…” What was the father’s name again? He can’t for the love of everything lovable remember it and the fuming dragon that sits where future father-in-law was a minute ago doesn’t make matters easier either. A century has passed by, by the time the groom finishes his vow. The relieved imam does the Islamic rendition of the “By the powers vested in me…” bit and prays for everlasting blessings to be bestowed on the budding marriage. The father-in-law is now smiling broadly. It’s a smile that could mean anything, “I’ll kill you the next time you forget my name” or “Thank you for reducing the number of stubborn bubbleheads living in my house to fifteen. Now scram both of you, and don’t bring her back!”

 

Then its cheers all round as plates of halwa arrive. After that, the crowd of a thousand or so bludgeon the poor groom with affectionate embraces. His family is big. Half the city’s population is surely crammed within this tiny mosque and since his memory serves him well when recalling names of people who began revolutions or destroyed civilizations ages ago but fails him dramatically when trying the same with the people he called friends and family, the groom is meeting his extended relatives and friends for the first time all over again. Cousin Muhammad is actually cousin Mahmoud and uncle Ali is in fact uncle Alwi. In the end the groom resorts to the only nomenclature he’s always been comfortable with as he thanks Cousin 453 and his father, Uncle 78 as they smother him with musty-odor-sheathed bear hugs.

 

————————————————

 

A motorcade outside whisks the groom and his entourage away to his bride’s home. They arrive to what can only be described as a razzle dazzle peacock fashion show. It’s almost dizzying how many different colors the bride’s relatives have managed to cram into their dresses individually. But now the groom faces a tougher challenge than acclimatizing his eyes to the bewildering scene.

 

The tradition at this point goes so: the bride, having recited her own vow earlier that night, is ‘locked away’ in a room somewhere within the house and one of her relatives stands guard. The groom is presented with two options. He and his lackeys can either try to force their way in, or if he is of a more diplomatic persuasion the groom can bride the guard.

 

Today’s is the case where the groom’s only option is surely diplomacy, for the simple reason that his entourage is locked outside and that the bride’s aunt who has taken up guard duty makes the room’s door look small in comparison. She grins widely as he slips two thousand-shilling notes into her welcoming hand. The deal is officially sealed. He is allowed admission.

 

Inside, the bride sits at the edge of the room’s only bed, white dress pouring out all around her, her face and arms buried under layers of make-up and hinna tattoos, but if you are to believe the groom’s account, she is actually “bathed in delicate radiant light that would shame the sun on any summer’s day and an ethereal fragrance that would push roses and carnations into fits of suicidal fantasies”. He whispers a dua to her as per the norm, their first intimate moment, and wishes they could jump out the window if only to escape the photo session that awaits them outside the door.

 

————————————————

 

An hour or a day or a week later, they escape the incessant paparazzi and the motorcade whisks them away to the groom’s residence. It’s drizzling again outside. Well, no it’s actually pouring dreadfully now. Their driver, the groom’s older brother, focused on the now increasingly treacherous road, accountant and history teacher turn to each other. The groom had prepared a ton of poems for this moment, until the rose-shaming fragrance had wiped his memory clean, but twenty or so years of watching the occasional chick-flick movie have him covered…maybe. He blurts out, “I love you…sweet pump…kin”

 

She’s calm despite the excitement of the occasion as she stifles a laugh and replies in a cool voice, “Well, sweet potato, I love you more.”

 

The groom’s found his courage and confidence again but not the rehearsed poems, so he chides, “Really? How much more?”

 

Then the conversation picks up and they’re soon gone. They’re lost in their own world. The real world around them dissolves away and if the bus and truck ahead of them collided and burst into a million pieces in a shower of burning flames and human screams, they won’t be able to recount it to anyone tomorrow or ever. They’re so lost, they don’t even notice when the car finally pulls up to the groom’s home.

 

“Well I love you a gazillion multiplied by a gatrillion times more.” The groom smirks, impressed by his own ability to remember a very big number, fake or not.

 

She replies with the same calm voice, “And I love you Mugabellion to the power of Musevenillion times more.” In other words, infinity to the power of immortal forever. She’s good with numbers. The groom is stumped and sulks for a second after losing his first contest with his wife.

 

“And I would love it if this awkward conversation continued another time.” Their driver, an unwilling passive third-party to the exchange interrupts.“We’re here.” He announces unceremoniously.

 

Outside stands the groom’s family’s home. Two massive tents on either side, one for the men, the other for the ladies. And people. People everywhere you turn. The couple notice them for the first time and feel dizzy. Hundreds, maybe thousands have come to the wedding, to marvel at and envy the newlyweds.

 

The bride is chauffeured away to a temporary wooden stage under the ladies’ tent, where a thousand phosphorent lights and garlands of flowers festoon across the face of the makeshift stage. Then the ululations pick up and morph into a wedding song as the groom’s mother and aunts serenade their newest family member. There’s a phrase around this part of the world, “Bibi harusi wetu.” Our bride. She’s married a family, not just a husband.

 

The forgotten groom is paraded into the house by his brother who shouts to no one in particular, “Someone feed this oaf, he needs his energy up to prepare for his big performance.” The older men and teenagers hanging around laugh like maniacs.

 

With the groom inside and the bride on the other pole of the house, calm falls on the men’s tent. The topics of conversations that follow dart from football and politics and at some point the death of the groom’s younger brother a few months ago comes up. It’s inherently taboo to talk about funerals at weddings but for these people today, having been shocked by the nature and timing of the groom’s brother’s death, talking about it here is almost therapeutic.

 

The teenagers in attendance joke about marriage and other weddings they’ve attended. One of them waxes nostalgic to the click around him about a different wedding he went to where state-of-the-art amplifiers and 20-feet high speakers blasted the music of Ali Kiba and Diamond into the night sky. “What a dump of a wedding this is.” He complains. That it had stopped drizzling minutes ago doesn’t seem to improve the teenager’s mood.

 

The saving grace of any Swahili wedding, however, no matter how dislikeable to those invited, is of course the feast, or feasts.Tonight’s feast even has a name, Kombe la Bwanaharusi, the groom’s cup or something like that. You know Swahili people love food when they give fancy names to feasts. When the sinias (big plates) arrive and the guests behold their contents, all inhibitions and doubts and ill-will simply melt away.

 

Tonight, the guests are treated to a surprise. Upon inspection of the plates, they discover they’ve been served six different types of foods, from viazi vya nazi (potatoes of coconut), samaki wa kupaka(painted fish), nyama ya kukaanga (fried meat…?),mahamri (I doubt there’s an English equivalent word), kaimati (some round pastry thingy coated in sugar), mitai (another pastry thingy coated in sugar) and tambi (sugary noodles). Seven types it turns out, not six! But wait, upon further inspection, the guests realize the plates come in pairs. There are seven other different types of food in the accompanying plates, mikate ya tambi(sugary-noodle bread), katlesi (cut-less with each bite), viazi vitamu (sweet potatoes!), sambusa(samosas), mkate wa mayai (bread of the egg),mkate wa sinia (bread of the plate) and viazi karai(fried potatoes) You could call it the centenary gladiator match of the calories, a cholesterol and sugars bloodbath. The Swahili people won’t heed you, they’ll continue calling it Kombe La Bwanaharusi.

 

————————————————

 

It’s growing late, the tell-tale signs of the approaching morning begin to show. The groom is tired and sleepy and growing increasingly irritated. He chucks modesty down the drain, rushes up the makeshift stage while the songs and ululations crescendo to a climax, and before anyone can realize what’s happening scoops up the bride, who looks equal parts amused and relieved but not necessarily shocked, and takes off at a canter like a deranged kangaroo, the turban falling off his head. His mother finally jumps to her feet and gives chase shouting, ‘Bring our bride back,’ her singing partners flocking her sides and ululating without let-up.

 

“My bride, mine…” the groom shouts back, head growing giddy from his defiant shenanigans. He makes for one of the parked cars whose passenger door is thankfully held open by his brother, gently sets his wife down on the seat, jumps over the bonnet american-movie-cops-like, fishtails the car out of the parking spot and zooms off, executing a perfect drift around the corner that would send James Bond running for the bank. Cheers and whoops from the men’s side and ululations from women’s side and the groom’s mother’s child-like tantrum sing them off into the night.

 

“Wow,” the accountant laughs, “I didn’t know your family was so…”

 

“Clingy?” The history teacher says.

 

“Affectionate.” She finishes.

 

“They’re clingy. My family’s clingy. I should have warned you.” The dreamer reflects. There’s a long pause and then he adds, “We have might have to relocate to Russia or China or Antarctica where they can’t find us and shove chocolate cakes down your throat every morning and dress you up like Disney princesses every weekend.”

 

The realist wraps her arms around her husband’s free hand and rests her head on his shoulder as she thinks of the long tiring hours she spends at work every day.

 

“I don’t know,” she whispers with a broad smile, “I think am actually looking forward to being treated like a queen.”

 

For more of Imran’s articles log on to: mylitcorner.wordpress.com

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Creative Fiction

SAFARI YA MBINGUNI (sehemu ya 2)

By

Mwandishi: Mtoto wa Katama

Picha: http://www.magic4walls.com

 

Kwa mara nyingne Khamisi aliamka taratibu na kuingiwa na wasiwasi kidogo kwani mudaule hakuwa anamtarajia mtu yeyote. Alijaribu kufikiria atakuwa nani huyu? Moyoni alijiuliza bila kupata jibu mwafaka. Akaamua kujikokota polepole, alipofika karibu na bawaba, aliskia mtu akishusha pumzi nzito nzito. Mara kidogo akaita “Khamisi, Khamisi ehhh! Upoo”, Khamisi si muda akaifahamu sauti ile na kujibu “ Nipo babu, haya nipe la mwafaka umefuatia nini?, maana niko bize kiasi”. “ Fungua kwanza nikueleze, usikuwe hivyo” Lipopo akanena. Khamisi akazubaa kidogo na kufungua mlango, akamuangalia lipopo jinsi alivyokuwa anateremkwa na jasho, akajua hapa kuna habari za muhimu ila hakupendelea masahibu zake kumfuatia nyumbani kwao. Alipendelea kumaliza shughuli zote wakiwa kijiweni au nje ya nyumba. Lipopo alipojaribu kujitokomeza chumbani, Khamisi alimzuia na kifua na kumnyoshea kidole akiashiria wakazungumzie nje. Lipopo hakuwa na la zaidi ila kufuata maagizo na kutangulia huku Khamisi akimfuatia nyuma.

 

“ Hebu niambie lililokuleta na mbio zote hivyo ni lipi haswa?” Khamisi aliuliza. “Usikuwe hivyo yakhe, mbona una hasira” akajibu Lipopo kwa kunyeng’enyea.” Mi hapa nimekuja na mazuri, Bw.Salimu atuhitaji tukamuone habari ndiyo hiyo” Lipopo akamalizia akiongea huku akitabasamu. Khamisi akamuangalia Lipopo toka juu mpaka chini, kana kwamba alikuwa anampima hivi katika mizani flani hivi. Akautazama uso wa Lipopo na kisha akatikisa kichwa baada ya kufanya dadisi zake na kuenusha mikono juu na kuleta dua “Ewe Mola! Uliye juu, mpe mja wako huyu shughli ya kufanya na wepesi wa kuongea” na kucheka kwa dhihaka. “Kumbe we ovyo! Hivi muda wote uliopoteza kumbe maneno yalikuwa ni haya, kama ingekuwa umenitaarifu pale mlangoni ulipogonga kungeharibika lipi? na tuonane hiyo jioni” Khamisi akafoka bila kusubiri jibu la Lipopo na alimuacha akiongea peke yake na kugeuka mbio mbio na kuingia nyumbani kwao. “Watu wengine wapuuzi kweli, wanafaa makofi chap! chap!” alijisemea moyoni. Alipoingia chumbani, alijipiga kichwa na kidole chake mara kadhaa na kupiga macho huku na kule mpaka akaliona albamu, muda wote lilikuwa lipo kitandani na hakudiriki kuangalia kwa makini, kisha akatabasamu kwa kujiona bwege kweli. Ikawa anaendelea na kulifungua huku akicheka ovyo ovyo, picha zake za utotoni zimleletea furaha na kumbukumbu tamu sana. Kwenye picha moja aliona kitoto kidogo, puani akitokwa na kamasi na magwanda yake ya kuchanika. “Kweli huyu ni mimi lo! Haiwezekani huu mzaha sasa, labda ni mdogo wangu Idrissa, itakuwa Idrissa tu!” alijaribu kujisemeza. Lakini alipokodoa macho vizuri na kuangalia ile picha kwa umakinifu aligundua kuwa ni yeye. Pichani mtoto alikuwa na alama ya ngozi nyeusi katika mguu wake na hofu zake zote zikawa kweli. Hakupendezwa na picha ile kamwe, ye keshakuwa barobaro sasa na ndevu zilishaanza kuota, tena zilimea kwa ajabu sana. Zilikuwa zimetapakaa kwenye kidevu kwa vifungu vifungu kama matuta kwenye shamba la mkonge. Alishajaribu mbinu nyingi kuzifanya ziote vizuri, huyu huyu Lipopo aliwahi kumwambia apake asali iliyochemshwa na kuchanganywa na haba soda(habbat sawda) kwenye kidevu chote. Alifuata masharti kama alivyoambiwa na mwendani wake wa karibu. Lakini matokeo hayakuwa mazuri, hata siku ilikuwa haijaisha Khamisi alipata mwasho wa ajabu na kuishilia kujikuna kwa wiki mbili mfululizo, mkuno ulileta yale mapele magumu kidevu kizima. Kwa wiki mbili nzima alibaki ndani kwa ndani tu kama mwari aliyeletewa posa na mtoto wa Sultani. Alidiriki kutoka usiku tena mara moja moja kwa sababu ya shughuli za kimsingi. Tena alitembea kwa tahadhari nyingi sana alinyatanyata kwenye vichochoro kwa staili ya kimgambo ili asiwahi kupishana na watu wanaomjua. Lakini waswahili wanasema siku utakayokwenda uchi ndiyo siku utakayokutana na mkweo na naam!

 

Usiku mmoja katika mishe mishe zake za kuenda kununua chapatti mitaa ya ndani usiku, baada ya kukata vichochoro vitatu viwili ghafla bin vuu! mchumba wake Zeituni alitokea kwenye chochoro. Khamisi alipunguza hatua, na kumuangalia vizuri mtu aliyekuwa anakuja kwenye upande mwengine wa kichochoro kama kweli ndiye aliyekuwa anamdhania, baada ya kugundua kuwa alikuwa Zeituni, polepole alipiga kona na kutaka kurudi alipokuwa anatokea. Kweli ile siku anayokufa nyani miti yote huteleza, mara tu bila mpangilio paka wawili shume  waliokuwa wanakimbizana wakatokea kwenye upande wa uchochoro aliokuwa Khamisi anaregea nao. Toba ya Ilahi! Khamisi alikuwa muoga wa paka ajaabu bora hata angekutana na nyoka. Yeye na paka ni mbingu na ardhi. Aliamua kubarutika mbio upande aliokuwa anaokuja nao Zeituni na kumpiga kumbo mchumba wake huku akitokomea kwenye giza bila hata kushikwa na wasiwasi wa kuangalia nyuma. Kwa hasira Khamisi alichukua ile picha ya mtoto na kuichanachana vipande vipande na kuitafuna, hakuweza kukubali kuwa mtoto yule mchafu na kamasi zake kuwa alikuwa ni yeye na cha zaidi alichukia kwa kuwa yakhe. Hakuelewa kwanini watu wengine walijaaliwa mali na wengine kunyimwa.

 

Mara Khamisi alitulia kwa ghafla baada ya kufungua kurasa nyengine ya albamu lile, akasita kwa muda, macho yakawa mazito na machozi kuanza kumlengalenga. Akawa baridi na ukiwa ukamtawala kwa ghafla, akajiona mnyonge ajaabu na kufunga albamu na baadaye kulifungua tena. Picha iliyofuatia ilikuwa ni ya marehemu babake. Ni miaka kumi imepita tangu kumpoteza babake katika ajali ya barabarani iliyonaswa na vyombo vya habari karibia vyote. Taarifa za kifo cha babake zilimpa mshtuko zaidi nina yake aliyekuwa mtegemezi zaidi, hakujua angeanzia. Baba Khamisi ndiye alikuwa anatarazaki pekee yake. Tena Baba Khamisi shughli zake zilikuwa nadhif kabisa, alisifika kwa kufanya adala baina ya watu na zaidi kwenye shughuli zake za kila siku. Lakini kinaya kilikuwa ni madhila na unyanyasaji mamake Khamisi aliyopitia kutokana na nduguze mumewe. Haya yote Khamisi aliyaelewa kabisaa na alikuwa ameweka nadhiri kitambo ya kupanga kisasi…

 

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SAFARI YA MBINGUNI (sehemu ya 1)

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Picha: http://www.magic4walls.com

Mwandishi: Mtoto wa Katama

Purukushani za kutafuta picha za mwisho katika ‘albamu’ kuu kuu iliyochakaa. Khamisi hangependa kuacha ushahidi wowote nyuma kwa insani yeyote yule. Juu katika kabati la mamake alilipiga macho albamu lile, lilokuwa limejaa picha lukuki zake pamoja na za ahli zake. Bila kusita alipanda kwenye kiti kidogo na kudakia kwenye upande mmoja wa kabati huku akining’inia kama ngedere. Mle juu ya kabati kulikuwa na vumbi si haba, tandu za buibui zilitapakaa kote. Alikitia mkono kwenye magorogoro yale na kulivuta albamu lile. Chafya zilimparamia kwa ghafla! Himidi nazo zikaja nyingi tu! Kwa sababu ya vumbi lile. Kombamwiko na panya nao walikuwa kila mtu roho mkononi walitawanyika kila hayawani akikimbilia maskani mapya, laity wangalijua kuwa ‘operesheni’ nzima ilikuwa ni juu ya ‘albamu’ wala wasingejitia tumbo joto. Khamisi alijiachilia chini na kukita kwa kishindo pu! Aliguna ki bebeeru beehh! kutokana na maumivu kwenye visigino.

 

Baada ya kutulia kidogo na maumivu kupungua, alivuta pumzi nzito na kufungua kurasa ya kwanza ya albamu lile. Kumbukumbu zilifurika akilini, moyoni alijiambia “kumbe mamangu naye alikuwa mrembo wakati wake”, “hivisasa tumempata amechoka maskini ya mungu” alijisuta. Akafikiria zile taabu mamake anapitia na mchana ule, kuzungusha bamia na dagaa gengeni siku kutwa na muda mwengine kuambulia patupu. Khamisi alishawahi kumshawishi mamake mara nyingi tu! Kuachana na biashara ile. Waswahili washam’maliza kwa kumkopa, naye Mola kampa roho ya huruma kukataa kukopesha haezi na kudai hela yake ni mzito ajabu. Kipindi kimoja Khamisi alimkaripia mamake zeituni, ‘ibilisi’ alikuwa amemjaa pomoni haskii la mwadhini, aliamua leo ni leo.”Hivi mama wewe mbona kisirani sana, hela ya mamangu utalipa lini” alifoka. Mamake Khamisi alposkia purukushani zile ukumbini, alitoka chumbani kwa kasi na kufululiza hadi alipokuwa amesimama Khamisi. “Achana naye Khamisi nakuomba mwanangu, mlaani shetani, kama biashara ni yangu” alimsihi Khamisi. Kidogo Khamisi mori ukashuka na kumwachilia mamake zeituni baada ya kubembelezwa. Lakini naye akaapa kutoingilia tena masuala ya biashara za mamake na wala mamake asimuhusishe na lolote. Yote hayo akiyafikiria akajiona kweli kakosa, zile tabu zote mamake alizopitia ilikuwa ni kwa ajili yake na ndunguze. Na alijutia siku ile kumkana mbele ya mamake zeituni, lakini yashamwagika hakuna la zaidi ila kujirudia na kuisuta nafsi yake.

 

Zile picha za mamake zilimnogea kwa kipindi kidogo mara “Ngo! ngo! Ngo!” zilisikika kelele za mlango ukigongwa na kumshtua kutoka kwenye lindi la mawazo. Khamisi,kwa sekunde kadhaa alibaki kimya akijaribu kusikiliza tena ikiwa ni kweli mlango ulikuwa ukigongwa au alikuwa akiweweseka.kwa dakika kadhaa alikuwa bado amesimama akiendelea kusikiliza lakini hakusikia chochote,taratibu alishusha pumzi na kuendelea kuangalia albamu lakini kabla hajaendelea kufungua kurasa nyingine shuka alisikia mlango ukigongwa tena na wakati huu mlango ulikuwa ukigongwa kwa nguvu na sekunde chache kukawa kimya tena.Kwa mara nyingne Khamisi aliamka taratibu na kuingiwa na wasiwasi kidogo kwani mudaule hakuwa anamtarajia mtu yeyote. Alijaribu kufikiria atakuwa nani huyu? Moyoni alijiuliza bila kupata jibu mwafaka. Akaamua kujikokota polepole, alipofika karibu na bawaba, aliskia mtu akishusha pumzi nzito nzito.

 

Mara kidogo akaita “Khamisi, Khamisi ehhh! Upoo”, Khamisi si muda akaifahamu sauti ile na kujibu “ Nipo babu, haya nipe la mwafaka umefuatia nini?, maana niko bize kiasi”. “ Fungua kwanza nikueleze, usikuwe hivyo” Lipopo akanena. Khamisi akazubaa kidogo na kufungua mlango, akamuangalia lipopo jinsi alivyokuwa anateremkwa na jasho, akajua hapa kuna habari za muhimu ila hakupendelea masahibu zake kumfuatia nyumbani kwao. Alipendelea kumaliza shughuli zote wakiwa kijiweni au nje ya nyumba. Lipopo alipojaribu kujitokomeza chumbani, Khamisi alimzuia na kifua na kumnyoshea kidole akiashiria wakazungumzie nje. Lipopo hakuwa na la zaidi ila kufuata maagizo na kutangulia huku Khamisi akimfuatia nyuma. “ Hebu niambie lililokuleta na mbio zote hivyo ni lipi haswa?” Khamisi aliuliza…

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FATE (part 1)

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Photo Courtesy: Salem_Beliegraphy

Rashid sat by the window as his fellow passengers continued boarding the bus. It was already getting dark and his mind was far off. The smile on his face was clear even with the dimness of the lights at the crowded bus stage. He was finally heading to fulfill his dream and it was only his introverted nature that made him to not scream out of excitement. A young boy of about twelve was roaming around the bus restlessly, his lips looked so dry and his kinky hair seemed to have not touched water in ages. He finally found his way to Rashid’s window and very sadly, he extended his hand. Rashid looked at the hand for a while; debating with himself. His mother had always discouraged him to give beggars money. ‘They are just manipulative conmen‘ she would say. If someone heard her rather dis likable comments about the beggars, you would think she is just an arrogant lady with wealth and thus doesn’t know what struggle is. Totally opposite to that, Rashid’s mother had raised him singlehandedly. She worked tirelessly to ensure Rashid had a comfortable life but to this stage where Rashid was now going to university, it sounded like a miracle. She would always tell him how ugly it is for a human being to beg while they have limbs to use and a brain that is functional. It all made sense to him but even as he looked at that small hand still stretched out to him, his heart gave him a pinch.
“Shikamoo…chakula…chakula” The small untidy boy repeated the statement thrice; staring directly at Rashid.
‘I’ll just do it for today, he thought…it’s my best day anyway’ He searched in his pockets and gave him his last coins. His smile had now broadened. He felt accomplished; satisfied. He had restored humanity.

The boy was now smiling too as he moved away from the bus towards the one at the back. Rashid went back to his day dreaming as his face beamed happiness. There were just a few more passengers remaining to board before the bus would leave to Nairobi. This seemed like an unrealistic dream. Once he arrives at Nairobi, he was going to get a plane to UK for a scholarship program. ‘UK? Unbelievable!!’ he remarked to himself. Just a few days before he had given up that he will ever get to university and here he was…‘It is cause of mummy’s prayers, i’m sure’. He smiled once again and he seemed so confident that nothing; absolutely NOTHING would spoil his night.

Suddenly there was chaos from the bus behind them and some men were cursing in Kiswahili. Everyone in the bus was now peeping from their windows as a crowd formed. “Mtoto mkorofi!” someone shouted as several other people asked, “what is going on?”
Rashid stuck his head out, peeping over people’s heads. A man came out from the crowd and Rashid quickly asked, “Kuna nini?”
“Some young boy here stole a passengers wallet after he refused to help him and insulted him on his bad behaviour of begging,” he answered in kiswahili.
“Did you see the boy who stole? How does he look like?” Rashid quickly asked.
“He was a begger; a bit short. Looked really untidy,” he said with disgust.
Rashid immediately knew that it was the same boy who had come to him. He bit his lower lip hardly as he felt a cocktail of emotions. First it was rage; ‘perhaps what mummy said was right. They are just thieves and conmen at the end of the day.’ Then came the pity and guilt; ‘perhaps if I gave him enough money to eat he wouldn’t have stolen.’

Another yell interrupted him. It seemed like he was the one who had just been robbed off his wallet.
“Sasa mimi nitasafiri vipi?!” Rashid clicked. Whom is he asking that? But in Mombasa you never miss the sympathizers. A few people came in and handed him some money to take him through his journey. ‘Ironic right? He was no any much different from the beggar boy now. They both needed help and both of them had gotten money from other people. They were now equals. He definitely has no right to talk about the beggar boy anymore. Perhaps if he had helped him, all this wouldn’t have happened.’ Rashid snapped loudly. The old man seated next to him looked at him strangely, maybe wondering what this young man could be so angry about.

His phone was beeping in his pocket. He took it and glanced at the name on the screen ‘mama’…‘She must be calling to ask whether I already left.’
“Yes mama?”
“Have you left already?”
“Not yet…but about to.”
“You have to come back.”
“What do you mean?” Rashid sat upright.
“You have to come back immediately. Your father needs you…he is on his dying bed.”
“Father…which father?!” His tone rose.
“Your father… I lied to you. He is not dead.”
“Mama…what do you mean?!”
“Just come back home son. Right away.”
The phone went off. His hands were shaking now. He waited for a moment on his seat; as if comprehending the whole conversation. He took out his passport and the ticket and stared at them for a while. His dream had just been shattered. By whom? By a father he had never met. He ran his fingers through the ticket once again and cursed in a whisper. The old man turned to look at him once again, only this time it was a glare. Rashid ignored him, pulled out his bag and alighted from the bus.

He walked slowly and his shoulders weighed down. All he could see now were the blurred lights of the streets. The more he walked. the more his steps became more of a stagger. He met a few more beggars seated by the road with empty plastic containers. He opened his bag and pulled out the appetizing dinner that his mother had made him for the journey. When she first gave them to him, he was too delighted. There were several samosas, kebabs and ‘mkate wa sinia’. She had packed so many of them with the claim ‘you will stay for so long without tasting these special delicacies by your mum so make sure to eat them all’. But now it didn’t matter anymore; he was going back home and will get to eat them forever. He approached the old ladies seated by the roadside with their children and gave them the lunch box. They were now all crowding towards him and for a moment, Rashid thought they would get into a fight out of excitement for the food. This time he did not feel accomplished or even satisfied. It felt no different than throwing away the food in the dustbin…

Right ahead of him was their home. His cheeks still round in a frown, he stared at their house like it was the first time he was seeing it. Time had witnessed a lot of struggle in that house. Time was the only living proof of the mud house that was about to fall down at it’s own weight. The house was nearly swept off by rain more than once. And while everyone stayed safe in their homes from the floods, he and his mum were not saved from it. They would sit by their tiny table and float like in a boat; busy fetching the mad water from the floor and pouring it of the house. Only God knows how they survived. Only God knows how they lived through hunger and poverty for days. Rashid sighed and moved towards the open door.

Upon entering the house, he saw a few familiar faces seated next to the bed. It was a bit crowded and could barely see the faces clearly. Their living room was also their bedroom and everything they ever had. Every night he would spread some two to three cotton blankets on the floor to avoid the hard touch of the stony floor. His mother would sleep on the bed; the only bed. His eyes narrowed as he recognized his two paternal aunts and three uncles. He hadn’t seen them since he was very young. It was almost that same time when his father disappeared and his mum had told him then that his father had gone to heaven.

“What is happening?” Rashid broke the silence. He dropped his bag and took the small diminishing candle that was lit near the door. He moved closer to the bed and raised it high to see the face of a very frail, old man lying on his mother’s bed.

“I asked what is happening. Who is this?” The silence was loud. “And where is my mother?”
“My son…” the old man started.
“Rashid!” His mother made a quick entrance into the room. She was carrying some herbs which she dropped on the table before pulling Rashid outside the house.
“Rashid..my dear son…I will explain everything. Please don’t be angry. Just listen to what he has to say.”
“Why now? Just when I was about to kick off my studies. When else will I get such an opportunity?!” He said slowly yet in a firm voice.
“And when else will you get a chance to meet your father? Your dying father? He just has a few days left. Please come in…” she pulled him back inside before he could say one more word.

At the bedside, Rashid sat next to his father. They were on the same bed yet so distant. Everyone else had gone out, leaving them alone. The candle lit in a feeble way as their shadows displayed on the old curtains. The old man stretched his hand and placed it slowly on Rashid’s hand. Rashid pulled back his hand without a word but the old man was not about to give up. He held his hand again; firmly this time. As firm as his weak shaky hands would allow him.
“My son…”he started.
“Don’t start it now. Stop ‘sonning’ me. I am only listening to you because mum asked me to.”
“I…you have every right to be angry at me. I have been a bad father. And a bad husband too…but life teaches us the greatest lessons…”he stopped to cough. It was a painful cough. More of a groan.
“When I married your mother, she was that kind of woman who sacrificed her entire world to create our own small world of me, you and her. But I betrayed her. I was still young and started getting rich. Money deceived me. I remarried and left your mother. But I was still so young my son. I was very young to know that money has it’s end too… My second wife empowered me to continue building my empire. I forgot all the sacrifices your mother made to get me there. It is only after I was filthy rich when my second wife did the same thing I did to your mother. She left me. But she didn’t just leave me; she left me penniless. She made me richer than ever so that she can have the entire kingdom to herself afterwards…” he breathed loudly and Rashid could almost feel how slow his heartbeat was.

He paused a bit to catch his breath.
“And where were you all this time after she left you? Didn’t you regret? Why didn’t you come back to us?” Rashid said in a bitter tone.
“Kwa uso gani?…how could I come back to your mother after all that I had done? After hurting her so badly?…how could I face you after you already knew I was dead?…I was poor once again and nothing to offer to you two.”
“You are still poor. Why did you come back now? Today precisely?! Just when I was leaving to UK?! Do you know what it meant to me? That scholarship?!” He snapped.
“Please forgive me my son. I came back so that I can see you, see how you’ve grown and…apologize to both you and your mum. I have countable days remaining…”

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DEAR PAIN

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Photo Courtesy: www.ayeina.com

Dear Pain,

From the moment I was born and as I grew up, I found myself already betrothed to you. It’s strange isn’t it? How does someone get betrothed at such an age? I mean, what if I turned out to be a vampire just when I turned thirteen? Weird. But it’s more of the culture issue I guess. As far as my memories go by into the past, I remember how you were so obsessed with me. You always fancied that both our names start with ‘P’ and you would always chorus it lovingly ‘Pain and Paranoia’. You were so loving yet so bitter. You were carrying all the world’s misery on your shoulders yet you still afforded to spend time with me. You would walk hand in hand with me and you would introduce me to all your friends. I still remember your best friends; Ego, Selfish and Evil. I remember how you would praise me in front of them as if I were the only girl in this world. You wanted the whole world to know how much you loved me and that you would never depart me. I remember all those days you would take me out with your so called best friends and we would have ‘fun’. That’s what you used to tell me; ‘let’s go have fun’ yet all I remember was hearing the four of you mock people and laugh so loudly. It used to puzzle me a lot. Well, you were quite older than me so I thought maybe I didn’t really understand what this ‘fun’ really meant. For the foolish girl I was, I’d stand next to you; your hand still firmly holding mine, just staring at you and your friends.

I still remember Ego; he was TALL. Really tall that I really had to strain my neck to see his face. But he was still elegant. He was quite handsome and I used to wonder why I wasn’t betrothed to him instead. He always had his hands in his pockets and talk with a firm voice. He walked with a bounce and his head was always held high. Is that what they call confidence? I used to admire him but that was then, I was barely fifteen. At that age you barely know how to differentiate between a cheetah and a tiger. I was so naive…but now…now I know everything in this life.

Selfish was hilariously short and it really used to make me laugh at how the four of you could be best friends. I mean, your physiques were so opposite. It is the first thing anyone would notice upon seeing you together. Anyway back to selfish. Selfish was so over confident. I have never seen anyone think so high of themselves. He always wanted to get the biggest share of everything for he thought he deserves it.To me, he looked a bully. I used to see him snatch food from the beggar’s mouth. Have you ever seen anyone so cruel like that? But selfish thought he deserves it. Sometimes I used to see him look at me maliciously and it used to freak me out. He probably also thought that he should have me instead of you. Well, you never noticed all that because you were always busy praising to the world about me without looking at their reactions. Maybe you trusted them so much??

Evil…evil was ugly. Damn ugly and ironically, he used to boast about himself like there is no one on this earth like him. Everything about him was ugly; his croaky laughter and even his dark enigmatic smile. He was rough and tough. He was all the three of you combined; he was torment, torture, unpleasant and wicked all together. He always considered himself the ring leader of your group.

I still remember the night your friends raped me. Oh…how can I forget the misery that came after. How can I forget the sadness and despair? You know what pain, you always used to make me wonder which side are you really? When your best friends raped me, you were mad. So mad that it worried me you would explode. Yet you decided to cover it up for them by marrying me. You thought that would make me forget. You thought you could make me happy once again.

Years went by and I gave birth to our first child; insomnia. Oh my son…he wouldn’t let me sleep. He made me turn and roll on the bed restlessly. I cried and cried until the wee hours of the night. I cried until I had no more tears. I cried until my pillow was too wet. I cried for you; because of you, for the past, present and future. I cried that you were the only person who loved me so dearly in this life. The only person who wouldn’t leave me alone. I treated myself with lots of chocolates and bowls of ice cream. As people say, treating oneself like that is good for the stressed soul…yet this technique didn’t work for me. My boy troubled me…but where were you Pain? You were just there with me; like a shadow. Always there yet never giving me the happiness I needed.

Insomnia grew and soon we had our second child. It was a girl this time. I was so happy. I wanted to make her my best friend, teach her how to cook and how to dress up. I had so many plans for her and for us. I called her ‘eating issues’. She was so fragile and weak. She had no appetite even to live. Her eyes looked tired and she was weightless like cotton. Eating issues worried me a lot. I worried that she was going to die soon yet she still lives; still as fragile. Still as weak.

Having too troublesome kids is not easy especially when you have an obsessive husband like you Pain. Anyway, God has now blessed me with another bump. A third one is coming. I think it’s a ‘she’. Don’t ask me how I know this. I am a mother, I can feel it. I have been thinking of aborting her for quite a while now but i’m a mother after all, I don’t think I can be that cruel. I think I will name her ‘pending issues’ for she will be born whilst her mother is still worrying about how much the past will affect her future. I hope ‘pending issues’ won’t trouble me. I hope she can be my hope.

Insomnia and Eating issues have grown to be teenagers now yet each one of them is still worrying their mother in a different way. Insomnia wouldn’t let me rest and stop crying. Eating issues wouldn’t let me have a peace of mind or a healthy life. ‘Pending issues’ is soon coming by…

My dear husband; Pain, I have never really enjoyed the idea of having a man so obsessed with me. I’ve had enough of you. I want to be free once again. I want to breath fresh air once again. I want to fly and be happy. I just don’t want to live with you anymore…

I am sorry Pain…I really need a divorce from you. Please grant me that as soon as possible. I already kept the divorce papers under my pillow. My very wet pillow. I hope the papers are still safe. Please do sign them soon. If you truly love me then do it for my sake. Please. Allow me to be the free woman I’ve always wanted to be. Don’t worry about our children. I promise to take good care of them. I was also planning to change their names soon. I was thinking of calling our son, Brave instead of Insomnia. As for our daughter Eating issue, let’s call her ‘Love’ and when our last baby finally comes by, I will call her ‘Hope’. I am sure you like the names right? I know you can trust me to take care of them and raise them with good manners and health. Please do take care of yourself as well and I hope we can meet years from now where your name would then be something like ‘Delight’ or probably ‘Euphoria?’. No, ‘Jubilant’ is even better! My name then would be ‘Joy’ and you will be able to chorus our new names once again, ‘Jubilant and Joy’. I promise we will be happy then.

Before I end this heart-breaking letter, I want to really thank you for being there with me throughout; for the lessons learnt and for the undying love.

Your so-long-loving wife,
Your soon-divorcee,

Paranoia.

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THE UNSPOKEN WORD

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Photo Courtesy: https://3.bp.blogspot.com/

Selective Mutism. That’s the medical term for what I went through for a good portion of my childhood. Crucible of Suffering is more accurate if you ask me. Apparently millions of kids all over the world suffer from it every year, but none of them went to school where I did.

Mother carefully tied the yellow scarf on my head so as not to tamper with my neatly plaited hair and slowly led me towards the fancy yellow car. Yellow was undoubtedly her favorite color, but I didn’t understand why she was forcing me like it too. I just stared at small edges of the yellow scarf that were hanging to my tiny shoulders and shrugged.

But I have to tell her today, I said to myself as I treaded along. But how? I scratched my head. I have to find a way, I was now almost in tears.I don’t want to go to that school again. No. Never again. Soon tears were rolling down my face and she turned to face me.

“What is wrong mami?” she said as she stopped in her tracks. She lifted her hands and wiped the tears from my face all the while whispering softly, ‘Don’t cry.’

“When are you going to get used to your school? It’s been more than six months now since you joined,” she once again said using her hands.

How am I going to tell you mother? I thought to myself.

Mother held my hand firmly and made me sit in her sparkling clean car.

“Your teacher says you haven’t yet learnt to write the letters…you have to work harder mmh?” she gestured to me and softly patted my head.

But that is the problem! How can I tell you anything when I can’t even write besides everything else?

When you can’t talk or write you cry.

When you cry, you get reprimanded and punished or at best pitied.

I all but squeezed my mother’s hand as we approached the school gate. I could see my colleagues playing in the compound with so much zeal, all dressed in uniform pink skirts and white t-shirts. I stared at them for a moment. They were all younger than me…and smarter. At least they know how to write.

Mother kissed me on the cheek and gave me a slight push towards my teacher; Miss Khadija who was standing some steps away. My teacher was elegantly tall, but “tall” wasn’t adequate to describe her height. She was reallytall! I always feared looking up at her because I thought my neck might break in the process. But that wasn’t all; Miss Khadija always wore that same scarf throughout the six months that I had spent in the school. She wore it tight enough only to reveal the middle part of her face which made her look old and grumpy. She always managed to match her dark veil matched with her scarf but even that could not distract fromthe fact that she was scary.

She bundled her way to where I was stood and hugged me so tightly her expensive perfume flooded my nostrils. I wriggled myself out of her grip and quickly walked away.

I stood by the wall of the school and hunched; with my hands covering my tiny face except for my teary eyes.Then Leila, the kindergarten prima donna with hordes of sheep following her around, appeared with a smirk on her face. She pulled out her tongue and made funny faces to me. I decided not to bulge from my place. But soon enough, a whole gang of other bullies joined her and were now laughing hysterically at me. I tried to speak out but all I could make were incomprehensible sounds, useless mumbles. My mouth betrayed me again.

Selective mutism, you still remember that term right? I should have told you it’s worse when you are deaf as well as selectively mute. Once in a while though, the rage that stems from being different and misunderstood can be quite liberating. I rushed to Leila and pulled her scarf off. I got hold of her long pigtails and pulled them with all my energy. Her screams filled the entire compound immediately. The other bullies suddenly freaked out and called Miss Khadija. I was breathing heavily when Miss Khadija finally succeeded in stopping the fight. I saw Leila say something to our teacher in between tears, although I couldn’t exactly understand what she was saying, I knew she was hurt. And that was enough to satisfy me; at least for the day

During the lunch break, Miss Khadija came and sat opposite me. She slid my lunch box across the table and stared me in the eyes. I looked away to where the other children were playing. I sighed with a longing; I wished I could have friends too, even if just one. I sighed again My helplessness was killing me!

Miss Khadija drew my lunch box closer to her. My lip-reading was not perfect but I understood the words she mouthed to me perfectly. I was to be punished for losing my temper that morning, not that my account for that event mattered. I stared at her long nails as she grabbed my sandwich, pushed it in her mouth quickly and gobbled it down, maintaining her stare as if to gauge my reaction. She cleared my lunch in no time and left my table without a word. Mother has to know about all this…I have to learn how to write! I declared with a finality.

I grabbed my book and held the pencil firmly with all fingers. I slowly started drawing the curve to shape an ‘a’, struggling my way through. After what seemed to be an endless energy-draining hour, I wrote my first letter. It was enough to make me jump up in delight.

I am going to write a letter to mother soon! Yes I will!

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THE DARK LIFE

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Photo Courtesy: Unknown

The over-flowing rays of the sun overwhelm my face, a beautiful feeling it is. A feeling that makes me awaken from my hilarious dream; I can see the beautiful, colourful birds scatter in the bright sunlight, children are busily playing as their voices ring in the bewilderment, laughing and running after each other. In the farthest corner, is a small girl hunching with her hands on the tiny pretty face, facing the wall. She looks lost, in agony that is sweeping her away with the fast moving wind. Another girl appears, a huge and well looking girl, just mercilessly, throws a stone to the other. The small girl hunching, stands up, waving her tiny hands in the air, puppeting them and crying out in her timid voice,
“Who is that?”

The huge girl laughs loudly, throws another stone and elegantly walks away. Suddenly, everything becomes dark. The rays of the blooming sun disappears and the children’s’ laughter fades away. It becomes so dark and the once ever swaying trees now become like skeleton structures all around the small girl. She starts crying loudly, confused, terrified and agitated- all at once.

The trees are whispering loudly, in a grotesque manner, ‘welcome to reality!’ and yes I turn back to reality. The reality of being in dark always, then I see the familiar face of the timid girl again. This is me, I think to myself. This has always been my life; a life without even a glowing splint in the darkness of misery and stigma. A life of loneliness. A dark never ending life, the life of a blind girl.

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THE STRUGGLE

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Photo Courtesy: Salem_Beliegraphy

Mama’s laughter was always hysterical. It would echo all around the three-bedroom house. It was something I always enjoyed hearing, especially when Mama Aisha came home. The short stout woman always had a story to tell; an adventure to narrate. I would hear her talk endlessly as if there was no tomorrow. White saliva would gather at the end of her lips and she would rarely pause during her narrating spree. Being the young boy I was, I always found it amusing just watching her lips move up and down. I usually wondered whether mama really believed her stories. I never asked but whenever Mama Aisha was telling her endless stories, I would keep glancing from mama then to her, trying to capture mama’s expressions.

Mama would squint her eyes tightly to show how deeply engrossed she was in the story and she didn’t fail to bulge her beautiful black almond shaped eyes when there was need to. In short, she was a good listener, whether she really believed the stories or not.

I could not withstand missing out on Mama Aisha’s adventures and thus, whenever I would just hear the doorbell and her loud voice start narrating from the doorstep, I would quickly slip out from my room, run downstairs and sit on Mama’s laps.

“ Hehe! Mamake Fatma!” she started with a great urgency.

“Ehe? Nini tena?!” Mama asked quickly; always prepared for a story.

“Today at the market…hehe!” she said; purposely pausing to keep us in suspense.

“What happened in the market?” Mama asked from the kitchen as she made her some juice.

“That lady…I don’t even know what she was thinking!”

“What lady?” mama asked excitedly.

“Juma’s niece! You do remember her right? The one who had gone to America for her studies!”

“Yes I do remember her. Her name is Leila. What happened to her?” mama asked, more calmly.

“I don’t even know where to start!” The suspense growing ever more.

“From the start mama Aisha…from the start,” Mama said, rolling her eyes.

“Basi Leila leo! She came to the market in those short tight dresses from America. She didn’t even have her hijab on! I heard she snatched a mzungu’s husband and came with him to Kenya. So sad!” she said as she vigorously shook her head.

Mama shook hers too, as if in shame.

“Watoto wa siku hizi!” mama Aisha said before circling her index finger around her temple, as if to express how much abnormal the current generation is.

“May God guide us and our children. Western life is really having a negative influence on our girls and boys,” mama said, caressing my hair.

“Yes indeed,” Mama Aisha said before she stood up to leave.

She chattered away until she was outside the door. I always stood out to see her disappear into the third lane with her quick steps, frequently throwing the edges of her long scarf to her back. Each day she would go to the market and come by with a brand new story. It would either be about the thief that was beaten up or how the vegetable vendor smells like rotten fish. As I escorted her with my eyes as she walked away, I always wondered what it would be like to have a mother like that.

I grew up frequently hearing mama being called ‘mama Fatma’. I always wondered why they still called her by my older sister’s name while she no longer lived with us. I still remember that tragic incident that shattered our family forever; the night when Fatma called from America. She had finally graduated and now she had her degree in hand. Mama sounded very excited talking to her; telling her to take the first plane back home. Suddenly, she fell silent and handed papa the phone. I stood still at the door, listening quietly. I could see how much mama was straining to hold back her tears. Papa took the phone, gesturing to mama, as if asking what was wrong. It didn’t take long before I saw papa’s face turn red with rage. His voice grew into a thunderous roar as he barked several questions into the phone at once.

“What do you mean you got married?! How could you do that without seeking our blessings?!”

I didn’t like the sight of my parents but for some reason I couldn’t detach myself from the room. I looked at mama once again who was now seated at the edge of the bed, hugging herself tightly and crying silently. I stared at her for a while before I was startled by the end of the conversation when papa slammed the phone into the floor. I had never seen him that livid, even for a policeman who had been through so much stressful times. Papa had always been very patient. I always considered him to be the coolest police officer ever, and now I held my breath, unsure of what would happen next and afraid for the first time ever around my papa.

He moved around the room in restless steps, fidgeting with his fingers. He then sat next to mama before he turned to her after a short pause.

“You knew that she was interested in an English non-Muslim man?”

Mama nodded slowly before sniffing loudly.

“I…I tried to stop her…I did, I swear!” She sobbed.

“You should have told me!” papa said with finality before he stood and left.

The whole neighbourhood soon knew about Fatma’s marriage. It wasn’t surprising at all that they knew even without mama telling them. The news just had to get to Mama Aisha and the whole neighbourhood soon knew the story. Some friends came to console her silently and Mama Aisha was obviously there. Soon though, as with all other stories, it died away and people found more interesting topics to gossip about.

We didn’t hear from Fatma for quite some time. It was much later that she called to inform Mama that she was expecting a baby. Being the golden heart lady that Mama was, it wasn’t surprising that she was soon in frequent communication with Fatma. She often tried to give the phone to papa so he would also talk to her but he would push it off by saying, ‘I don’t have a daughter.’

Papa was my biggest role model and mentor throughout my life. He was tall, masculine and his brown skin shined under the sun.  He walked in quick steps and he spoke very little. I looked up to him with so much admiration as he sat with his colleagues and held what seemed to be very important conversations. He never spoke much but it was very clear how the visitors frequenting our house respected his opinions and thoughts. My friends were always amused that papa was a policeman, but what was even more amusing was that he wasn’t rough as many expected; he was simply a tough hard-willed gentleman. He and mama always took turns entertaining guests at home. They would talk on politics, the society and many other things. I always felt proud when he’d call me along to sit with him as he spoke with his guests.

He sometimes took me along to the police station where he worked in Mtwapa whenever he could. Because of this I always though he wanted me to become a policeman like him and like his father and his grandfather too. It felt like family heritage that the men ended up being protectors of the law, or more importantly, guardians of the common mwananchi. In fact, for the sake of continuity, I never imagined myself doing any other job apart from being a police officer. So I just followed him without complaining.

Mtwapa was the kind of town that had a stretch of bars from one end of the town to the next, which meant the police always had their hands full. I would stand outside the police station and watch drunkards stumbling as they walked past and the provocatively-dressed women who had no business being out so late.  It was a queer town. When sunset approached, just before the evening prayer, I would get a stool from the office and sit by the gate next to the guard. I was always amused and concerned by the sheer number of bars situated just next to churches and mosques. It seemed like a never-ending struggle between servants of their own desires and purists. There were times when I could hear the call to prayer blend with the loud booming music from the nearby bars and I’d just shake my head. Strange world.

When papa was done with his work, he joined me where I was seated, shook his head and said, “Where Satan is involved, fickle humans always grow weak. It is the end of the world.” I slowly nodded in agreement. I was thirteen years old; old enough to understand his perception of life.

One day, after another long one at school, I stood by the bridge together with my friends watching the beautiful ocean beyond. That had always been our norm. We would stand there for as long as it would take before dispersing upon hearing the evening call of prayer.

I fastened my steps and dashed into the house to avoid mama’s scolding for coming late but she didn’t even notice my entrance. I could hear some loud weeping from the sitting room. That isn’t mama’s voice, I thought to myself. Puzzled, I peeped at where she was seated and saw that it was Mama Aisha who was crying uncontrollably.  She was chattering away, pausing once in a while to wipe away her tears and blow her nose. I couldn’t clearly hear what she was saying but I could read the deep grief on her face. She kept calling out her eldest son in a depressing tone. I inched closer to the door to eavesdrop some more when papa appeared and gestured to me to follow him.

I rushed into my room, dropped my back pack and changed into a kanzu. Papa was walking really fast and I could see he was deep in thought. I tried to ask him what had happened to Mama Aisha but all he did was whisper, ‘Not now!’

When we got back home after prayers, Mama Aisha was in the company of another elderly lady. I could see that she was still crying and all I ever heard was, “He was going to Dubai and now they say they found him at the Kenya-Somalia border! This is too much! They won’t even allow me to see him…” Papa interrupted my attention as chaperoned me off to my room and ordered me to stay in there.

Back in my room, I pressed my ears to the door. My curiosity was really getting the better of me. It was hours later after I had climbed in bed when I heard some commotions from our front door. I rushed downstairs immediately to find Mama Aisha’s husband at the door, yelling at her.

“Come back to the house woman! Why are you bugging everyone about your useless son who can’t even help himself?!”

Mama Aisha cried as mum held her hand.

“I’m looking for help unlike you who does not even care about his own son! The only thing you ever know to do is spend your day at the maskani and chew khat and get high on your family!”

I stood still on the stairs hoping I would not be noticed. Papa led Mama Aisha’s husband out of the house and they talked for a moment. Then papa called Mama Aisha outside as well. I never found out what happened next for I was asked by mama to go to sleep.

The next morning Mama didn’t come to wake me up for morning prayers. I woke up several minutes late and rushed to my parents’ room. Mama was busy folding clothes in a suitcase and Papa was fully dressed; checking some papers on the bed.

“Where are you going papa?!” I said as I went to kiss his hand.

“You have to go to the mosque by yourself today son. I will pray on my way to the bus station” he said without looking at me.

“Where to?!”

“To find justice son. To find justice,” he said as he picked up the now closed suitcase and left the room. Mama followed him to the door and waved him goodbye.

“What is happening mama?” I asked, worried without question.

Mama took my hand and made me sit down next to her.

“Your dad is going to help Mama Aisha find her son. He will be leaving with her husband to find out what really happened.”

“But why was he arrested mama?”

“They say he was caught at the border heading to Somalia. The police are now holding him as a terrorist suspect….so sad. I’ve seen Hassan grow up in the neighborhood all his life. He was a good boy,” mama said, tears welling up.

“Do you think that he might really be involved with terrorists?” I asked as I stared at mama, scared of the answer she might give.

“That is what your papa has gone to find out. There might be a misunderstanding, maybe a case of mistaken identity, or at least we hope it is so…Last we knew was that he was heading to Dubai for a business trip.”

“But what if he is found guilty mama?”

She took a long breath and said, “Then it would be very unfortunate…” She patted my back and asked me to prepare myself to go to the mosque.

A week passed without a word from papa and mama was getting so worried. The days seemed so long and the nights were dragging. Mama could barely eat. She had dark marks under her eyes and her face was so pale. Weeks turned into months and the silence was deafening. But Mama was not alone in this misery. Every evening upon entering the house from school, I would hear mama Aisha’s loud weeping; she had not only lost her son but her husband too. Mama was mourning silently, she would let her tears flow yet she was too quick to wipe them away. She made sure to smile when with me to make me believe that she was alright yet I knew how much she was hurting deep inside. Then finally we got the call we waited so long for; a call from papa, only it wasn’t papa on the phone but someone else using his phone. No one had to tell me that, it was just so clear from how mama talked. She had started talking with a very excited tone before her voice slowly died away.

“What do you mean?!” she said in a slow yet anxious tone. Her eyes were watery and her hands were visibly shaking. My heart was beating fast and I kept hovering around mama, trying hard to hear what was being said on the other end. Mama suddenly dropped the phone and fell on her bed. She sat frozen as tears welled up her face.

“What happened mama?! What happened?!” I asked, panicking. She sat still in her position, staring at the wall as the tears mixed with her running nose.

“What happened?” I asked, almost shouting and in my anxiety, I broke down too. I hugged her and stayed in her arms for the longest time.

Papa and Mama Aisha’s husband had been shot; Mama told me in the quietest, most depressing tone. Millions and millions of questions raced across my mind as the house started getting crowded with visitors coming to console us. I watched Mama as she sat silently in a corner, wiping her tears. Mama Aisha was seated next to her and she kept wailing uncontrollably. I was confused and depressed, but mostly I was angry; I did not know what or who exactly I was angry at but all I knew was that the fury inside me was going to consume me. What had happened to papa? What had gone so wrong that he was shot? Who had shot him?!

The next morning I bought all the local newspapers I could get my hands on and sat in the sitting room, poring over each one.

‘A local policeman shot dead by unknown people during his investigative probe into the arrest of one terror suspect …’

‘…shot along with the suspect’s father where he was planning to release the terrorist suspect from the hands of law…’

‘It is alleged that the policeman had connections with the terror suspect’s handlers…’

‘As to the question of who could have carried out this heinous act, that still remains a mystery…’

‘Could it really be possible that an officer of the law was so deeply connected with a terror group …?’

I pushed the newspapers away. My anger had now turned to bitterness and my mind seemed to be moving in circles. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, I wanted to hit a wall; I just needed to do something. I looked up to see mama standing at the window staring outside with longing; as if expecting papa to appear any moment. She sniffed slowly and wiped her tears every once in a while with her head scarf.

“I talked to Fatma, she cried so much. Your papa died before they reconciled,” mama said between tears, “She will be flying in this evening with her husband.”

I moved to where she stood and hugged her tightly.

Strange world this is, I muttered to myself, where in the struggle between good and bad, the bad always won!

I did not know how, but I was going to avenge papa’s murder somehow. Even if it meant the death of me!

…Even if it meant being on the Wrong side of the law!

#To be continued…

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A LETTER TO THE WORLD

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Photo Courtesy: http://www.layman.org/

I write this letter with deep pain in my heart that no doctor, no psychiatrist, no psychologist can cure. I am not the same person I was one year ago and never will I be ever again. I write this letter so that the whole world can know my story. So that the whole world can know the plain truth…the truth that I am no terrorist…to know that Islam has never encouraged terrorism…

 I remember how I walked in the international airport of the foreign land. I was happy like never before. This was my opportunity to raise myself from scratch and I was going to help my mother get her treatment at last. When I just arrived, I took my mother to her room and let her rest before going to meet the ones who had requested my coming to this beautiful new land. The old men had big dreams and they wanted me to be the fulfiller of those dreams. I readily accepted, after all, that was what I came for….
We started a large project of building the biggest masjid, library and madrassa in that entire land. We had big dreams of educating the muslim children that never had the chance to know their religion well. We made big progress in few months and we had people of all sorts getting attracted to our library that had all sorts of books. I soon started teaching the youngsters in the madrassa and we grew very first. We had accomplished what we wanted. People were now flowing in and out of the library and we were requested to increase the opening hours. In few more months we had people converting to Islam…

I finally took my mother for the treatment of the blood cancer she had. I was pleased with myself for I had achieved what I always wanted. During my free time, I did what I loved most-taking pictures of the nature and architectural buildings for that was what I had studied in my home land. Everything went on well and after one complete year, we started having public peace conferences about Islam. We moved to different states of the continent and our name was heard all over…we were spiritually conquering the hearts of the people.

That one night, everything changed and my life was completely destroyed. I was seated with my mother having dinner in our house when the door bell rang. I stood to open the door and there, in front of me were more than five policemen. I stood still for a moment waiting for them to start talking.

“Is this Sheikh Ahmad’s residence?”One of them asked.

“Yes, how may I help you?” but before any one of them could answer, three of the police officers pushed me aside and broke in the house.

“What is happening here?” I quickly asked but there was no answer. The three policemen ransacked the house, breaking everything around.

“Ahmad, what do these people want from you?” my mum hurried to me, fear all over her face.

“You can’t do this. What have I done?” my voice rose up.

“Here’s a search warrant. May you shut up while we do our work!?” one of them snapped.

I stood there helplessly as they threw down all the furniture, books, everything they got hold of. Then one of them suddenly held the Quran and was about to throw it down when my mother, without thinking twice, gave him a hefty slap on the face. The policeman stood up, red with anger and pushed my old mother to the farthest end. Everything happened so fast and my mother was now lying down, very still.

I rushed to my mother and blood was oozing from her head.

“What have you done?! What have you done!?” I shouted loudly.

“Sir, we got them. Here they are,” another policeman said, coming from my room. I raised my eyes to see him holding the pictures of the buildings that I had taken.

The one, who seemed to be the head came to me and boldly said,

“You are under arrest. May you follow us to the station right now.”

“But what have I done?”I asked, panicking.

“You will know everything once we get there,” he said as he handcuffed me.

“But what about my mother? She’s still unconscious.”

“We’ll take care of her. Hey! Call the ambulance,” he said to another policeman. They then took me into their car and I was taken to the station. I was interrogated for hours-why had I taken those pictures from the beginning. It w ent on and on until I finally realized why I was being held. I was a suspect of terrorism. It went from being hours to days and I never was given the chance to rest. I was electrocuted, kept in the darkest of places, denied food and more and more. They were never going to let me go unless I said that I was guilty of having terroristic plans.

Then one day, one of the interrogators came and announced,

“I guess you were surviving until now for the sake of your mother. She is dead now. She died last night in the hospital. You can now speak up.”

The news came as a blow to me and I felt so shattered. Things didn’t get any better in the following months. After some terrible time, I overheard two police officers talking about my case.

“The man is so lucky. This is the fourth day since the people started the demonstrations for his release. I guess he won’t stay any longer. The people have refused to stop the demonstrations…” I didn’t hear the end of that conversation but soon enough, I was released by the court of law after finding me innocent.

I was once more a free man but that didn’t help me at all. My life was completely shattered. I was so weak, so much afraid and I could no longer be the same eloquent man. It is now one year later but I still couldn’t recover my old self and I don’t think I ever will.

So that’s why I am writing this letter to the world. So that they can realize that I never was a terrorist and never has my religion-Islam, ever encouraged any kind of violence. I hope my letter will make things clear- that Islam is a peaceful religion and will always be….

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