Habbaukuk

My family never sought much or wanted much from anyone. We grew our own vegetables. We had fresh milk from our own cows. We sold and traded with the neighbors if we needed anything new and western made. We lived in a remote location where farms were the main source of income and food. It was by choice because we so much wanted to thumb our nose at advancement and western culture. We just got tired of everything large and available. We got tired of the surplus. The elders felt that we were getting polluted by the availability of incomes and things.

It was a sad day when the elders called all of our parents and us kids to meet in the main parliament to communicate what the ancestors wanted us to know. We sat fidgeting fearing the worst. Maybe this time the ancestors will ask us to burn ourn homes while we were in them. Maybe this time like the last time they will ask us to drink poison trying to match us to that ugly village that had to be eradicated for wanting to join us. Maybe this time maybe we will get to go to war.

"Habbaukuk everybody."

"It is an honor to meet you this morning. Indeed the ancestors have spoken. And I am here to let you know that this time we are lucky they only ask us to divorce progress, to let technology pass us by. They ask us to go back to our roots and never return to their way of life. The prediction is that while we shall thrive and make it with the new technology and historical progress, we do not have the genes for it. We won't succeed. Diseases and all that makes life easier to deal with will set to atrophy. As such, do you hear me, I use as such, nowadays, as such we are ordered, we are directed to return to the old ways, our ways, We are ordered not just to live per the orders of our ancestors but to even dress, talk like they did and no, none of us are allowed to leave. You had your chance to leave and you did not leave. The gates and the walls have closed in and we remain hostages to our ancestors. Enclosed are the virtues of history, the virtues of who we are. This is the message of the day.

Yes, we shall worship our own God.

Yes, we shall marry our women.

Yes, we shall have our own children per instructions of our ancestors.

Yes, you may ask for contraceptives however, the rules are set in stone about this issue.

Women shall continue to be limited indoors until sun down.

Men shall be separated from women until nightfall.

We have a handful of teachers who have been assigned by the federal government to help teach us so that we can teach our own children not just religion but how to read and write. We will make our own goods and implements. We have to know something about the outside world to be relevant but not that relevant. Any more questions shall be answered by the Mothers who are now leaders of our communities. May we all be blessed. Habbaukuk!! Before we adjourn we will continue to pay taxes as our ancestors ordered!" He left the podium satisfied that he had delivered the word of God as God ordered.

We all stood around in shock and we walked talking to each other not sure if we heard right. I wondered if we could still watch tv. Will we have bedtime. Others wept openly and others laughed as if they were relieved and had moved a gall stone or something. Others clapped their hands in such assurance as if they had been handed their lives back to them. It was true that the gates were locked we will never see the outside world again and we were fine with that until someone told us not to be okay with that.

My parents were always silent when such matters were in discussion. Let us just say that they were followers. They never complained about anything. They marched us home and sat down and said to us.

"It has finally happened. We have to throw away all the Godless statues that we have collected. At least we still have our own clothes. Mother, you will have to get your sewing machine, and start sewing our clothes again. I loved wearing jeans and t shirts. I wonder if we can still wear jeans. Mother about sun screen and lotions, I am sure we will have to make our own. This time we cannot blame anyone for this." my dad said.

"I was so afraid that we will have visitors and we would have to go to parties. I am happy with the rules.. We can even cook at home, although I was starting to enjoy going to restaurants! By the way we must commemorate this day with my grandfather's cookie recipe." my mom said.

"Mom, I will help you." I said happy that we had something brand new to talk about. Even television programming changed. It became us. That to me was evidence that the message that morning was the new reality that was become our life.

flour

fresh eggs from the nest

milk from a cow, an eight year old cow

butter spun from a rock

sugar from the sugar cane syrup

sour milk from left over milk

vanilla from the vanilla bean

water from a well

banana from the banana tree

boiled sweet potatoes from the garden

Mix, grind, mix and let sit for 30 minutes. Warm the oven and put in baking cans.

Bake, The waft of the baking goods will envelop our new home. My grandfather would be proud of this day. He would be proud of us for accepting change like champions. Like change has always been there.

My mom already in her attire for the ancestors, walks back to the kitchen where I have been standing handing her the ingredients one at a time while mouthing why we needed that ingredient

flour for the memories of dust that we sometime get on windy days

fresh eggs for the newness of life

milk from my cow, which nourishes us with protein

butter that my grandmother churns better than any factory

sugar from the fields and fields of sugar cane which surround us

sour milk for the tart in us

vanilla from the vanilla bean which reminds us of particles of dust

water from a well which we always wish will always be full.

Water our much needed commodity.

Water our vine, our life

Water our sustenance.

Water our shelter.

Water renews us and our cookie becomes better with the addition of water.

So we sit and eat dinner and look at my mom as she stands up to clear the table of our finished main course. She hands us small plates with fruits and the cookies from the oven whose recipe was handed down to us by my relatives who left it to us to bind us with our own history.

The cookie tastes exactly like when my grandfather made it. We eye each other and realize that no matter how we almost became sophisticated and technology savvy, our ancestors did not want us to proceed. And we will not. I bet all the neighbors were also practising their own versions of cookies that will not crumble through history. That is right, we have rules.

Rules that are impossible but they are us and they are who we are!!!!