The Sigh of Darkness

Where she and her lineage of wizened eyes, handsomely greyed heads, often gnarled hands, and beautifully scarred feet have their placentas buried and bones interred, it is said it takes a village to raise a child. Well, they had a village and it did raise its children.

Mama Mutai would with lightning-quick speed smack you on the back of your head if you happened to be within her vicinity and answered the call of original sin to talk back to anyone of the same age as the first sibling in your home; let alone attempting to do so to one of an age similar to that of your parents. Mama Achieng would, when the burnt orange meets the darkening blue and all animals great and small knew to troop back to where they call home, start grabbing and scrubbing dusty heads and muddy feet all the while profusely complaining about the most horrible state the growing pile of dirtied clothes was in, as she flung them all next to the water tank for them to think about their lives before they were also beaten and scrubbed to within an inch of their threadbare lives by Achieng herself. Mama Njenga was the designated headquarters for all functions; courting couples were watched hawk-eyed because weddings are no matter to be trifled with, babies were born into the pomp and flare they deserved, were dedicated to the Lord pots and pans a’banging, men, women, and children were laid to rest and not a soul near or far could question the grief that shrouded our village or that the departed belonged.

My mother was the one whom they did not talk of or even mention her name often enough. She was the one who as a child was the quiet one, did not play too well or often enough with other children, and grew to be a loner of a girl. Our matriarch, Mama Neserian had long given up on being a wife, though not for lack of trying, hoping, praying, being beaten into, counselled to submit to and often out rightly shamed to; she however gave herself to the call of being a mother with all the fierceness of a wounded bear. She had five including my mother and another five from our grandfather’s other mother-of-his-children to raise, dote on, love, feed, scrub, spank or beat depending on the crime, and encourage with gruff words for after all who out rightly tells children that they are loved or can and must succeed and all the while using actual words. To call both my grandmother and she wives would be to grant my grandfather the honour of being a husband. Too high an honour!

My mother grew into a quiet girl, one who was easy to forget, hard to notice she was there, an observer of people and life’s events, she never truly or convincingly enough said no to anyone or anything and embraced the fascinating habit of never lifting her head too long from watching the ground when she walked and of getting genuinely shocked when one called her beautiful or kind or strong or gracious, all things she was and did effortlessly and with a pull that invited one to prepare that which their heart so desperately longed for in food or drink, choose a sunrise or set as befits their spirit, tuck feet under, blissfully sigh and adoringly behold. Even more, despite and in spite of it all, she evolved into a fascinating woman. More beautiful, kinder, more gracious and stronger than we would know or think and at every re-telling of this tale, she would grow stronger still. Yet, she carried this shadow with her. When spotted in her eyes it drew the most shaken of gasps followed in quick succession by inquiry, horror, resolve and only much later, defeat and despair!

Mama Neserian cannot even under the threat of hot coals to the bottom of her feet tell you when or why my mother was so different from her other children, all ten of them, she just was. Was it possible for either one or even two or three of her children at a time to be off somewhere doing and being something she would often worry or frown upon? A most resounding yes. After all, in raising its children our village provided all manner of thrills and spills. From roaring down the river after coming tumbling and screaming down the muddy ravine during the rainy season, to trying to spot and see how close we could get to a gazelle before it bounded away or even an elephant if we strayed far enough and serendipity smiled and no adult could be spotted or could spot us. There was such mischief to get up to and we were all such willing slaves to her. When a new family found their way to our village and were certified welcome after many shifting eyes and more wagging tongues, their children were taken under wing and none was allowed to be found unable to swim, incapable of stealing Babu’s bicycle from in front of his retail shop, afraid of flora or fauna and thoroughly seasoned in being on the receiving end of the cane of many a mother including their own.

One such family came into town a little before I came to be and as soon as my mother and grandmother agreed that maybe the city with its twinkling lights, not as fresh air or water, ominous air, hope, and promise wasn’t a bad idea for my mother. My mother never did say who my father was and no one explicitly remembered seeing her leaning suggestively over fences, taking the long way around on errands, tracing and retracing with her shy feet the contours of our great motherland as sweet nothings were sent her way; so my announcement and boisterous arrival into our village remained unspoken of. Mama Neserian would not be bothered, bullied or otherwise cajoled to reveal such information because the truth was too much for her heart to re-tell.

The night my mother sat next to her in front of the deliciously warm hearth, as the flames licked the walls and boiled evening tea along with the morning maize, my grandmother felt the air shift to make room for whatever it was her daughter needed to lay at her feet and she instinctively knew that because it was my mother, it would serve them both well to let her lead the way. And so my mother let it be known of my impending arrival in 7 or so months, that she was okay as okay can be for a 16-year-old girl, and had been and would continue to take care of herself and thus me as I lay cosy and budding, and that when she was done with the business of bringing me forth, could my grandmother then please do that which my mother was sure only she could for her, raise me and raise me well.

And that is how my mother became a distant connection to an enchanting place over the horizon. My grandmother never let me forget that she was my grandmother and not my mother so at that same warm hearth, late in the evening, she would tell me tales of who she knew my mother to be, what she was up to through her letters first, and later through the most fascinating of contraptions called a mobile phone. My mother tried to visit and the first time she did I have heard it said that it seemed the shadow she bore had faded, quieted and she seemed all the better for it. Laughed easier, more freely, was gentler to interact with. As I grew and morphed into my own person embarking on that often arduous journey of finding and being self, my mother and I settled for camaraderie and she served us well.

I eventually found myself in that twinkling, promising place on the horizon and Mama Neserian could not be prouder or sadder in equal measures. We missed each other terribly yet I was her connect to my other siblings and her children, a task I loathed or thoroughly relished depending on which relative was on the other side of the coffee, lunch, dinner, Saturday afternoon meet-up or phone call.

One evening as I put up my feet and freed my braids, my mother appeared unannounced at my door. This happened often and was never a cause for concern yet on this particular evening, she was antsy. She was battling cervical cancer. She wore her bald black head with pride, fought her doctors at every turn, attempted to live life on her own terms and, so when she walked in, settled on the couch wrapping a blanket across her legs to keep warm and looked me straight in the eye and said, “it is time!”, my heart leapt to my throat.

Unhurriedly, unfeelingly, in a voice devoid of extremes and calmly still, my mother proceeded to tell me our story. How she and her shadow were forever merged, how I came to be.

When my mother turned twelve, she remembers, a new family came to the village. One of the whole ones so there was a mother, a father, six children of four rambunctious boys and two pretty girls, their livestock for no village is complete without a corral of them, and as is our African nature, theirs was a revolving door of various relatives. That year, an uncle came to live with them and that man came to be the life of our village! Young and old drew to him like flies to filth. He was the quintessential uncle to watch over children, chase them down hills, the eager goat bounding along with them, he drank at the table of men and spurred ideas of growth, better farming, higher yields, promising marriages and one last try for a boy, and he was the ever-helpful hand for mothers needing an extra sinewy hand. My mother watched all these things like she watched all life then, from under her downcast eyes and bowed head, quietly reading the random newspapers that were used to line the inside of some houses. This uncle finally came around to noticing her and would always try to stop and talk to her or sit next to her as she read or accompany her on errands. My mother never protested or acquiesced and sometimes his presence helped to keep off cat-calling boys and bullies and gaggling, whispering girls and that suited my mother just fine. By the time my mother turned 14, she and he were now on speaking and laughing terms and so they would remain. He was the only one other than family that my mother would raise her head from staring at the ground for, and he became and would remain her fiercest protector.

The day I was conceived, my mother’s protector was away. Over the hill in another village doing what men do in providing and protecting. Mama Neserian had developed a cough that sounded like an old coal train announcing its ascent from the very bowels of the earth and by the time it exited her body, she was spitting black sputum and blood. And so, despite her protests, my mother had taken it upon herself to go see the medicine woman across the ridge. My mother was fifteen and oblivious to the fact that the new family’s father had come into the village, set down roots and proceeded to notice her and keep noticing her through the years. So on this particular day, as she set off on her mission to bring back respite and relief, he noticed and followed.

Respite and relief never made it back and instead, Mama Neserian was found fretting and worrying for darkness had preceded my mother’s return. Uncle Murata returned from being provider and protector to find Mama Neserian waiting for him with sputum-laden breath. He needed no coaxing and became the search party.

Two days later, him red-eyed and bone-weary, my mother bruised, battered and bloodied showed up with the dawn. The medicine woman was fetched and in the middle of her “tsk, tsk, tsk” and frequent wiping away of tears, she pronounced my mother alive but violently robbed of virtue. Mama Neserian stood there shell-shocked and after she had stared unseeingly into the walls of her home, she sent one of my mother’s brothers to fetch the ‘modern’ medicine woman. His feet cycled like a bat from hell and only briefly slowed at the melee that was at Uncle Murata’s compound that he would later hear left the father of that home dead and Uncle Murata packed up, never to return. My uncle returned with the nurse in tow who wiped, disinfected, examined, patched up and cuddled my mother back into what would now be her new self. She spoke with my grandmother and left strict instructions and the promise to return every day until she was satisfied she had healed that which medicine could, the rest would have to be left to God. Mama Neserian and the other elders were informed of the happenings at the new family’s homestead and the conclusion that the dead man was responsible and Uncle Murata our hero. He never stayed to receive punishment or accolade and only left behind the instruction that my mother was the only one who could reach him if and when she wanted and for whom he would return should she need him.

My mother’s body healed, her mind limped, she never did reach out for Uncle Murata and only because she knew he would face grueling yet half-hearted punishment.

When she went into the city, she did find him and they did remain protector and protected until three days before she showed up at my door. She said she had gotten the dreaded call from an emergency room and went in to find Uncle Murata laid upon a cold, metal slab. As her heart shattered, he remained still, peaceful, unmoved by her screams that though she thought were silent, rent the air and resulted in her in a heap upon the floor. When she rejoined the conscious, the emergency room doctor explained that Uncle Murata had been dumped at their doors, too many stab wounds for them to keep from discharging his precious life. They asked if she wanted his possessions to which she answered, “and his body as well. He deserved to be buried in love.”

So here she was with a crumpled, bloodied note she had found among his things and all the note said was, “for dad.” In the days since she had found it, she had unearthed its meaning and was here to ask that I accompany her to face its writer. Without thinking twice, we left and as I drove, she stared out the window and then the tears came. They tore a wail from the bottom of her soul that I was sure had everything to do with not just the present but some 20-odd years ago.

We got to a quiet neighbourhood, the kind that reminds you of the Desperate Housewives. She pointed to a red-brick townhouse, picket fence and all on the left and we sat and bore witness to its occupant go about the rituals of an eager host. Just as he and friends and family sat down to an elaborately laid out dinner, my mother weaved her fingers with mine, I heard her hold her breath and the night air tore with an explosion! Between reacting to it and watching my mother, the scene plays out in slow motion for me. That red-brick townhouse, its occupants and elaborate dinner go up in a whoosh of flames while my mother lets out that held breath. She had found the writer of the note and taken her own pound of flesh.