Koko's Hut

Koko’s Hut

Dusk was approaching fast; dark, lurking silhouettes of tall mugumo trees and banana trunks in the bushy garden at the back yard of Koko’s ancient hut cast grotesque shadows onto the mud walls. A ginger, dimly powered beam from the sinking omnipotent eye of Were (God’s eye) cascaded its way obliquely amid the stunted cassava stems through an old, creaky, wooden window to provide Koko with her only source of light in the twilight shades.

Sinister sounds surrounded the olden-time master-piece of archaic architecture standing solely in the midst of abundantly sprouting plantations. Wild dusk winds wafted their way through the leafy coniferous trees around the hut while whistling a traditionally recognized tune each time they whooshed by a pine tree. An oblivious owl hooted in a long baleful vociferation that was dreaded all across the land especially at this ungodly hour, when the spirits were about to start roaming the land of the living. A herd of a few hundred heads mooed resoundingly from downhill to the east just short of the Sasu River. They were probably late to return to their kraal because the herdsman was a little busy checking out Mr. Tolu’s vast sugarcane plantation in the heart of the Sasu Valley. A mother hen clucked with reverberating clicks to call her infant chicks under her protective wing in one corner of the hut. A cricket chirped in sharp, ear-piercing chirps that tore through the canvas of sounds enveloping the homestead like a splinter of light through Koko’s mostly ghostly hut. It just needed to let the world know that it was in need of a mate; and had no shame doing it.

The hut, a picturesque spectacle when viewed from the scarps in the village below, stood on top of a humongous hill straddling down to the col in the southern reaches of the land and connecting to Lake Arabe, an ox-bow lake collecting in a depression a few klicks to the west. Shades from numerous endemic trees sheltered the hut from pelting rain in the dark of the night and scorching sunshine in the day. A bunch of short robust banana trunks and some hardy coffee stems acted as wind breakers. The hut by itself wouldn’t have survived the ferocity of nature through the seasons. Its mud walls were eroded and grazed by storm after storm until they harboured deep furrows in the murky back. The grass thatch had grown thinner by the tick of time. Now a conical space opened into the front just above the corroded frame of the lame door, a consequence of the little bundles of dry grass snatched every morning to light a fire since most of the kindling under the trees are usually wet from morning dew. The hut leaned helplessly to one side as a result of ants boring holes through the wall and rills of water eating away some of the mud. Inside its round space, dry slurry decorated the earthen floor while red earth embellished the walls in a beautiful reddish background with crude images of wild flowers drawn in white chalk across them. A fireplace with three large soapstones and a smaller freelancing one sat stonily behind the door. A stack of firewood was suspended on two wooden firedogs above the fireplace to keep them dry. Two large pots, blackened by soot, stood a little way from the hearth. The wall around the fireplace was murky and blacker than coal. Just below the window there was a small, round, three-legged stool and a wooden chair built from round treated sticks. A small mahogany table lay in front of the seats. On top of it was an old stainless-steel kettle with the polish on the handle faded and most of its body twisted out of shape. A small, faded-yellowish metallic mug was draped across its spout by its hand.

There weren’t a lot of stuff in what was supposed to be the living room; a mat rolled against the wall, a black karahi (pan) with one handle missing and a few other iron mugs strewn across the room were all the entourage in attendance. A tough kiondo (basket) sewn from papyrus reeds dangled precariously over the wall beside the window. A half-raised wall ran across to partition the small living room from the even smaller bedroom. A partially open entrance covered in a woven makuti door-mat stood hidden to the far right end of the wall. A well preserved head of an antelope hung on top of the wall, a bow and arrow lay next to it. In the bedroom there was nothing much either. In the far end lay an old, squeaking, pre-colonial spring bed with bedding made out of animal skin and some old clothes. A clothes line with two or three garments ran across the width of the room and a kutwa (a crown made of animal skin and decorated with ostrich feathers given as an accolade of honour) was hanging on top of a spear in a dark corner. A pair of heavy duty akala (flip-flops carved out of old tyres) that had no doubt seen better days, a water pot and plenty of darkness were the last of the things filling the bedroom. Koko clearly had nothing but the love of Were in her shadowy hut.

She was content though, she didn’t need a lot to make do. She was old, old- school and traditional; she was living way beyond her years, and she had seen enough for a dozen lifetimes. Nothing surprised her anymore, she’d seen it all. Since the days before the white man invaded her village, when she was just a ripe teenager, she had maintained one thing- her smile. Even at a hundred and two, give or take five, she still had warmth in that wrinkly, crinkly smile that she had practiced on back in the day. Word had it she had been the most beautiful girl of her time. She was the queen of the land when it came to beauty. Boys drooled in the bushes whenever she was on her way from the spring. The way she balanced her pot on the pate of her head was elegant, deft and magnetic. Her youthful charm and glamour burned through the hearts of suitors, and boy did they come to bid in numbers. Every time a council was held in her reputed father’s homestead she would bring palm wine, wearing a characteristic smile and showing the arresting gap between her pearl white teeth while her cute dimples automatically went on display, digging sweetly into her velvet cheeks. The gaze behind her lipid almond eyes got her victims hooked like glue. She literally stopped every activity in the council as she swayed her graceful waist on her way out. Well, the advertisement was a teaser, and it worked like a charm. After her departure a fire was inadvertently ignited on the cutty-stools of the guests. This angelic manifestation on earth, this apt epitome of divine fairness, this one right here could easily make married men make bad choices.

Every suitor seeking to be her betrothed was sadly turned away when their dowry fell short by a couple of hundred heads of cattle. So she finally decided to run away with Aduda, her illegal sweetheart (in her time girls weren’t allowed to choose a man, that would be venomously taboo). That was a dozen seasons before the arrival of the white man and his mighty chariots. Aduda brought her to the highlands, a long way from her village. They settled on the scarps of Susa Mountain. Word had it he had built her the hut from scratch by himself, and they had enjoyed the first few years of their unorthodox marriage- until Aduda was unwillingly recruited into the white man’s war. She didn’t get word from him ever again after he went to fight the Germans in the Southern hills. About ten moons after his departure two horsemen in ridiculous regalia brought her the crown and boots as a souvenir for the soldier she had lost. Her temper had flared and she had sent them on their way with outbursts and yells of disgust and anguish. Over half a century and two decades later, she was still in her husband’s hut. She had prayed incessantly to Were to take her to meet her dear one in the Silver City, but the big guy seemed otherwise occupied elsewhere. So she was still here, in her hut, waiting. All she could do was hold on to the sweet memories made in this hut, and every time a memory unearthed a smile so wry and raw touched her lips and nostalgic tears welled up in her weary eyes. At least she still had the hut, if it went down, then Koko would go along with it. And she would go down smiling, after all the hut was her heart.