Once upon a time...
She looked into his wrinkled face, marked with lines of pain and suffering, well worn paths of worry and stress. He was misty eyed and tired - not from the day’s events but from months and years of hardships. He leaned back, and stretched out his legs on the sofa to take a brief nap. As he closed his eyes and shifted around to find a comfortable niche - she watched. Amara couldn’t take her eyes off this man. He turned his head to the side and she could see how the years had loosened the skin around his neck, his head was a growing forest of grey hair. She folded her hands against her chest and sighed.
The house was deafeningly quiet, but the coos and moos of animals tethered in the bushes blew in from the fields. She looked out into the distance, the mango tree that she and her brothers climbed as kids still stood strong. It seemed like only yesterday when they had no care in the world, when climbing trees eating mangoes and sugarcane was enough to carry them through the day. In that instant she was whisked off to another time, a time when Papa was young and energetic. He trotted up and down any stair case, his laughter rung from the neighbours compound. People praised him everywhere he went. They whispered about his success, he was the first son from Mzee Onhono’s home to travel to the city. He was rich. The villagers sat at his feet and occupied any patch of grass in his compound in the hope that he would be ceased by his sudden bouts of generosity, “aso olototi mariata, “here, you go and share this”. They scampered to grab the money from his hand and run off, each one endeavoring to state the reason they deserved a share of the money. “Engo egeit I ngitun”, “no, I was the first to sit there”.
Papa juggled 3 jobs at the time; 2 in government and 1 as a private business. He was busy. He travelled throughout the country, scouting for talented youths who could run like the wind. Head teachers scrambled to invite him to officiate at school competitions, with the hope that their fastest students would be spotted and selected to train in the city and probably build a sports career. Amara was a little girl, she loved to go on trips with Papa, travelling on new and exciting adventures and listening to everything Papa said. Her favorite journeys were those they made to the village for Christmas.
As soon as she broke off for the holidays Amara and her siblings started pestering Toto to go to the country side. On the day of travel they would wake up before the Muslims had a chance to belt out the first prayers for the day, they would have a light breakfast, and set off for the long ride to her village in Salutsi. Salutsi was 700 kilometers from the city. With Papa and Toto sitting in the front, Shoko, Kiki, Mamanzi, Pipi, Zenzi and Amara saddled themselves in the back. It was always fun at the back. They would sing songs, tell stories and crack jokes. Half way through the journey, Papa and Amara were the only ones showing signs of life, everyone else was fast asleep. Amara took great pleasure in watching her siblings doze off. Mamanzi’s head would be bobbing back and forth, Shoko was always careful to find a good rest for his head while Kiki had his mouth open. Papa stopped twice along the way, once for a leg stretch and a bathroom break and the second time was usually to have lunch. Amara burst out laughing as her siblings stirred from sleep, squinting their eyes and looking furious.
The sun would be going to bed by the time they reached salutsi. The sound of the car could be heard from miles away. As it turned into the compound, grandma would crawl out of her hut excited to see her grand kids. She cooked a sumptuous meal of Millet, sweet potatoes, emuna, sour milk, rice and chicken. She always slaughtered a chicken when they came. After dinner Amara and her siblings sat out by the fire and reflected on times passed, asking questions about their village friends and marveling at the beauty of the clear night sky. The moon shone bright over the village that most times they didn’t need to light the paraffin lamps.
The house was deafeningly quiet, but the coos and moos of animals tethered in the bushes blew in from the fields. She looked out into the distance, the mango tree that she and her brothers climbed as kids still stood strong. It seemed like only yesterday when they had no care in the world, when climbing trees eating mangoes and sugarcane was enough to carry them through the day. In that instant she was whisked off to another time, a time when Papa was young and energetic. He trotted up and down any stair case, his laughter rung from the neighbours compound. People praised him everywhere he went. They whispered about his success, he was the first son from Mzee Onhono’s home to travel to the city. He was rich. The villagers sat at his feet and occupied any patch of grass in his compound in the hope that he would be ceased by his sudden bouts of generosity, “aso olototi mariata, “here, you go and share this”. They scampered to grab the money from his hand and run off, each one endeavoring to state the reason they deserved a share of the money. “Engo egeit I ngitun”, “no, I was the first to sit there”.
Papa juggled 3 jobs at the time; 2 in government and 1 as a private business. He was busy. He travelled throughout the country, scouting for talented youths who could run like the wind. Head teachers scrambled to invite him to officiate at school competitions, with the hope that their fastest students would be spotted and selected to train in the city and probably build a sports career. Amara was a little girl, she loved to go on trips with Papa, travelling on new and exciting adventures and listening to everything Papa said. Her favorite journeys were those they made to the village for Christmas.
As soon as she broke off for the holidays Amara and her siblings started pestering Toto to go to the country side. On the day of travel they would wake up before the Muslims had a chance to belt out the first prayers for the day, they would have a light breakfast, and set off for the long ride to her village in Salutsi. Salutsi was 700 kilometers from the city. With Papa and Toto sitting in the front, Shoko, Kiki, Mamanzi, Pipi, Zenzi and Amara saddled themselves in the back. It was always fun at the back. They would sing songs, tell stories and crack jokes. Half way through the journey, Papa and Amara were the only ones showing signs of life, everyone else was fast asleep. Amara took great pleasure in watching her siblings doze off. Mamanzi’s head would be bobbing back and forth, Shoko was always careful to find a good rest for his head while Kiki had his mouth open. Papa stopped twice along the way, once for a leg stretch and a bathroom break and the second time was usually to have lunch. Amara burst out laughing as her siblings stirred from sleep, squinting their eyes and looking furious.
The sun would be going to bed by the time they reached salutsi. The sound of the car could be heard from miles away. As it turned into the compound, grandma would crawl out of her hut excited to see her grand kids. She cooked a sumptuous meal of Millet, sweet potatoes, emuna, sour milk, rice and chicken. She always slaughtered a chicken when they came. After dinner Amara and her siblings sat out by the fire and reflected on times passed, asking questions about their village friends and marveling at the beauty of the clear night sky. The moon shone bright over the village that most times they didn’t need to light the paraffin lamps.
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Hey! Thanks for dropping by :-)