Confession

 

A short story.

Today I went to confession.

I had been thinking about it for a while, preparing for it, not the sinning but the confession part.

During confirmation classes our teacher mentioned confession was a requirement. He also said one couldn’t have the Holy Eucharist unless one had confessed one’s sins. I wanted to have the Holy Eucharist; it had been on my mind for many years.

I Imagined the day I would humbly walk up Christ the King church aisle, head bowed, hands neatly clasped behind my back. I would stand before the priest eyes closed and mouth open. He would place the white wafer on my tongue, I would slowly close my mouth, pause a second before turning around and walking back to my seat. I would kneel by the pew and pray looking pious and pure and mature – no longer a kid but a young lady growing up in wisdom and stature, in favor with God and Man.

My brother and I practiced the act of receiving the Eucharist with crisps; stick the tongue out, give enough circumference for the piece to land squarely in the middle of the tongue and then retract the tongue reverently. We got good practice with the crisps; it was the confession that needed some more work.

The confirmation class was scheduled to confess on Saturday, and I still didn’t know what to tell the priest. I had stolen a pencil and lied to my mother – that was as heavy as it got, but was it enough? Would he send me away admonishing me to dig further and find the real sins? Were these sins good enough for confession? I mean I had a crash on one of the alter boys but that wasn’t a sin or was it?

I walked up to the confession box in the corner of the church. I drew the purple curtain to enter, it was deemed inside. The priest sat behind a veil. I knelt afraid to look around in case he recognized me or I him. Something about anonymity brought security although I still struggled to be vulnerable.

I uttered the words “Father, I have sinned”.

In a calm deep voice, he asked me to confess.

I said “I stole a sharpener at school”

“My child, do you still have the sharpener?”

I said, “Yes father”, and in that moment I realized I was lying because I didn’t have the sharpener, it got lost. I had sinned again in confession. What about the lies? I didn’t mention the lies, oh dear, they were so many, I would never leave confession at this rate.

After a moment of silence Father asked me to go home and say, “Five Hail Mary’s and the full rosary”.

I withdrew from the confessional reverently. I had qualified for confirmation.

One of the other kids got news from his older brother that the priest dipped the wafer in wine at confirmation. We were going to have wine in church. We were almost adult Christians.

This was big!

 

Hello Assassins

We blossom and flourish like leaves on the tree, then wither and perish,
but naught changeth thee.

Hello assassins

Did you sleep well?

Did you dream sweet dreams?

Of flower petals and beautiful meadows?

Of children's laughter and cheerful celebrations?

Did you lay your head on your pillow and stretch your feet?

Did you yawn and seek a comfortable position, grateful for a job well done?

Please, not tonight

When I go to bed at night
I cannot sleep
There are words hanging over my head
Words, phrases, statements, topics, themes;
Cluttering, whizzing, hooting,making lots of noise
I cannot sleep

It’s 2am, my family needs to sleep and so do I
Words, please come back to me in the morning
When I’m fresh and ready to waltz
When I can give you my undivided attention
Don’t hide from the rising Sun
Stay a while so we can truly dance
But please, not tonight

Your Broken Heart Mended Mine

Your eyes locked in a loving gaze
Words were not necessary - You had been chosen
Papa’s heart was breaking but you knew It had to be done.
A decision soaked in Love and Mercy,
Grace and Compassion,
Sorrow and Pain,
And Passion – a mission!

Wrapped in swaddling cloth and held in the delicate but firm hands of a maiden.
Though she was naïve and inexperienced you saw obedience, desire and wisdom.
How did you feel dressed in human flesh? - A “made-in-your-likeness” baby?
You! Perfectly God yet perfectly man.

32 years on, your purpose unfolded
12 simple men by your side, questioning, always questioning,
Crowds following, some smiling, some sneering
Ladies reaching for your cloak, emptying perfume jars on your feet,
Eager to hear you, feed you and wash your feet with their tears.

The donkey and the Palms
The 12 simple men at the dinner
The garden – bleeding with sorrow
The betrayal
The interrogation
The denial
The crown of thorns
The flogging
The wood plunks, heavy on your back
The excruciating journey up the hill
The nails in your hands and feet
The gush in your side
Aaaah!

Papa turned away
Deserted you to bear it all
You became sin, but you hadn’t sinned
Alone, wounded, mocked, despised
The last breath and you were gone.

What happened down under?
What did you there?
What did you see?

Three days later
You came forth
The stone was rolled away
The BATTLE won
You took the keys of death and hell

Now I immerse myself in your blood,
I use your Name – the password to Life
Your obedience paid my ransom - bought my freedom

You are coming again, do not tarry I pray
But that I would be ready when you return.

Copyright © Mary 2010

HAPPY EASTER!

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.

One fine Christmas afternoon

after a sumptuous meal with the family, Kongai took a stroll to the neighbor’s house where she engaged in a conversation with Nyeko the neighbor’s son. As they stood by the road side, laughing and exchanging pleasantries, the Toyota cruised down the street. Papa was coming home. He nodded, acknowledging that he’d seen them then drove home and immediately parked the car in the garage. Mostly he left the car in the compound for a while, this time there was some sort of urgency. Without stepping in the house, he walked out the gate like someone in urgent need of a restroom, as though he wanted to sprint but was trying to keep his cool. He walked up to Kongai and Nyeko and said;- “Kongai, you know it’s not polite for the two of you to stand at the road side as though you were homeless. Why don’t you come into the sitting room?” Nyeko sensed trouble, his six pack chest was heaving faster than he would have liked. Kongai on the other hand, always trusting and papa’s favorite daughter, didn’t see anything to it. She gladly obliged.
When they walked in the door, papa requested the rest of the kids to go play some place else. He said they had important issues to discuss and therefore needed some privacy. Kongai and Nyeko glanced at each other with questioning looks. After asking the maid to give them each a drink, he sat down on the opposite side of the room. Curiosity got the better of Kasai, so he snack into his parent’s bedroom and pressed his ear hard against the door. He could hear the conversation loud and clear. On occasion he peeked through the key hole and as luck would have it, he could see all three of them, strategically situated for his benefit, like pieces on a chess board.
“So Nyeko, how are you?
“I’m fine sir”
“Kongai, you know my house is always open to your friends” “Yes papa” “So why were you standing by the road side like two homeless orphans?” He picked up his glass slowly, took a sip of beer and leaned back in the sofa like he was getting ready to hear the most profound explanation. Kongai was fidgeting with her fingers, avoiding eye contact. Kasai could feel the tension sipping through that key hole, clogging it at points. He also began to develop tiny beads of sweat on his fore head. The silence was deafening. Then to his relief and am sure Nyeko’s too, Kongai begun - “We… well, I didn’t think we would be out there for long … we hadn’t been out there for lo… I was just saying Merry Christmas and was about to come home when you saw us”. Papa nodded his head, as if in agreement, then he said “Nyeko?” “Yes sir” “What were you discussing?”
By this point Nyeko’s shirt was drenched in sweat; one could swear he had been running a marathon. He hadn’t touched the class of juice set for him but I’m sure he wanted to gallop it down and ask for more. His Adam’s apple moved erratically like it was searching for something in his neck. He cleared his throat, tried to moisten his tongue that had long dried up, and then made a motion as if to speak but there was no sound. On second attempt he said “nothing much sir”. Papa’s eyes were now cherry-ish black - some what light maroon.
“Nothing?! What do you mean ‘nothing!’? You were standing out there for a good while. ‘Nothing?!’ So you both left home to have a staring competition at the road side? That is ridiculous!”
Papa suddenly sprung out of his chair like he’d been stung by a swarm of bees.
He kicked the stool with his glass of beer out of his way and headed straight for Nyeko. By the time papa sprung, Nyeko, who had already been in the “get set” position both in body and mind, quickly ducked behind his chair. His sprint for the front door was punctuated by “I’m sori sa, I’m rilly sori”. He jumped over the table in the middle of the sitting room; swerving to dodge a slipper that papa had sent his way.
Papa shouted “Leave my daughter alone! do you hear me?” - all the while running after Nyeko. Nyeko pushed another chair to the side as he grabbed the handle of the front door. The journey from his sit to the door was several miles longer than he recalled. He must have been praying that the door was unlocked,or he would be roasted.
He tagged once and the door flung open, just as papa was about to grab him.
Nyeko run like he was being chased by a pack of lions, he didn’t look back.
All the commotion sprayed the other children out of their hiding places.
Papa, his coat flying behind him like a super hero, was chasing Nyeko, telling him never to come back; Kongai lifting her dress for easier movement was chasing papa urging him to stop. Mama who had been silently working in the kitchen was now standing at the door, hands on her chest, with a concerned look on her face while the rest of the children scampered for the best angle from behind her. Neighbors were peering out of windows, passer-by's fascinated by the drama that had all over a sudden presented it self. Indeed it was a sight to behold on a cool Christmas afternoon.

Our Dog Pearl Follows Us to School

Every one in town knew the shiny blue Toyota Corolla, registration number -UVT 636.
It belonged to Daddy.

When he hooted at the gate we all scampered to clear any messes then run out to welcome him. The first there carried his briefcase, while slower folk shut the car doors and checked the boot – daddy always brought home something interesting.
I remember once he brought a beautiful bird that he found by the road – it had pretty colors.
I was all somersaulting (excited) thinking about making a bird cage, feeding it with millet grains, bread, and water – anything to keep it alive.
Another time, I opened the boot and found the cutest, most energetic puppy I ever saw.
Pearl (the name I christened her) took my breath away.
She wagged her tail, jumped up on me, licked my palms, chased me - Oh! it was just like destiny. That was the beginning of a long friendship.

Each day when I'd come home from school, Pearl would be eagerly waiting. She would wag her fluffy tail and tag at her chain as if to say "I missed you all day, you better get here quick or else this chain will be history". I would run up to her, pat her, run my fingers through her fur then head into the house to put down my bag and have a cup of tea.
Pearl would give me this sad look as if to say "Is that all? I waited all day and that's all you are giving me?... what you do to me!".
I know - a dog, yeah, wild stuff!
But then again, isn't that why they are called mans best friends?
Before I get all side tracked talking about Pearl, I was about to tell you an interesting tale about Daddy.

Hmmn, I guess that will have to wait till my next post.

I might as well dedicate this post to Pearl seeing as I'm almost half way.

So anyway, after tea, I'd change into my play clothes and run outside for some Pearl and me time.

She would chase me around the compound until I was rolling in the grass, laughing hysterically. Then she would sit up with her ears pointed, and tilt her head to the side, as if she was amazed at how much fun I was having. If I dared to get up, she was always on the ready to chase me again, then I would plead with her to stop.

Then, check this; one morning she decided to follow me and my brothers to school.
We used to walk, you see. School was not too far.
We kept yelling "Pearl go home!", she would turn to leave, but as soon as we begun to walk again, there she was trotting behind us.

She followed us, passed the golf course, through the valley and up to the school gate. I can't begin to describe the drama she caused. Kids were peeping through windows, standing on top of desks, others were screaming like they had already been bitten (kids imagination!).

We decided to ignore Pearl, we walked to class like we never knew her- she was on her own.

We got home that evening and there she was - tongue dripping, tail wagging, jumping up and down.
"Welcome home guys, you won't believe what kind of day I had. After dropping you off to school ...."

Millet and a pestle

Memories of holidays spent in my father’s country side home become fonder every passing year.
It’s my fathers home because – I’m an African woman, a married African woman. When I said “I do”, Sam’s people became my people, his home became my home.
I embraced a new culture.

My father enjoyed company and celebration so, what was a party in Teso without ajon? - the local brew.
My recollection of what went into preparing ajon went something like this;-

Women harvested millet from the garden; they loaded it up in sacks and unburdened it in the courtyard.
Later, in the cool of the day, after a meal of “Achok keda ekyadoi” (sweet potatoes and greens) – they selected thick sticks and pestles to thresh the millet.
They saddled their babies on their backs and thumped the sacks to a rhythm. They swayed the sticks high over their heads in a circular motion, gained momentum and brought them down -hard onto the sacks.
The threshing went on for close to 30 minutes, spaced with intervals to turn the sacks over. In the process, the babies were lulled to sleep from the rocking movement – who needed a pram or stroller?

The thrashed millet was poured out on to large trays and the women proceeded to separate the grains from the stalks.
I watched with fascination.
The sifting process was my favorite part.
Gauging which way the wind blew, they stood with their backs against the breeze, raised their large trays into the air and poured the grains onto the ground.
I watched in amazement as the grains easily separated from the chaff. The grains fell to one side and the chaff was carried away in the wind – magically, beautifully, gracefully.
I wonder who came up with this idea.
One thing is for sure, man will survive some how - it’s in built, without a classroom to teach him how.

To avoid getting their hair all grainy, the women wrapped their heads in scarves, the girls didn’t care much for hair - it was short and could be washed as they showered later.
If the sun didn’t set too soon, the women dusted their grinding stones (usually kept in the granary), carried in the millet and set to grinding it to a powder. It had to be done in an enclosed area because the wind was likely to blow the fine grains away.
This was a perfect opportunity for the older women to study the girls grinding, to see whether their mothers had raised them right, if they would make good wives and if they were hard working. It wasn’t just another activity – it was loaded with hidden and not so hidden connotations.

The finely ground millet was placed in a huge saucepan filled with water and left to ferment for days.
I loved the taste of the millet just before it officially fermented – usually around day 3.
It tasted mmmm! so sweet; we called it "ebibi cee", yes, just like saying “ABBC”. I think it means “in the process”. Children ate ebibi cee a lot; sometimes we even added sugar and hot water - that made it heavenly.
If you miscalculated the appropriate time for ebibi cee, you were done for – the line between the sweet stuff and the real fermented brew was thin.

When the brew had been tasted and officially declared potent, pots were washed and prepared while the straws which we call “epeeyi” were tested; another interesting session.
The straws were soaked in water for a while. To ascertain that they were good for use one had to suck up water through the straw.
If the water didn’t come up, that indicated it was blocked or broken.
If it was broken, there was an attempt to mend it or throw it away.
If it was just blocked it was swung in quick caning motions to get it unclogged.
I always found it funny watching as the straws were tested – cheeks sucked in, the mouth muscles working like crazy, veins on the temples. If it was blocked that was even more hilarious because there was a bit of sweating – kind of like sucking thick yogurt through a small straw - you can truly work up a sweat.

Visitors flocked in. They sat in clusters and talked about whose goat had given birth, the chicken they sold in the market or how Okello’s wife had packed her bags and run back to her parent’s home.
In the mean time the women filled the pots to about half way with the brew; they carried a pot to the center of each cluster and placed it on a fiber woven in a circular format to prevent the pot from tilting over.
The women poured boiling water into the pots – filling them to the brim.
Before she got up to leave, she had the honors of taking the first sip - to confirm that it wasn’t poisoned and to know the taste of what she presented.

The men prodded the straws in the pot, leaned forward and drew up on it. The women anxiously stood in a corner and waited for the reaction. They hoped to hear “aberu, abeyite ejok ajono!” (woman, this beer is good), then they would hurry off to the kitchen to cook - occasionally checking to see if the men needed more hot water.

A sneak peek into tradition from the land of emorimor – (the chief in Teso).

My First Apple

Flash back

I made it into the room just in time to see Peter and Simon chew the last slices.
I begged for some but it was too late; already gone, making it's way passed the epiglottis and down the canal.

What a sad moment that was.

Standing as close to Peter as I could get, I looked in the black spot of his eye, desperately hoping I’d savor the taste as he swallowed.
When he finished I asked – nearly chocking on my tears.
“What did it taste like?”
He squared up his shoulders, cleared his throat and was about to explain when Simon shouted “It tastes like chocolate”.
Oh! My mouth watered as I relished the thought of munching on a chocolate apple.
“No” Peter said “He is lying, it tastes like a sweet raw mango”
Huh? I was confused.

While I was trying to think it through Simon asked me if I really wanted an apple.
My eyes lit up, I said “yes”.
He said, “You want it right now?”, more excited and louder I said “yes, now, now”.
He asked me to follow him into the kitchen which I did in a hurry, almost tripping over a stool. He smiled and pointed to the spiky fruit on the kitchen counter and said “this is an apple, a pine-apple”.
My little heart was crushed.

Uncle Henry, seeing the mess I was in offered to buy me an apple from Fairway hotel. It was the only place that sold apples. Some people didn't even know what apples were but curiosity was building pretty fast.
The apples were few - we had to sprint.
We scrambled out the door and run as fast as our legs could carry us. Uncle Henry trotted a long, out of breathe - nearly limping.
He pulled out 10 shillings from his worn out wallet and paid for my first green apple.

Without wasting time we dashed back home, headed straight to the kitchen, diced the fruit into 4 equal pieces and munched away just like we had seen in the movies.

Yumm! It had a sour-ish, sweet-ish taste, kind of like... a sweet raw mango.
My first apple.

Chapter 16

It's good to try something different.
That, for some might mean tasting frogs, bungee jumping, going skiing - well, you fill in the gap.

I'm going to try my hand at writing a best-seller, no? okey a seller?!- something. Hoping that you will not delete my blog after this.

It was a drab, wintry night in mid december,
the air outside was choked with snow flakes and gusty winds.
She clasped her hands and prayed as she looked out the car window -
"Lord, Is there any chance of a miracle? a different report?
You know I don't want this - No Lord, please - I'm weary".

Her heart skipped a beat, jolted out of a prayerful mode by the sensation of the little life moving and kicking in her womb.
She caressed her belly, "hush my little one, don't kick mummy too hard" - even though she relished being awakened to the wonder in her womb - the movements made her wince.
She recalled carrying her first child and the thrill that pattering gave.
Why was it so excruciating this time? could the baby sense her strife? was her body escalating the intensity of the problem at hand? or was her little one engrossed a blissful dance, oblivious of events in the world beyond the womb?

As the car pulled up the hospital drive way her heart sank, she could almost feel it making it's way down, passed her lungs, round her intestines, headed straight to the bottom of her belly.
"Lord, is this it?"
There was no answer.

She slowly, carefully, wrapped her scarf around her neck - with a distant look in her eyes, zipped up her jacket and opened the door. With one hand firmly griping the support handle and one below her belly, she placed one foot out of the car, then grimacingly inched forward. It seemed with every passing moment, her stomach got heavier.
Her husband brought the wheel chair close enough so she could sit.
As she raised out of the car their eyes met.
He looked sad - it was a painful night.

She recalled the night, three days before, when she had rushed to hospital; the vacant look in the doctor's eyes as she told her they couldn't save her baby.
How she shook like a leaf, certain that she was losing her mind.
The doctor said she was in labour at only 21 weeks - her cervix was dilating, the situation irreversable.
She recalled, lying on the hospital bed that night, tears streaming down her cheeks, wondering how this happened.
She shut her eyes tight, wishing she could vanish.

In this new country without a friend or a relative to hold her hand.

Her best friend and partner was at home with their son because these people didn't believe in house help, how was a woman expected to work, cook, clean and be wife and mother all at the same time. It was because of this new culture that her husband couldn't be there to hold her when she needed him most.
"Lord, why?
Her heart was pounded intensly, she could barely think.

Looking out her hospital room window, the world was bustling with life - Christmas lights on every street corner, cars whizzing passed in all directions. The merriment of the season was passing her by.
Nobody cared for her misfortune, she didn't exist.

In that room, surrounded by four white walls, she faced death.


Her family was miles away; across the ocean, in another time zone, another place.
She cried out to the Lord again and in the chaos of a wondering mind, a strained heart, a body out of control - she heard a voice saying "FEAR NOT MY CHILD, I'M WITH YOU"
The undeniable voice of her heavenly father.