The tortured soul

I walked in through the back door and was greeted by commotion in the boy’s quarters.
I heard gasps and mummers and urgent voices. Men were moving around like sheep without a shepherd, or better still shepherds without their sheep. The ladies stood huddled together in a corner, wiping tears from their eyes, while others placed hands to their cheeks like they had been glued on.
Hadn’t anyone realized I was missing? The issue at hand seemed more critical than a silly little girl gone missing.

So this is how it happened. One bright Sunday morning we all went to church; I was only 8 or 9 years old at the time. After mass, I got lost in the crowd and couldn’t find my siblings. I walked around for a while before I figured they had left without me. I began to panic. One lady, noticing my dilemma, walked over and asked if she could help. I told her I had been left behind and needed someone to take me home. She was a nice lady; I had seen her at church a couple of time so I trusted that she had my best interests at heart. She offered to escort me home. Our house was on Katonga road, not too far away from church so we often walked to and fro. I knew some basic land marks – Sheraton hotel, Nile hotel, Tanzanian high commission, Doctors mess, and then home. We walked quietly together, but I couldn’t help the feelings of betrayal. When we arrived at our gate I pointed and said this was it, she waved goodbye and I skipped along.
That is when I stepped in the back door, and saw what I told you I saw.
Curious to know what had taken center stage, I wiggled my way in under their arms and against their waists. My eyes landed on the most ghastly sight in my 9 years of existence. Blood was splattered all over the walls, there was a mess of a soiled blanket and clothes on the floor. A paddle of blood mapped one corner of the room, it had caked on its journey out the door. The stench was most unbearable. As I scanned the room I noticed a heap of something or the other next to the wall. In that instant, one of my aunt’s caught sight of me and hushed me hurry a long; this was no place for little kids. The heap coiled on the floor was Oyen, a young man who had come from the village to help with home chores. I was extremely unnerved, as I slowly walked away, the men attempted to lift him off the floor but he protested – “Leave me here”.

This is the story: Thieves broke into the house while we were at church, and as Oyen attempted to defend himself, they diced his head with a machete and left him for dead. Even though the cuts were deep and he couldn’t quite recall the events of that day, Oyen survived. He was discharged from the hospital after 3 months and returned to the village. The criminals were never traced because of too many twists and turns in the security systems. We didn’t alert the police because nothing would come of it, we were just glad that Oyen got away with his life.

Mrs. Kiyingi and Major Gen. Kazini and now Ms. Karamuzi did not experience Oyen’s luck – their candles were smashed out without mercy leaving family and friends with so many unanswered questions. As the curtain comes down to end the show of our lives, people are known to seek rest, to unburden their hearts of heavy loads, secrets, untold stories. I wish that someday I, or someone with the same passion and professional skill can have an honest – no lights, no camera conversation with Draru, Mr. Kiyingi, Nkurunjira or whoever else fits the criteria. I would listen to their account of events and hope to God I have the right questions and countenance that would exude plain honest truth. Answers to questions that are scorching our minds about the events that led to these peoples murders.
What straw finally made them decide this person didn’t deserve life any more?
As they hit, stubbed, shot, shoved, what were they thinking?
What emotions ravaged their hearts?
Was there satisfaction after the gruesome act?
Do they sleep peacefully?
I know it’s a spooky road to walk but I itch to know the mind, the emotion, the spiritual state of these murderers.

"America's Great Literary Hermit"

Catcher in the Rye - One of the funniest books I ever read. It had me giggling and busting out in laughter, I had aching ribs and tears rolling down my cheeks under the influence of Salinger's humour.

So, a moment of silence for J.D Salinger. Even though my sleep was interrupted in the wee hours of last night by my loving husband to break this untimely news, (phew! long sentence) - it is indeed sad.

RIP, Salinger.

THE WAITING ROOM

9 am Saturday morning: Walked into the clinic/hospital, spoke to the receptionist who politely directed me to the radiologist’s office.
I walk into the cold, forsaken room – there is no one in sight. I stand there for about 5 minutes before a young man leisurely walks in and requests me to take a sit.
He casually says, “The radiologist will be here at 10am”. I called the previous day and was told I could come in at any time, “the radiologist is always available”, and it’s a hospital after all. To keep me occupied I read ‘Beloved’ by Tony Morrison.

9:50 am: Two men walk in. They are curly haired and mango tanned, they speak to each other in a foreign language. The tall skinny red eyed one comes up to me and gets a hold of my necklace. “Where did you get this? The African market?” they are clearly out to have fun, but I cut them off by sinking my eyes into my novel.

10:00 am: A lady wrapped in religious attire walks in with an old man. He is in his early 70’s, his tall frail body is hidden under a striped shirt, dirty-black trousers and he has the most interesting white hat sitting firmly over his grey hair. His face is masked in pain. After an hour of waiting, it’s clear that his patience is waning. He hasn’t eaten since last night - a prerequisite to seeing the radiologist. He has two strong stress lines right between his eye brows. He grips his walking stick between his hands and relieves some of his fragile weight onto it. Then he pulls out his cell phone and looks at it intently like he expects it to come to life.

10: 50am: I’m growing extremely impatient. Man at the counter informs us the radiologist just called to say she will arrive at 11:30 grrrr! I nearly break out in a sweat, but I have to wait.
11:00am: An old woman dressed in traditional silk waddles in and sits next to me. Her body odor could send a dog whimpering in the opposite direction. I hold my breath but can only do it for long. She gets up several times to fill her water can and each time the whiff of her odor is refreshed. I turn the other side with the hope that it will keep the smell at bay, to no avail. She is fascinated by the woman on the TV screen who is smoking a cigarette, she mumbles to herself in shock and amusement.

11:45am: The radiologist struts in. I’m only too glad to be the first to walk into her office and leave the waiting area for good.

...

2010 was getting off to a calm start.
I was beginning to think it would be a quiet year when all over a sudden Haiti happened - blew me right out of my socks! One of the worst natural disasters right next to the '96 Tsunami - like a 9/11 happening all by itself. Gruesome, heart breaking images and stories continue to splatter all over my computer and TV screen. It’s hard to fathom how something like that would happen but it did. Is this the same kind of damage as when Samson leaned on the pillars that day or when the wall of Jericho came crumbling down?

In this chaos and confusion, God is still in control.

A search for inspiration

I should be constructing sentences and joining words together to make good sense but I lack the drive, the motivation, the, what’s the word? - Inspiration.
I’m about to conclude that, “this place” doesn’t set me ablaze, either that or I’m hanging with the wrong crowd, reading the wrong news papers, working the wrong job or it’s the hormones .

I have faithfully written a New Years letter in the past but this time I haven’t gone beyond just musing about it. Otherwise I think this is going to be an interesting year, hopefully with not as many dramatic and hair raising surprises and events as 2009 unceasingly sprayed.

Yesterday I walked my baby to his P1 class room in the big school. I dropped him off, waved goodbye but “I” never left. Parenting is an amazing experience! - watched my belly expand, finally got a glimpse of God’s creation, celebrated the budding his first tooth, watched him wobble as he took his first step then begun to run around. Still clinging to mummy’s leg. Later getting a grip of his colors, struggling to hold a pencil, stuttering as he tried to fathom consonants and vowels. Now he reads sentences, has an ear for “big words” like enthusiasm and is trotting off to “big school”. Yeah, he is beginning to walk away (sigh).


Regarding yours truly, I can safely say the shades of grey are turning to color again. The world is not so blue any more. I’m getting my energies back. I will soon put down the ban on scented soaps and perfumes in the house. That should be a cause for celebration since we have all been strictly using key soap for bathing and I was seriously policing what deodorant Sam dearest could adorn.
Two things I have noted 1. One begins to show much earlier with subsequent pregnancies. My tummy now is the size it was when I was 5 months with Mich.
2. The stomach wall is more sensitive to the baby’s movements. I first felt Mich at 15 weeks, this time it was almost immediate.


HAPPY NEW YEAR.