Dear woman,
I
am too dirty in body, heart and soul - too unqualified and out of place to pass
greetings to you. Let truth be told! In fact, as I write these simple words to
you, I am on a long, black jacket which is long-sleeved. Its left sleeve is
fixed almost tightly in my mouth. It is as though the two are in marital companionship.
For
none can leave the company of the other. In short terms, they are trying to
abide to the Holy Scripture which forbids their separation. My face does not boast of the colour which many
years ago had subjected you to envy from our neighbours. I can catch the breath
of my lungs relaxing and contracting regularly with secret joy. Yes, a joy
which is travelling throughout my entire body.
Nobody
can be able to see or be aware of its presence. But only the eye which watches
over me can have the capability of catching the sight of my face which is
wrinkled like that of your aging father-my grandfather-after having several
sniffs of his snuff.
Woman of above the skies, if you see
me; even though they say that water is only a child when compared to blood, you
would not do as the Christian you had been. Yes, the aggressive woman you had
been when provoked; the one I had severally bit in the breasts for trying to
deprive me of my first food after birth.
You
would obviously plead with your Master to send the Evil One to me with his
spirit of torture, but not to make a kill. Woman; the one whose bones have
already surrendered to decay, do not be angry with me. For Africa as a
continent is changing every day. The messenger angels who severally tours the
earth must have confirmed this fact to you. Our Africa, mother is undergoing
revolution; a great one. This is the condition to which the tide of the African
sea has turned me to.
Africa has really transformed me. My
clothes are dazzling with great whiteness. The sea has drowned me and turned me
into something else. However, woman, sometimes I do have in possession that
concern and kindness, like yours when you had been rewarding my exemplary
performance in class with some mangoes. Let me tell you, oh woman-----.
Oh!
Get my apologies. I am trying to climb the mountain from the top; let me make a
rush to the stepping stones at its bottom part. I still care very much about
your spirit. That is why I cannot live being aware of offending you. I do not
want your soul to break and therefore, slip from the safe hands of that
heavenly father you had taught me to be mentioning and requesting for favours
in my communication with him. I really don’t want you to slip to purgatory and
therefore, sustain some fire injuries.
Here in the Africa of suffering, all
boys call me a stone. My heart has in fact been turned into a real stone. No
longer am I that meek boy you had known. However, as I hold this stub of a
pencil to write these words to you, I can feel an enclosed stream of tears in
my eyes struggling; being about to gain freedom.
Here
on top of this black soil, your son is undergoing a lot of trouble. The leisure
of the land above is far nicer to the soul than here. My eyes are now heaven
bound. The sight of those birds high above the sky cannot be registered in my
eyes. What I see is only you, seated at the feet of your senior father with
your right leg crossed on top of the other and your hands folded across your
bosom.
One,
two, three, four…; a collection of years has drifted along since the beginning
of the new millennium; when you left me in this world of solitude. You went to
the next one, where the intimidating brothers and sisters of hunger, strife,
and sniffing of tobacco is a baseless piece of history.
By
then, I had only been a mere class two pupil at the village school. No longer
am I that kid who had been conceptualized in the bedding of your womb. I am in
that stage whose members have strong muscles such that they walk about punching
and kicking the innocent air. Woman, I call that mere evolution. The man you
had been working with at the village teaching school now fathers me. He tells
me that he is my earthly father. But I would rather call him a brute!
A fortnight after the soil with
which your body was composed of reverted to its former scattered state, he
brought home a new woman. She was to fit in your shoes. But her heart contained
in it envy and wrath) - the messengers
of evil. Although at first she appeared to be serene and loving.
She
would deliberately administer to me several strokes of the cane, as though I
were a prisoner. Under her custody, my stomach barely got the chance to be fed.
Therefore, I developed into a thin boy; as thin as that needle of yours you had
used for knitting cloth straps to cover our sofa sets. And I grew up as an
overworked lad. My school performance dwindled considerably to the concern of
my teachers. No longer was I that bright pupil you had known.
Father and his lover did not care a
hoot about me. I used to go to school attired in tatters. Yes, clothes which we
had got used to referring to as ‘fleshy torches’. This made me a very depressed
pupil. Years marched forward. And my contribution as a member of the school
choir attracted and penetrated into the hearts of the clergy.
A
new door was now laying ajar for me. The church voluntarily offered a fraction
of its offerings as a contribution for financing my education. I enrolled in a
good high school. When a stick is not bent while it is green, it is difficult to
manipulate when it dries. My moral conduct was rotten. It was as common as the
scripture to hear of my name in every sort of mischief.
The principal severally summoned me
to his office. With his face formed into wrinkles, he could issue me with a
string of stern warnings: “Leave the path of spoilt children if you have the
desire of taking your KCSE examinations”. However, it was as though I had
swallowed some sour herbs of deafness.
The
advice entered into the first year and departed through the other one, and swam
through the air probably to find shelter and accommodation in willing ears
somewhere else. I followed the law of magnetism efficiently. Like charges
repelled and unlike charges attracted. Many school children were subjected into
carrying into their tummies other children. Before the Board of Directors got a
wind of the happenings, several dormitories lay in ashes.
Now, here I am in the city. I had
sneaked out of school. Not really sneaking but awarding myself an expulsion
after school became unbearable to me. Nobody knows where I am, except people
like you who reside in heaven. Several months run after each other. I have
nowhere to lay my head.
Who
can accommodate an outcast in his house? However, God’s salt is not usually
rained on. Every day I squeeze in between people’s vacant stalls to find some
rest. Worse still, I have nothing to bribe my rumbling stomach into silence. When
decent people who were created for prosperity take meals at places like the
Java restaurant, I have to settle in the gutter. In there, there is a mixture
of very juicy meals; ranging from ugali,
all sorts of vegetables, drinks to roasted and partially chewed chunks of meat.
Mostly do I wonder why people
tightly hold their noses when they come across such “joints”. They don’t know
that our meals are well-balanced. That’s why all diseases fear me like a ghost.
To survive in African streets you have to be opportunistic. Yes, to be quick to
filter the positive things of life from the negative ones. So now you will not
ask me why my right hand is always in compliance; in close union with my mouth.
It’s this high opportunism which
attracts property dispensers to us. This is like the holy delegation of heaven
making a purposeful approach on Satan’s suffering followers. Yes, in the bid of
maximizing holiness at the expense of the other.
Anyway, the people and everybody
else is preparing for the impending general elections. A group of several
development-minded people call us for a meeting. They are all dressed in black
shining suits, with a tie which holds their expensive shirts in position at the
helm of their necks. Their feet are clothed in long black shoes which are
curved at the tips, facing sky bound.
“All
sons of Africa must be presented with promising chances to develop their lives;
instead of aimlessly roaming the streets and towns”, one of them says, a
loudspeaker sending the voice in an irregular form to places afar.
Let me tell you, Mama. These people
are like twin brothers to that former husband of yours. Their words are smeared
with honey. That is what he had put into use to win the heart of his mistress.
Excellent.
Where
was I? Yes…... At last, alongside other youths we decide to lick the honey.
Nothing will occur to us. After all, we would one day march to Gikomba market
and purchase some cheap outfits. This would be when the then already-earned salaries
from the promised government pioneered Kazi
kwa vijana – job opportunities for the youth- initiative would materialize.
Thus our insane minds would be repaired; dehumanized from wild insanity to
considerable humanity.
However, the child who is delivered
after the conception of the idea is crippled. Like the commander of one army, I
lead the doomed union of African orphans; as we call ourselves. Beating up,
maiming, shedding blood, even killing; that’s what we do to our fellow country
people.
African
blood flows, sinks into the heart of the soil. Links us to the likes of Tom
Mboya and other heroes who had wrestled independence from British grip. Now
tell me; these complacent people who are sweetening our hearts to displease the
heavenly Father – will they concede to carry our crosses when man would be judged
according to his deeds?
All this time, I have been sitting
on a lane. Shouts of “choma, piga, mek
sure hajabaki na pumzi any” (burn, beat, ensure he remains not with any
breath) flows into my ears. It’s so dis-heartening to watch Africans de – Africanize
their humanity. Now they are surrounding a church building – which they; or
rather we, have already put ablaze. Is that not a curse from the One who had
commanded the structuring of this holy building?
Woman, my letter is nearing an end. So
beautifully done but there is something to worry about. I do not figure out the
best way in which to send it you. Actually, which postal office has the address
of heaven? At last. At last! I scratch my dirty – haired head. And an idea
strikes my mind.
There
is this ‘his honourable’ we are going to stone the breath out of him before the
death of today. He has been threatening to politically kill another politician
friend of ours. I would slip the letter into the pockets of his soul and demand
that he delivers it to the right receiver.
But
his soul is already infected with the disease of the dirty game. Therefore, it
would not make it to heaven; But to hell where the Evil One - the one who
gladdens in wickedness like a fly; would rejoice in having defeated the heavens
for a moment.
What do I do now that things have
turned against me? I cast my gaze heavenwards with the flat of my palm shielding
my eyes from heat. Not heat from the sun. It is coming from clouds of smoke
which are ensuing from the burning church. Mum, it is as though African mother
had already died and left the childish continent at the mercy of her atrocious wicked
husband.
I would have wished to write to you
a whole book; as large in size as the Holy Bible. Yes, so that you may also know
how to handle controversial moments in heaven; to know what to do when you pick
quarrels with your fellow saints up there. But they are coming to ask me for another rat to strangle with bare hands.
Nonetheless, whatever comes is welcomed; the letter must reach you.
Hastily
I wrap my legs around a fairly burning building and climbs up. I extract the
string which is belting my pair of white shorts. Then I tie the fairly long
thread to the tip of the unparcelled – kite like piece of paper containing the
letter. And like long time ago as a child, I hopefully toss it exactly in the
middle part of smoke plumes probably bound to heaven.
I stand transfixed in this spot as
it sails up and up. Things are at least now working according to my wish. Satan
will always fight for supremacy, however. He sends a roaring gale of wind across
the sky. The clouds of smoke are washed away and they begin falling down in scattered
structures. Mama, send the chariot of fire so that I can rise and pick up the letter
before it lands on the wrong hands of the earth!
Almost at the same time of my
petition, a white-feather coloured dove appears along the sky. And she fastens
her beak onto the thread. Alleluia! Alleluia; praised be the heavens! Praised
be your God; the creater of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob! The dove is a gentle and
obedient messenger of God. She would undoubtedly deliver it. Did she not bring
back the information of the ending of the floods to Noah and other creatures
inside the huge ark?
Your soul has an inner heart which
has feelings; not stones. After getting the letter, I am sure you will shed
tears. Dropping tears onto the letter would perhaps re-unite mother and son for
a moment. But mama, I remonstrate with you not to do so. You would desecrate
the heavenly surface which gleams with holiness and contravene divine rules.
And
another thing; do not dare to pass my regards to any member of the holy
trinity. I will be left on this world. Yes, perhaps undergoing more transformation.
But I sense changing for the last time. Soon or later I would see you. We shall
hug for long agonizing minutes, just the way you will do with the letter!
Yours dearly,
An African of the streets,
Leader of the doomed union of
African orphans
