His wife died earlier leaving his
stomach in the hands of son’s wives, a generation below. He knew he won’t live
well without the service of a dedicated woman at his age. He mourned her on the
way from the brewer’s home. He had no strength for a hoe. The tea he planted
for income welcomed weeds. He regretted why he had only married one wife who
bore him no (10) children.
There was no grandson to fetch
water or run to the shop. There was one who was equally absent as present. He
sat on his convertible wooden chair for long with his eyes on the thin path
that passed his compound lest those who went to the city arrived and served him
company and food. It was not as he thought that husbands left their wives home
as they went to hunt.
Young children feared his walking
stick. He was temperamental and could crack it heavy on any one. Not even in
his gentle manner was he understood by the young. The one who called him
brother-in-law couldn’t have an extra plate for him. Her husband had died and
grapevine has it that rowdy elders of his church did not like his stands. He
lived at a time when chameleon tails were served to enemies.
His grave lies a small distance
straight to his front door. The head faces north aligning him in the tradition
of the ancestors. The day he died most people said that he was old and his days
were over. Critics knew well that it was the corrosive alcohol on an empty
stomach. His sons gathered from the city with their wives and daughters left
their husbands to come mourn their father. He died at first cockcrow, said his
absent elder son.
Tomorrow is his ritual day. Early
before sunrise, a bull will be slaughtered on the grave, near the head. The
blood will be allowed to flow on it. Religious men, hard to move on without
some traditions will be heard around, praying. Families in Nairobi and away
have already gathered for the cold night to see him join the ancestors in
paradise. They really loved him.
The barren Mango tree on the
compound will give them a shade when the sun will strike strong. No son would be
allowed any hint about the sufferings of the dead man. His generation before
won’t be mentioned. Young grandsons won’t understand the ritual and the importance
of a grandfather whether alive or dead. He who had remained and could offer family history is no more. Our fathers who can't explain the origins of the clan will be hurrying back to Indian jobs. Some will only gather for company and
in sharing of the bull meat. Just then, at the end of day, people will walk
away saying, ‘It is finished’.
Thunder clouds have started gathering. If he had slept to the ancestor's land, it would be easy. But he was killed!
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| A grave picture sourced on google. |
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