Not an inch less
By S. K. Kyenze
The night Mbiti broke his father’s
leg was a night like no other ever witnessed by the dwellers of Kwa Mbaa Nduu
village. Over the years, the once quiet domicile of the Aombe clan in Nunguni had witnessed its share of drama but the
night Mbiti broke his father’s leg was beyond the wildest imagination of all
the villagers. The Aombe, a clan of
the Akamba people, have for
aeons been guided by deeply entrenched traditions handed down from one
generation to the next. These unwritten traditions are imprinted in every
Muombe’s psyche and it was taboo for a young person to get into an altercation
with an elder let alone fight them . So, it was to the utter dismay of
everyone when Mbiti ignobly raised his hand on his aging father.
The Akamba have a saying, Mbui nzau yaaa yenekee (trouble will
befall he who doesn’t pay heed to wise counsel). This saying aptly described Mbiti. As an eighteen-year old
youngster with testosterone raging in his veins like an elephant in must, he
had disagreed with his father. Mbiti had completed his KCSE examination the
previous day and in his mind become mtoto
wa chief (an adult) who should no longer be ordered around by his
old-fashioned parents. Kyalo, ever the early riser came back from delivering milk
to the diary at the nearby Nunguni market only to find his son still asleep. “Mbeke!
Mbeke!” he called his wife. He was boiling in a cauldron of anger. Whenever he
lost his temper, and this was frequent, his wife of twenty years knew better
than irk him further. It was a lesson she had to learn early in life when she
still was a strong willed newly married woman. “I am in the kitchen.” She
answered wondering what had sparked his fury this time. The diminutive woman
emerged from the smoky kitchen wrapping her leso
around her waist. The once black and white leso had faded and assumed a shade that most likely did not exist
in the colour wheel as a result of the innumerable washes it had suffered as
well as the banana sap stains it gathered along the way. Curiously, the witty
Swahili saying normally emblazoned on leso
still clung on to the threadbare waist wrap defiantly shouting mke ni tabia (A good wife is defined by
her character). Shading her eyes from
the bright morning sun rising from the Tusunini ridge, she opened her mouth
revealing a missing incisor (she had lost it to one of Kyalo’s legendary blows)
and asked politely, “Is there a problem baba
Mbiti?”
Snorting like an enraged bull,
rivulets of sweat dripping down his face and shaking in a violent fit of rage,
Kyalo demanded, “Why on earth
is Mbiti still asleep? Look at the sun, the sun is already overhead and you can
hear that good- for- nothing
son of yours snoring from a kilometre away!” For a moment, it crossed Mbeke’s
mind to retort, “Just like men. He is my son when he is on the wrong!” But
then, experience had taught her well. Such witty responses from her sharp
tongue had earned
her proper beatings in the past. Like a stubborn draft cow, she had been broken
and shaped into an ideal wife- submissive and respectful. “Let me wake him up.”
She answered submissively.
Just then, Mbiti opened the door to
his grass thatched hut scratching his belly and rubbing his eyes at the same
time. He stood by the door, stretching and opening his mouth wide like a broken
basin while yawning loudly. Ignoring his visibly furious father, he turned to
his mother and
asked, “Mama is breakfast ready?”
“Yes, it is ready nau. I’ll serve you some malenge (pumpkin) and fermented milk promptly.” Named after her father, she rarely
called her only son by his name. She instead opted for the endearing nau (father). As a consequence, Mbiti had turned out to be a lazy mollycoddle a
trait his father detested.
The mother and son duo started for
the smoky kitchen apparently oblivious of Kyalo’s seething ire. In one giant
leap, he caught up with them and unleashed a flood of blows on the duo. Before
they could comprehend what had befallen them, Mbeke lay sprawled on the kitchen
floor. Mbiti on his part was struggling to get up from the floor with great
difficulty. He had landed buttocks first in the pumpkin bearing sufuria and got stuck. He kicked in the
air in a frenzy like an overturned tortoise.
“Yes, nau, the man of the house wakes up at noon and demands for
breakfast. Mmm… the man of the house.” Kyalo derided his son in obvious
disgust. He then landed another blow on the youngsters back. The impact toppled the sufuria stuck Mbiti who as luck would
have it got unstuck in the process. Before Kyalo could land further blows, the
young man bulleted past his father pushing him violently against the door
frame. In his mad dash to get out of his father’s reach, he collided head on with
his sister who was carrying a twenty litre jerry can of water on her back. His
sister, Mbithe, lost her balance, staggered backwards and fell. She attempted
to save the water container in vain and could only watch in tears as it rolled
downhill.
The next events happened so fast
that none of the witnesses is quite sure of their exact order.
However, from the confused narration for Mbeke and her daughter (Kyalo remained
stubbornly quiet and no coaxing or coercion would make him talk) told amid tears and screams with Mbeke incessantly writhing
on the ground and violently pulling out tufts of her hair, Kyalo had killed her
son. It was after a lot of cajoling by her mother-in-law that Mbeke cooled down
enough to narrate the garbled version of the morning incident. For the first
time in years, the ever-demure submissive wife bared her fangs. She had
suffered in silence for too long. Her dam of bottled anger broke at last.
Calling her husband by name (this was against the dictates of tradition) she
broke out in a fierce tirade, “Kyalo, Kyalo I want my son. You have killed my
son. You have chased my son to be eaten by the hyenas of the world.” She would
then go quiet for a while before breaking into a heart-rending scream while
writhing on the ground in pitiful agony. “Did you have to beat him this early
Kyalo? Did you have to beat my son Kyalo? Look at what you have done. My son
has run away. My son has gone, my baby will die Kyalo.”
Now, at
this point Mbithe - Kyalo’s mother (their daughter
Mbithe was named after her ) put two and two together. The spritely aging woman
stood upright. One arm on her waist pointing at her son, Kyalo, with her
walking stick she proceeded to harangue Kyalo, “Indi Kyalo kau uu waku ni waki? We waoiwe nuu? Kyalo ndiutavakya kau
ndwakaa mukyi?” Ngema kuvya itulaa kyano na utambi.” (Kyalo why do you like
violence? Who bewitched you? Have I not taught you that violence ruins
families? He who does not heed to counsel eventually suffers the consequences).
Then, mastering an agility that nobody knew was still hidden within her old
body descended on her son with her walking stick. She landed a blow squarely on
his shoulders saying, “ Kyalo wienda
umbuwaia muimiwa niki, Kyalo wienda kuwaa musee wakwa niki?” (Kyalo why are
you trying to kill my husband? Why are you trying to kill my husband? She was
obviously incensed for among the Akamba a grandchild was termed as his
grandparent’s ‘spouse’! Sensing his mother’s fury, Kyalo took to his heels and
disappeared into a nearby wattle tree bush. The lion of the household was
conquered by his mother. A son or daughter would never bandy words with its
parents. As for Mbiti, it came to be known later that he had angrily announced
that he was a man enough to fend for himself and left. He left with nothing but
the clothes on his back .
After leaving home, the young man
had found himself doing one form of an odd job after another. He tried his hand
as a dishwasher at an eatery in Salama market but he was fired two days later.
He had proven himself unable to not only wake up early as expected but also
work the entire day. He was basically irredeemably lazy. Next, he had tried his
luck at a construction site with the same frustrating results.
Pushed by desperation and a gnawing
desire to prove himself a man capable of fending for himself, he eventually
slowly found his niche. He discovered that he would excel as a herdsman. Over
the years he hopped from one employer to the next. He had a long-checkered
herding career spanning from Salama, Sultan Hamud, Kiboko, Kibwezi, Machinery
among many other places. Herding is not an easy job. At some point, your
vocabulary is reduced three words vita
kana nguae (I will kill you if you don’t turn around). This is a command usually
directed at a misbehaving animal invariably followed by a missile in form of a
stone or stick (any projectile will work) hurled at the said animal. However,
despite the challenges surrounding this unforgiving line of work, Mbiti thrived
for a while breaking a goat’s leg here and a cow’s horn there. These are some
of the occupational hazards that come with a temperamental herdsman.
Kitheka kieemaa nyamu to mundu (The wild
is a tough place even for the wild animals). Beaten, battered and defeated by
the world, the prodigal son, Mbiti, was to come back home a good fourteen years
later. He had left home as a temperamental teenager. Now, here
he was, going back home. His people would say, “Enukikye muyo ta nthenge.” (All he had were memories).
He had nothing but memories of the wild and herding. Still, he planned to try his hand at farming. After all,
he was the only son and the de facto sole heir to his father’s estate. Mwana ula mukuu eanene nethe (In the
absence of the father, the eldest son heads the family.) Mbithe, his younger
sister must be married by now. He thought to himself. Actually, if nature had
been allowed to take its course as it is wont, she had children by now. She had
to, that is a woman’s main job. Bring joy and chatter in her husband’s house in
the form of children.
The sun was setting
although some rays stole their way over the horizon, the wind was still, a few
birds were singing and the village roosters were announcing the time for the
last time that day. He had never got to understand how roosters could tell
time. He was hungry and the gnawing pangs intensified as he got closer home.
For no apparent reason, he decided to alight at Kilome market one stop from his
home market, Nunguni. He followed the Kyale route. A route he had followed for
many years on his way to and from school. The land he had known very well as a
young boy had changed tremendously. The terrain that once boasted of imposing
eucalyptus trees was
almost irreconcilable. Most of the trees and been cut. The land looked desolate,
naked and broken. He trudged on, stopping only for a drink of water at Mutundu.
He knelt on all fours and drank directly from the stream and as soon as he had quenched
his thirst walked on.
Mbeke was sitting
in the shade of an avocado tree when her son arrived. Age had caught up with
her and the ravages of time were clearly
imprinted on her face. However, the Akamba have a saying that ula utaaona nyinya e mwiitu aakyaa ithe
aanangie mbui kya ntheo (He who never saw his mother as a young woman
thinks that his father was cheated of his bride price). The same could be aptly
said about Mbeke. Also, the disappearance of her son had broken her heart. The
day Mbiti ran away he took with him her joy, her youth, her love and her life.
Despite the passing of years, she still clung on hope. She hoped that one day
her son would find his way home. Her son’s disappearance hurt her marriage in
an irreparable way. It had drained all the joy out of the union. When she got
married, she had hope. Hope of a full house, hope of bearing several children.
Unfortunately, she faced a challenge of still births. She had three still
births before Mbiti was born. To cheat death, the parents had to appear as if
they didn’t desire the newborn. He had to be named after an animal, Mbiti (Hyena).
When the child lived, he became the centre piece of his mother’s world and when
he left it caved in.
Under the avocado
tree, Mbeke’s heart suddenly started racing. She felt a force within her that
she had not experienced before. Tears were welling in her aging eyes. Her arms
were trembling. She turned her head just in time to see her son walk through
the main entrance to the compound. He had aged beyond his years;
he had a distant haunted look in his eyes. His clothes were faded. Yet, that
did not matter. Mbeke saw her son. She sprang to her feet in joy. She half
walked, half danced and half ran towards her son. Mbeke clasped her son in her arms swinging and crying in joy. Try no matter
how much she did, no single word came out. She let her tears flow freely.
Just then, Mbithe
emerged from the kitchen, two children in tow. Obviously, nature had not
been kind to
her. She looked as old as her mother if not older. When the dust settled, Mbiti was to be
informed that Mbithe had come back to live with her parents two years earlier.
She had suffered an abusive marriage long enough. The last beating by her
husband had taken with it her left eye and left her hospitalized for weeks on
end. Coming back is okay provided she or her children do not lay claim to an
inch of my land,. Mbiti thought to
himself. After all aka komatakuniwe na
moomisya (It’s normal for women to get be beaten by their husbands).
When probed by
his mother about where had been the past fourteen years, he just shrugged his
shoulders and answered, “ I am here now.” Mbeke, despite
getting her son back, felt that something was missing. Physically he had come
back but her son was not inside the person who came back. Mbiti was not inside
that body. The person seated in front of her and answering her in grunts was
not the jovial son who left home in a huff those many years ago. Time had
changed him; the world had taken her Mbiti.
The reunion was
interrupted by Kyalo’s voice. His unmistakable baritone could be heard from a
distance as he staggered his way home. Shortly, he appeared at the main
entrance singing Ninyunyuzie Maji – a
popular Swahili gospel hit. Experts are yet to find an explanation as to
why drunk people are prone to singing gospel songs. Kyalo staggered one step
forward then two steps backward swaying like a pine tree on a windy day and
almost lost his balance. He then sat on the grass and shouted, “Mwiitu wa muthonua. Ukila mituki umbisie.” (My
in-laws’ daughter, come for me quickly). Like one
accustomed to the drill, Mbeke stood up without uttering a word and went to
receive her husband. Mbeke got to her husband and helped him to his feet.
Slowly, they staggered their way towards the house. Midway, Kyalo noticed Mbiti
sitting on a three-legged stool and stopped in his tracks, “ Who are you?” he
asked poking him on his chest. Before Mbiti could answer Mbeke interjected,
“Baba Mbiti uki uu waku naw’o niwaki? (Kyalo’s father why do you drink this
way). Can’t you tell that this is Mbiti. Your son has come home.”
“ I
have no son. Your son left a long time ago and for all I care he is dead.”
“Papa it truly is me. I am not dead. I
have come back home.” Mbiti spoke up rising to greet his father.
“Shut up! I said
my son died the day he walked out of that entrance. And if I may ask, what do
you expect of me.”
Mbeke started
talking, “Baba Mbiti can’t we celebrate that our son is…”
“Shut up woman.
When I need your prattle, I will tell you.” Kyalo commanded. Then turning to
Mbiti once more he went on, “Now, tell me, what do you expect of me?”
After a momentarily
hesitation, Mbiti spoke, “ Papa I hoped that you would allow me
to do some farming...”
“You must be
insane. Some farming indeed. On which land?
Do you see that?” He asked pointing at his land. “That portion you see
covered with cabbages belongs to your sister. That is where she breaks her back
to feed her children and also pay their school fees. The other portion is where
I farm for my
and my wife’s
upkeep. So young man, whoever you are, there is no land here for your kind.”
Losing his
temper, Mbiti responded, “ How? How? How on earth does a
daughter get land in her maiden home? Girls are visitors who must leave for their
husbands’ home. This is not her home and I will not accept even an inch less of
my rightful inheritance.”
“Young man, who
are you talking to? Do not take that tone with me. This is my home and I will
do whatever pleases me.” Kyalo responded sobering up.
“ I will not accept
this injustice. There is no way, that useless sister of mine and her brood will
settle here. She ceased being a member of this family the day you accepted her bride price.”
Suddenly, he dashed towards the Kitchen where his sister was. “Mbithe out ni nza! (Mbithe get out). Collect your brats and go back to
your husband. Ona kantha ukwatie papa
muti wiva, usu waku ndungwata. (Whatever sorcery you have cast on papa
won’t work on me.) Mbiti then grabbed
Mbithe by the scruff of her collar and forcibly cast her out of the smoky
kitchen.
The now weeping Mbithe wiped the
tears with the hem of her torn leso. She looked at her brother and said, “ My brother, will you cast me to the
jaws of death over this soil?” She scooped a fistful and hurled it at her brother.
"What kind of an animal have you become. Look at my face, Look at my blind
eye? Do you wish me dead?” What more proof do you need? Do I strip to show you
the scars on my body?
“Shut up! Kenthwa watwaie munuka usu kwa muimiu on nduema ukunwa .”(With all
that noise your husband is justified in beating you). With that, he hit his
sister smack across the mouth. For a second or two everyone froze. Then, Mbithe
started crying painfully. It was a blood curdling yell that pierced the heart.
Kyalo picked a nearby piece of wood and descended upon his son. Suddenly, it
was fourteen years ago once more. - Kyalo violently descending upon his son and
Mbeke trying to stop him.
However, times had changed. The son
Kyalo faced off with fourteen years earlier was no more. He had died in the
wild. Mbiti was a changed son. He pushed his father hard by the shoulders. The
aging Kyalo lost his balance and landed on his back losing his hat in the
process. Mbeke rushed to her son and tried to stop him. “What madness is this Mbiti?
How dare you beat your father. Kii ni
kiumo weemanthia. (This is a curse you have brought upon yourself.)” Mbeke admonished her son bitterly. Mbiti
shrugged free of his mother’s grasp. “ Musee uu ee vundiikye nai. Umunthi neumanya
ninyoo.”(This old man has bad habits. Today I will teach him a lesson).
With that, Mbiti grabbed the same
piece of firewood his father and used on him and descended on his hapless
father. Both Mbeke and Mbithe tried to stop him. They screamt for help at the top of their voices. Chickens
made noise and dogs barked. Kyalo whimpered in pain, “
niwandula kuu, niwandula kuu. Oou wambika wiikwa ni mwana waku. (You
have broken my leg, you have broken my leg. May the same be
done to you by your own). After that potent curse, Kyalo passed out. As
if realizing what he had done for the first time. Mbiti gazed at the blood
oozing from his father’s leg in shock. He froze. His father lay motionless. A
distant owl hooted. The dogs continued barking. Voices of neighbours who had
heard the commotion could be heard approaching. They were coming in droves.
Scared, he looked at his mother like a frightened puppy. He made a step towards
her. She screamt and pointed at him in disdain.
He looked at his motionless father. His head lay on his sister’s lap.
She was wiping the blood from his cracked lips while crying at the same time.
She had forgotten her own swollen lip. He turned and around towards the noise
of approaching neighbours. Then without saying a word melted into the darkness.
The owl hooted, the dogs continued barking and his mother and sister went on crying next to the motionless Kyalo.
*****
END****
