A not-so-innocent nursery rhyme…

It’s raining, it’s pouring...
The old man is snoring…
He went to bed, and bumped his head…
And couldn’t get up in the morning…

It’s dark outside and my housemates are not home yet.  I’m in my room playing pointless-yet-addictive games on my pc, when I hear the patter of raindrops on the roof. This nursery rhyme rises from some forgotten corner of my mind like a dark thing from the swamps along the Sorrows.

What on earth were we singing?!

I do not recall the tune to which we sang it, or if there was a tune at all. There is a hazy recollection of a sunlit playground with children skipping merrily in a circle, hands linked, chant-singing off-key, totally oblivious to the implied state of the old man of whom we sang.

When I think of it now, with the rain marching across my roof, the only light the faint glow from my screen, I shudder in horror.

This poor old man…I want to believe he is just asleep but the innocent rhyme robs me of that comforting illusion. He is snoring because he “bumped his head and couldn’t get up in the morning…”

He is unconscious!

Maybe he was just mildly knocked out, you know, like he will come to anytime now and rub the nasty lump on his head where he bumped it, and shuffle to the fridge for a pack of iced-peas to soothe the bruise…?

Somehow, I don’t think his unable-to-get-up state is that simple either. More like, he bumped his head pretty hard and burst something inside it and he couldn’t get up in the morning because…

…he had an intracranial bleed!

…round and round we go, chanting merrily about old men and pouring rain, sweating in the warm mid-morning sun…

Or maybe something had already burst in his head, which is why he fainted and bumped his head even more on his way down…?

…

So…this poor old man…does he stay with a little old lady? Is one of the children visiting? Or grandchildren? Will they notice that Old Man is rather late in coming down for breakfast today? Will they assume that he is just enjoying a lie-in as he listens to the patter of raindrops on his windowsill? Will they carry breakfast up to his room, knocking gently on his door before letting themselves in, laden tray balanced precariously on one hip with one hand while the other turns the knob?

…What if the door is locked…?

When said child/grandchild/old woman lets self into the room, what will tip them off to the fact that the snoring from the bed is not normal-sleep-induced snoring? Maybe they try to shake Old Man awake, only to realize Old Man “couldn’t get up in the morning…” What then? Call for help? Is there anyone else in the house? Dial 911? How fast will they get here? And it is raining, it is pouring…the road is probably washed out!

Maybe-heaven forbid!-maybe Old Man leaves alone. Kids all grown up and moved to the big city to earn the big bucks…call every other month…send the grand-kids over for the summer holidays to save themselves the ever-increasing cost of summer-camp…visit for a couple of days during Christmas-“The Holidays” you have to be politically correct…talk of moving into a home, this old house is too big and lonely for you to be in dad, at your age…

Maybe there is a dog that has been whining in confusion and sorrow since it had that bump last night, and is now beside himself, raising a din fit to wake the dead…but Old Man couldn’t get up in the morning…

Maybe there’s a cat that only looked up briefly when Old Man went bump in the night, then yawned, stretched and went back to licking herself prettily…

Maybe after two days, little Tommy will toss the daily paper to the front step and frown in mild confusion as he rides away, because yesterday’s paper is a sodden pile beside yesterday’s untouched milk…maybe Mr Milkman will be more than a little concerned and will ask the local authority to maybe check up on Ole’ Ted up at the corner because he didn’t touch his milk yesterday, it is not like him to leave the milk out on the doorstep for a whole day, and the paper too, you know how he loves his paper, that Ole’ Ted does…

Maybe…

…where are my pills…?

Where is daddy?

Where is daddy?

That car that passed, its lights are on. Daddy comes for me before the cars put on the lights.

Me, I am now feeling cold. A suna bites my leg.

Where is daddy?

Maybe I walk to home, like these other big children passing me. But it will be very dark soon. Mummy told me not to walk alone when it is dark.

Akello and the others said I walk with them when we leave class. But I want to stay and play with those of Auma and Faisi. They only go to their home in holidays. And daddy said in the morning that he come for me. So those of Akello, they went already.

Where is daddy?

Faisi has long hair and nice clothes. I like to be her friend. She likes me better than Auma. But Auma start to laugh at me when I win the game. My hair is like millet, she says, and my dress have holes. I feel very sad, so I lie that I see my daddy and I come out of the gate.

Now me I am sitting on these steps infront of the church, seeing the cars and the boda-bodas and the bicycles and the big school children and other big people passing. Small children like me are not walking at this time.

Where is daddy?

I forget my sweater at home in the morning. This dress uniform has no sleeves. All my hand feels cold now. I can put this fingers in the pocket so it does not feel very cold but this other hand is still cold.

The big children are walking together. They are talking and laughing. I feel a bit cold inside. Maybe I go back and play with Faisi. I will not talk to Auma. They are even laughing behind the fence. But they will ask me where daddy is. Then Auma laugh at me again. But she has millet hair like mine. Her dress does not have holes because she is the big girl at hers. For me, all the three big girls wear the uniform dress before it is my turn. Even when baby Yakobo starts to put on clothes he will put on those the four big boys already wear.

But were is daddy?

Even the big people are walking with their friends. Even the people they are carrying on the boda-boda and the bicycle are talking to the drivers. I feel cold on my hands and legs, and also inside. And the sunas now bite me everywhere.

Where is daddy?

That one is walking alone. Far away, I see it is a man, but now I see she is a woman in man’s clothes. The long ones. Teacher Grace said they are called trawzas. She is talking to herself as she crosses the road. Maybe she is mad. She has those things they put in the ears for music. She looks at me and makes a funny face. She smiles by herself. She is mad! She even has that hair of rastas. Mummy says women who wear trawzas are bad. Even people who have rasta hair.

She reaches me and I fear.

Where is daddy?!

She passes me and I stop fearing. She has a bag on her back, like mine for school, but hers is big! Does she go to school like me? What is in that bag?

I still see the people passing. Now many cars have put on their lights.

Where is daddy?

The smell of the maize on the sigiri is very nice. It is on the other side of the road. I cannot cross the road alone. And I do not even have money to buy a maize. I am cold. Sunas are biting me. My stomach is starting to pain.

Where is daddy?

Maybe he passed and he never saw me. My dress is colour green like the grass and maybe my colour brown skin is like the steps I am sitting on. And it is now dark.

But the trawza-woman saw me.

Maybe she is a night-dancer. They see in the dark, they say.

I see her coming back. I fear again.

Where is daddy?!

She reaches me and stops. I fear a lot!

Where is daddy?

She removes the music things from her ears. She says, How are you? I want to keep quiet but they say you should answer when a big person talks to you.

I am fine, I say in a small voice. My heart is beating very hard in my neck!

She says, Why are you sitting here?

She is not of this side. Her voice is different. And she talks good English. She must be from where those taxis bring and take people. Far away. Maybe she wants to take me far away. Maybe she will put me in that big bag and take me far away!!

Where is daddy?!

I am shaking very much and my heart is almost bursting.

She says, Where is your mummy?

I cannot answer. Maybe if I stay quiet she will just go away.

She says, Why don’t you go home? Why are you sitting here on these steps?

I just shake. Even the sunas have ran away.

She says, Look at me.

I look. She is a big person. Bigger than the big school children, but not big as Teacher Goretti, or daddy. Even Mummy is bigger than her.

What is your name?

I say my name in a very small voice, like a rat.

Eva? She says

Goretti, I say again.

Ooh…Goretti. What class are you Goretti? She says.

P.1, I say.

I see, she says. Why are you sitting here Goretti? Where is home? Where is mummy?

I try to tell her but am just shaking. I try to point but my hand does not move. I turn my head.

That way? She says. She points at where I turn my head.

I nod, Yes. I see the big people passing. The big children from the other school. Should I shout for them to help me?

Are you waiting for your sister or brother? She says.

I am waiting for daddy, I say. My voice is still small.

Daddy? Is he in the church here?

I shake my head, No. Should I lie, Yes? Will she go away if I lie, Yes?

Where is daddy?!!!

Do you want money for maize? She is smiling by herself. She is mad. But she sounds nice. Even her rasta hair looks nice. Not like the one of a mad person.

My stomach is paining. I nod, Yes.

Didn’t your mother tell you to not take money from people you do not know, hmm?

I don’t talk. Mummy told me not to talk to people I don’t know.

Didn’t she? I shake my head, No.

She laughs a small laugh. She takes the bag from her back. Teacher Grace comes out of the gate and down the steps. She says, Are you with her?

The trawza-woman says, No, she said she is waiting for her daddy. Is she from in there? She points at the gate. Teacher Grace nods, Yes.

Why don’t you wait inside with your friends? They are still playing near here. You go inside, Teacher Grace says.

She has saved me from the trawza-woman.

But I want maize! Even from this side of the road I can smell it. And my stomach is paining, very much. It is even crying.

The trawza-woman is holding some coins. She looks at Teacher Grace. Let me first buy you some maize, ok? You should not cross the road by yourself.

She looks this side and that side then she goes back to the other side of the road.

Teacher Goretti says to me, Was that woman disturbing you? What was she telling you?

I shake my head, No. I am not shaking very much now. She said, What is your name, what class are you, why are you sitting here on the steps, do you want money for maize, then you come, I say.

The trawza woman gives the coins to the woman at the sigiri and the woman takes one big maize, puts it in the covers of another maize and gives it to her. She looks this side and that side then she comes back this side.

Here is your maize, she says. Careful, it is hot. Bye now.

She puts the music things back in her ears, and puts her bag back on her back. She turns and walks away, singing by herself in a small voice. She snaps her fingers and shakes her head. I think she is dancing to the music from the small things in her ears. 

A suna bites my leg. But I am not cold now. The hot maize makes my hands warm and the smell makes me warm inside.

Maybe trawza-women are not bad. Even the mad ones with rasta hair.

But where is daddy?!

The Pearl...

There was a pearl...

...an exquisite jewel, a work of art so magnificent-its inviting beauty so captivating-that once beheld the memory lingered forever, always beckoning the beholder to return to it, to bask once more in its magnificent radiance.

To gaze upon its beauty was to behold a bite sized bit of paradise. Reflected from its dark surface was every colour of the rainbow-shimering, moving, dancing to some ancient rhythm-unheard by most but experienced by all-beautiful in its mystery.  The light-dance spoke of lives past and loves to come… of war and friendship and hope…of triumph and defeat…of simple things and complexities beyond comprehension…of regrets and hopes…The light-dance spoke of LIFE!

There were those who sought to own the pearl, not for its beauty but for their own pride. In their care the pearl soon lost its luster; its lights faded and all that could be seen was its dark surface.

Then...it was returned to its rightful owners and for a moment there was hope-the dancing lights flared up...! But only fleetingly. They that should have cared for the pearl-nurtured it back to its breathtaking beautiful self-used it even worse...

The pearl faded and waited to die…

One can still catch the occasional flash of dancing lights across the pearl’s dull cracked surface-a brief flare of rainbow in motion-a reminder, a promise that all is not lost…

Someday...

Someday, the pearl will live again and the light-dance shall be seen by all to the ends of the earth.

To write...or not to write…?

I start to write…I check myself…and I start again…and I check again…and start again…

Too many false starts! I tell myself “Just write already!”

…I’ll check at the end…

Miraculously I finish…The check begins…

The basics like grammar and spelling are ok, definitely not flawless, but whatever errors are there are intentional, parts of the writing style, you could say…

But the content…

Is it critical enough, or too critical? Is it funny? It is? Too funny the message is smothered by the humour? Or is it too serious, boring even? Is my dialogue too heated? Am I too cold? How much ME is out there on those pages? Have I, in my struggle to pen the perfect piece, stripped myself naked of all the protective layers? Laid myself bare for all? Is there enough fact, or too much? Is it too fictitious? Have I quoted enough scripture, or too much? Have I used too many big words, or too few? Stepped on a few toes or trod too carefully? Would my mother read this and wince? Would my father read this and smile? Would my subordinates read this and still respect me? Would my club friends throw me out? Would my church friends still welcome me? Would I, on another day, read this and think “Who IS that person?”?

I start to write to express myself, I start to write to understand and be understood…but when I finish, I wonder…

Would it not have been better not to write at all?