I suspect we won’t be seeing you around here, one way or the other,’ Ocuotho said, with some meaning. ‘We’ll miss …’ But even before he finished the two started laughing. And it was from the liver and in it lay a national desperation. But it was a language that they each understood.
WE ARE HERE BECAUSE WE ARE HERE
Komora Kijana Wito sat outside his grandfather’s hut watching Ozi village in its daily moments of morning wazimu, idleness, and petty quarrels. It was a week before the War between Tsana and Indian Ocean. His grandfather, Komora Mzee Wito, had come in with the first cockcrow after the meeting of the Gasa and was asleep in the main hut, so there was little for Komora Kijana to do before the old man awoke. It was early in planting season and outside the gate of their compound Komora Kijana now saw a few of the men going to the farms; some women singing while they cleaned their compounds; girls running off to the river to fetch water; young men beating the animals heading off towards the swamp and the forest.
Not for the first time Komora Kijana wondered what it felt like to have a baba, mama, sisters and brothers. The people of Ozi thought his grandfather, currently the most senior elder of the Gasa, was teaching him to become a mganga. The boys he had grown up with now spent most of their time watching Premier League DVDs in the small social hall, dreaming that they would one day play for Manchester United. After being cut they all now lived in their designated camp near the mangroves. His former headmaster, Mr Fito, had even stopped coming to look for Komora Kijana to convince him that he needed to go to university, so that option was also closed. All this was because of the Book that he was helping his grandfather write about his life. Komora Kijana could not do the things of other young men.
In another time he would already have started planning the trip upriver to steal a girl from beyond Shirikisho in a Malajuu village. Komora Kijana now remembered Mariam, the girl he had grown up closest to. She was the only one of his age who was not married because she was going to university. All the other girls of their age already had children. After he and his grandfather had started the Book, Komora Kijana and Mariam stopped seeing each other and when he saw her at the market recently there were no words, just an exchange with the eyes.
Now he wondered where his grandfather’s breakfast was. It was getting late. Every week a different family was assigned to bring food for the elders of the Gasa. Komora Kijana remembered that this week it was the wife of Ukonto assigned to the Gasa’s feeding. Looking into the sky he realised that she was already late. Komora Kijana was relieved, if only for her sake, that his grandfather was asleep. Not that the old man ate anything more than a few bananas and pounded pumpkin leaves every day. Ukonto’s wife was nowhere to be seen and Komora Kijana stood up and decided to get on with the day before his grandfather woke up and demanded his attention.
He could hear the more active children already running around the homesteads – when he looked over the fence he saw the older ones release the chickens from their coops. The clucking birds complained about being cooped inside all night and immediately started scratching and pecking the ground. Cats of all shapes and sizes slunk from the newly open hut doors and stretched and lingered near the hearths. When the women of the houses emerged their cats circled them; some purred from beneath their mistress’s kikois.
Older boy-children snatched the long cylindrical calabashes from the rafters of their mothers’ huts and took to their heels to deliver their fathers’ breakfasts to the shambas. The girls wandered out of huts that sat next to their mothers’ and stood there scratching themselves with sleep till their mothers placed faded yellow plastic containers before them and barked a few commands. The girls reached for the ropes that held each yellow plastic container and slung it on their heads. They headed to the river chattering – more and more girls joining the line from all the homesteads. They all wore red gingham Ozi Primary School dresses. Some wore blue school sweaters, faded at the elbows. The girls all somehow managed to keep talking, some chewing leftovers from last night’s dinner – a piece of cassava, yam, arrowroot, fried banana. Some even carried tin cups from which they sipped their tea uninterruptedly with skill and poise as they carried containers half their body-size on their heads.
Komora Kijana sighed, picked up a couple of water containers and followed the line of girls to the river, hoping to fetch water before his grandfather woke up. The girls giggled when they saw him and taunted and sang at him: The young man who is the wife of his grandfather.
It was cold by the river. The more reckless girls rushed to the water, cupped the cold water in their hands and splashed at their friends. Containers were flung aside as the smaller girls took to their heels. The ones who could not get away fast enough received an unwelcome gush of water down their backs and shrieked. Some pretended to cry and even produced tears. They were immediately mocked and threatened with ‘death by crocodile’. Others did mini-impressions of their mothers and bickered and argued, with arms akimbo. Soon the disagreements turned into girlish laughter and containers were placed next to the pump and then the line of girls could be seen streaming back into the village.
When Komora Kijana noticed how swollen the river was he realised that the War between the Tsana and Indian Ocean was not too far off and he dropped the container he was carrying and hid it in the nearby bushes. Walking along the river he could see the farms, the men bent over digging up the burnt grass because they had to plant in a few weeks. Komora Kijana looked over across the river as the morning disappeared under the sun and he could see young boys carrying packets of food wrapped in banana leaves. The best farms had always been at the shores of the Tsana till the War started.
Komora Kijana found Mzee Jorabashora’s son Hamisi working in the shamba. Hamisi had been his late father’s best friend and was like an uncle to him. The man straightened and smiled at him and they both looked at the river.
‘Has your grandfather told you when the War will happen?’ the son of Jorabashora asked.
‘He says a week at most.’
‘Has he seen the river lately?’
‘He sees its changes in his dreams …’
Hamisi said: ‘Look at the water. The War will come any day now.’
It was the third week of March and they discussed who had tilled the first bush and who had not. Thinking back to the past season Hamisi talked of men like Kase Morowa who waited till the last moment to put seed in the ground and did not take to the fields with the early sun. He then pointed at the shambas, which were all ready for the coming season. Komora Kijana nodded when Hamisi repeated what the old men of the village never tired of pointing out, that it was the footsteps of the woman who had become pregnant that required placing on the ground with care. Crops needed a brave hand. Even now there were still men who were asleep, who only took the path to the shambas when the dew had long evaporated.
A boy emerged from the trees on the other side of the shamba and came towards them. It was Jorabashora Kijana, the son of Hamisi. He waited to be greeted but his father ignored him. Komora Kijana could see boys on all the adjoining shambas bringing breakfast for their working fathers. Many of the men ignored the boys and continued working for long periods before they stopped what they were doing to eat.
Hamisi turned to his son. ‘And now what is wrong with your mother?’
‘Father, it is the government boat,’ the boy said, rising on the balls of his feet with excitement. ‘It passed this morning measuring the level of the Tsana. Everyone went to see it. The whole village is talking about it.’
‘Is that what they teach you in school? To give answers to questions that you have not been asked? Did you pass by the mapera tree? Is that why my breakfast has to be late?’
The
