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The Resurrection Ten years after Atieno was sold into her first marriage, she suddenly discovered what to make of her second one. “Ten years ago,” she confessed immediately she came to Bolo Njule’s tiny hut, “I was not properly married. Now, I am.” She repeated this discovery to anyone who came to visit her or cared to invite her to a welcoming party as the latest bride of Kotondi town. Self-styled biographers took over her story and proclaimed her second marriage “real”, that is, successful, although her man was “none other than Bolo Njule”. Had Atieno been another woman with no unfortunate experience, she would have been considered unlucky. She was young, beautiful and learned (in so far as this meant she could write and had read some books)—all of which qualities she didn’t need, and indeed put her at a disadvantage, to be the wife of Bolo Njule. “Ten years ago,” she repeated one solemn night at a party we had made for her at our home,” my father sold me like grains.” She was still considered a bride and a guest in the town although she was two months old and had begun to behave like an old village woman, taking the kangara brew and cursing whoever crossed her way. We, the Akumos, being her neighbors and being unmindful of her easy, if sometimes queer adaptation, and exotic yarns, thought it was a good idea to make her the cause of one chicken’s slaughter and the copious flow of the traditional brew. We also didn’t mind her being the focus of our attention this evening. I had been the errand boy (there were quite a few benefits attached to this occupation) sent to invite her, and when she arrived at sunset, she claimed she was thirsty and feeling cold at the same time. I fetched her a calabash full of kangara, which she took like water, gulping it down at a go. By the time the family came to shake her hands in welcome, and keep her company, she was already in her third calabash. She looked around smiling at the audience of mother, my brother, Paul, and father. “Is this all the family?” she asked. “No,” replied mother, “some are away visiting relatives.” “They must be a happy lot here at home or away with relatives,” observed Atieno. “I’ve never been happy at home or away with strangers.” Atieno’s eyes were bloodshot: her tongue was agile. As a child, I had learned that a person in such a state could be trusted to tell several epics at one sitting and still be fit to joke, to praise, to laugh and to cry with the rest as they told theirs. But this sad tale whose signature tune was being “sold like grain” was exclusively Atieno’s and we were glad our part in it was only as a sympathetic audience, not the heartless perpetrators of cruel deeds that had “plucked” a promising young woman from the land she loved. “Because,” continued Atieno almost tearfully, “because I was a girl, the wildcat that must roam the earth, I was given to an old man from a strange land. I was not even old enough to be given away. But my brother, the only son in the family, was ill and had to be treated. “I remember my brother well. He was a sickly child who had all sorts of worms attacking his body. He could not walk, talk, laugh or cry. His face was set in a perpetual grin, dry lips stretching painfully to cover protruding teeth. If he belonged to some other tribe I know, he would have been thrown to the bank of a river and left to die there. But here, we worship such bodies and fear their spirits will haunt us if we mistreat them. Yet, we are still a haunted nation. “My father was a haunted man. He always dreamt that he would die without a son and that there would be nobody to bury him when he died. He was haunted by the image of his lifeless body lying on a mat, festering, feasting the flies without anybody digging a hole underneath to let it sink….” “Didn’t he have his kinsmen?” asked mother, puzzled by Atieno’s father’s fear. She had just returned from the kitchen with a tray of chicken and a plate of fish, both cooked in earthen pots, which meant they were well-cooked and delicious. For some time, Atieno’s eyes wandered on the food being set on the table before she answered mother’s question. “He had his kinsmen and I was her daughter. But, you see, a man should be buried by his sons.” “That’s true,” agreed father, seeing that mother did not stay to listen to Atieno’s answer. (She had already returned to the kitchen to bring more food.) “A man must live on in his sons,” Atieno went on without pause. “My father must have been obsessed with death, that is, rotting and turning into nameless, formless dust. Who would name his children after him? He had seen my mother die, buried and forgotten. And so, he wanted to make no mistakes. A man must be buried by his sons. He looked forward to getting sons from the women who came to our home, stayed, and realizing that there was nothing to stay on, not even milk from a goat, passed on as surreptitiously as they had arrived. With their exit went the old man’s hopes of ever siring a son. His favorite saying became ‘A man must be buried by his son.’ “He had this brother of mine who did not even know that he was a son or a being of any value. He had been hidden in a dark corner all his life, but was now brought out into the morning sunshine and shown to the witchdoctors, medicine men and priests. They stayed to ponder over the problem, to feast and to give heaps of hopes. “In the afternoons, Oyombe was taken to a cool shade of an acacia tree behind our house. It was the biggest tree in the Ahero country with a canopy the shape of a mushroom. Birds of the air were attracted to it, making it their abode, day and night. This tree, which had lasted for as long as anybody could remember sometimes provided a stage for a drama which was thought to be local, but which was indeed universal. It was here that my misfortune began because an uncle would tell my father about the discovery of a medicine through a blind genius. “But first Oyombe had to be exhibited like some troublesome specimen to priests and witchdoctors. ‘He’s a nice boy,’ said my father, looking up angrily at the noisy birds in the tree, ‘only he has been bewitched by jealous neighbors.’ “The doctors and priests ignored the birds, examined Oyombe and agreed that he had indeed been bewitched and promised they could eliminate the cause of the problem. ‘We will kill the witch that is destroying the life of such a promising boy,’ they said. “The medicine men promised a total cure and the priests prayed to everything, to everybody and to every spirit to revive this fallen boy. The birds sang and played in the tree canopy above. No change.” At last food was laid on the table. I brought a bright lantern lamp from the kitchen and then fetched a jug of water. I poured the water on everybody’s hands, starting with my father, next the guest and then my elder brother, Paul. Mother prayed not only for the food to increase our health, but also for the good life of this guest who had come to help Bolo Njule build a home. “And where is Njule, the small bird?” asked father of Atieno’s husband. “You should know, in-law,” said Atieno. “Bolo—this is too early for him to return home.” She laughed rather than complain. “I know,” father said hurriedly. We all knew where Bolo was at this time, but we didn’t want to talk about it lest we were accused of maligning his name in the presence of his bride. “I left word with his mother, Tila, that he comes here immediately,” I said as people immediately set on food. “It is long since I ate such a good meal. The chicken tastes tender and the fish is like the one my mother used to cook for me,” said Atieno nostalgically. “Do you have the Lake near your home?” asked my brother, Paul. “No, we have a big river called Nyando. Don’t you hear some people call me Atieno nyar Nyando?” Paul nodded in assent. He kept on looking at Atieno and I knew he was interested in her story. In all our family, I think it was Paul and I who had a special liking for stories. “People came,” resumed Atieno, having eaten and washed her hands. Both Paul and I moved closer to her. “Relatives, friends, relatives of relatives, friends of friends, agents of witchdoctors and medicine men. They all wished the boy well and gave suggestions which father gobbled up like a greedy fish does to a bait….” “A desperate man can grab a leaf to climb a tree,” said father feeling pity for Atieno’s father. “Yes, he grabbed falling leaves and came crashing down like a shooting star. Our family became poorer and poorer and father became more indebted. Cultural experts came and said, ‘Odipo son of Otipo, what is wrong here is the location of your home. You know, the son to your grandmother’s aunt who once lived here and did not mourn his father and mother as a result of which he, together with his family, was cursed and struck by the lightning cock and the people failed to do the cleansing and so an evil wind blows into this place at night and noises can be heard and to imagine that nobody has told you this so far and your children have died here, your wife too died here and now your son is dead, dead, dead already….’ “My father moved the location of our home five times and still nothing happened to make him happy. “The doctors came and went. More people came and went. Suggestions poured in like floods and subsided. Only my brother’s condition worsened. His emaciated body turned into skeletons that weakened and could break like twigs if you as much as touched them.” Atieno drank some water in the very calabash she had been taking the wine from, father was exclaiming, “What strong witchery!” and mother, realizing that a person who talked like Atieno had thirst that needed some stronger drink than water to quench it, brought another round of kangara in a pot. Father, who had started yawning in boredom rather than from sleepiness, lit up his face at the prospect of such a promising party. There was certainly going to be a climax other than the one in the bride’s story; the party too would have a climax. “And I know all this,” continued Atieno taking sips in between, “because I was the nurse, the doctor and the mother. None of the experts knew the boy as I did. Some even examined, no, looked at him from far, exclaimed in whistling and made prescriptions and quick exit. It was like a curse, the existence of this boy, and nobody wanted to share in it. Only I, Atieno of River Nyando was left with this boy, day and night, in the stillness of the land and in the chaos of the evil storms. “My father went to every land to look for a cure. Each time, he came back with herbs, ashes, charms and more experts. The disease laughed at us in the face and went on ravenously. “One morning, I carried my brother from the house to the courtyard outside and lay him on a mat as usual. The sunshine was weak but touched us with a most pleasant warmth. I looked at Oyombe, talked with him to cheer him up. Not a smile, not a gesture. Only a vacant look that went past me to the sky above. Was he looking at God and asking him questions in an unspoken language?” “He must have been seeing far,” remarked Paul, meaning that the boy was set on that long journey to his maker. “He was seeing far,” agreed Atieno, looking for the point from where she had been interrupted as she gulped a mouthful of kangara.. “The sun rose and rose and my brother seemed to melt like wax. I moved his formless body to the shade of a tree. “It was the most difficult task I’ve ever done. You see, I used to dig, to draw water from the Nyando, to look for firewood in the far hills, cook, wash….” “Play,” I said, being impatient that such an important activity in a child’s life was being left out. “Yes, play,” said Atieno agreeably. “If racing with other girls on our way to the river would be called playing… I used to run, but nothing would have been more difficult than moving the boy to the shade. Perhaps it was as difficult as transferring water from one pool to another using the cup of your hands. “At that instant, I thought I discovered something that was hidden to my father. It was a knowledge, which comes out as clear as the sun out of a thick cloud, or out of an eclipse. The problem is that I could not bring myself to say it. You see, I had been nursing this boy all my life and prayed and hoped that one day, he would be well and that I would play with him in the courtyard in the warm morning sun. But this discovery I made shook my confidence and threw me into terrible depression. I saw darkness in that bright morning. I, Atieno, with my large eyes, only saw darkness as the eye of the sun bestowed all its light upon the earth. I was afraid. I was afraid to venture my childish sentiments in a situation where people started their speeches with the formula, “You see, son of Otipo.” I could not address my father as “Odipo son of Otipo” and so would miss the air of seriousness in which suggestions and information were couched. Besides, nobody asked for my opinion because to the adults I was just a child. And so I choked with my discovery and oppressed myself the more.” “Where is Bolo Njule, the small bird that serves kings,” asked my father, obviously tipsy and craving for a manly talk with the town know-it-all, news collector and broadcaster. Although Bolo Njule was interesting in himself, his arrival would certainly put an end to this story. So, my brother Paul and I wished that he stayed away for as long as the story lasted. “Go and fetch him,” said mother, challenging father. “Who? I son of Ondigo to fetch men at night? Why?” Nobody answered. It would be too daring. Atieno had noticed that we were the most attentive of her audience and so was addressing herself to us. “I have to tell this story in memory of a friend,” she whispered confidentially. “One afternoon under the acacia tree, an uncle of mine bought us an urgent message, ‘Odipo son of Otipo, I have a word. The word is like this: there is a medicine man who kills and resurrects. He lives on this earth, but so far away—at the end of the earth in Takanewa. I owe the discovery of this medicine man to the erratic movements of a blind man.’ “My father happily took in the message. Within two days, he, together with the uncle, was off to a land so distant nobody ever thought it was on this earth. But for my father and uncle, this remoteness was an advantage because they believed the cure for this boy would come from outside this land or from outside the earth itself. “I shall never forget the three weeks my father was away. The disease was finally closing in on my brother’s soul. The fear of his dying any time, the work of caring for his formless body, and the discovery…. I had been the deputy mother when my mother was alive; I had been the mother of the house when she died. Now, I was the mother, the father, and the doctor and a possible undertaker. Don’t you see, people of our homestead, that I was being destroyed?” Father had finally dozed off. Paul and I were as alert as we were when we had woken up in the morning. “I was afraid, I was afraid, I was afraid. I feared everything had gone wrong and I was responsible and the punishment would be death—death for us all. I saw Disease with his brother, Death, hover above us like the ominous koga bird and then close up on us surreptitiously, determinedly and I knew—oh, the terrible knowledge! “I was restless, I was sleepless, I was powerless. I kept vigil all night, yet I knew that I lacked the strength to defend myself. I can assure you that in those days, even if Death came in the form of an ogre opening his foul mouth and taking time before devouring me, I would not even have raised alarm. I would not even have fled. I would have died like a lamb. Yet I was fully awake, waiting for that moment of catastrophe. “My father came back in the middle of one night, frail from a running stomach. Whatever he had eaten in Takanewa! The first word he uttered was, ‘Atieno, is Oyombe still alive?’ When I answered in the affirmative, he breathed a sigh of relief and went to relieve himself in the bush. “He had been running, this old man. And his stomach was running too. His companions could not cope up with his speed and so he left them behind. He was later to be heard saying that had somebody not served him the meat of a hyaena, he would have outpaced them by one week. “Anyway, two days passed and the uncle arrived together with the famous doctor from Takanewa. The medicine man had no remarkable looks—small and dark.. But you would have thought that God Himself had come to earth. I had never seen such a crowd mill around a small home, such hope expressed in every mouth, and such talk revolve around one man. “And the center of attraction, the center of faith and the center of all talk was this small, dark man nicknamed and hailed as ‘the Bush’ because he knew all the ways of the bush. And this knowledge put him above everyone else and above every mortal problem. He could kill and resurrect, resurrect and kill. He was talkative and even entertaining as he mingled with everybody. ‘The bush has existed before man and will outlive man and his spirit,’ he said and added wisely, ‘If you know all the ways of the bush, you know all the ways of the earth and space and stars. The bush is everything!’ “The treatment he gave my brother was most unusual. He chanted, whispered, whistled and danced. He gave my brother concoctions—ashes, barks, roots, leaves.... Every specimen was in our house; the bush simply swallowed us in its medicinal manifestation. The boy did not respond. But hopes were still high. “On the fifth day of treatment, the Bush said, ‘Son of Otipo, I have treated many, but never has one given me so much trouble. This boy would be dead. The witch who did this must have traveled far. What I am seeing in this boy are foreign charms.’ Whereupon, the medicine man laughed loudly, chanted, danced and led everybody to sing along with him as he encircled the boy. “Suddenly, Oyombe also laughed, opened his eyes and tried to chorus back the song. Two days later, Oyombe was singing and dancing, although weakly. He had been truly resurrected. “I didn’t join in the dancing and singing, I tell you. Not that I didn’t rejoice in the recovery of my brother. No. It was because I was confused. The whole thing seemed to me like a deception, like the double images you see when you press your eyeballs. You know they are not real, but there they are before you. Moreover that terrible discovery I had disturbed me and I couldn’t tell whether I was a fool or prophetess on account of it. Even though I thought I was superior to all these people, all these happenings, my beliefs were still not firm. You could have told me that I was stupid and I would have believed you. “Anyway, the resurrection had been done and people were happy for our family. Songs of praises were hastily composed for this wonder-maker from Takanewa. He was godly, they sang. He was human too, for it was revealed that he too had an only son and this must have made him empathize with my father. Also, there were plenty of things to worry about side by side with the celebration. There was the question of fees for the resurrection which was put at fifteen but bargained down to ten heads of cattle. Nothing much for a rich man, but my father had spent all his wealth on treating the boy. How could he raise all that? You see, our home was devoid of cattle, sheep, goats or even chicken. “The village met, argued and agreed to knock off part of the expenses.. No more than one animal was raised. Nobody was willing to offer more or even lend. Everybody had got his own problems and could not lose sleep over ours. Only my grandma, Dani ny’Owaka, lost sleep over our problem, but what could an old woman who could not even walk properly do? “The Bush was impatient. He said we stop playing with him. He was a busy man and he could not wait for the fee and he could not go without the fee. ‘What if we simply don’t pay?’ some people asked. Well, there was the constant reminder that the Bush who resurrected could also kill—and kill for good. And that set my father to work hard to ensure that the medicine man was satisfied and his son alive and healthy. A series of meetings were held between the elders and the Bush, but nothing really came out of them. The Bush called the elders, ‘slow, stammering chameleons’ and they were furious. “My father did not miss the message of the Bush’s insult. Long, long ago, God sent the chameleon with the message of life to earth but because of his slow, stammering ways, he did not deliver the message in time. A faster animal—must have been the Hare—bypassed it on the way and delivered the message of death first. And so, man continues to die up to now. Could the elder’s slow ways lead to Oyombe’s second death? My father moved in fast to appease the medicine man and reconcile him with the elders. “One lazy evening, we sat down with Oyombe trying to count the crane birds that were perching on our acacia tree for the night. (It was one of our cherished pastimes.) There was yet another meeting in our house. Suddenly, there was a commotion and presently, the Bush stormed out threatening to bring down the thundering cock and the denizens of the sky ‘to this earth, to this village!’ He was an agile old man and he paced about our compound with my father on his heels like a dog. He was pleading with the man to come to the house and settle the matter ‘like grey-haired wise men do.’ He eventually led him back to the house. “Naturally, I was interested to hear what the final word would be, it being known that the medicine man would leave the following day. I went behind the house—the cheeky girl that I was—and eavesdropped on what was being said inside. You know, our houses?” “It is easy to hear what is being said from outside,” said mother who was at last settled down on a chair for the story. “Perhaps, as we are talking here, a night runner is outside listening to us. And what entertainment he is getting, better than what he gets from his occupation!” Paul said. “Just as well, this is a story of the night runner kind,” said Atieno. I made as if to ask a question, but Atieno put her finger on her lips and I kept quiet. “My brother joined me behind the house and seeing my finger on my lips, sat down as silently as I had done. People of our homestead, it was while there behind our house that I heard the words that changed my life forever. “‘The fee for treating the boy is the girl!’ “I didn’t care who said it—the Bush, my father, the elders—they were all the same to me. Their voices were now harmonious and soon they were trooping out of the house in groups, congratulating one another for a problem well settled, promising one another beer parties, cows to exchange, farms to till. But mind you, I felt an intense sadness fall and envelop me like the night itself. And I felt like I was in this darkness with only vile beasts for my companions. Oh! If only I could turn into a beast, I could have torn everybody to pieces that night. Except my grandmother, Dani Ny’Owaka. “She was the one. When she heard that I was to go with the Bush, she said, ‘The Shit!’ and screamed on top of her voice. She grabbed her walking stick and raved about all night, prophesying that Odipo would destroy his family. ‘Even a girl is a child,’ she said. ‘A home without a girl, ha! A home without a girl is a dry rock. Nothing will grow there. How hard I prayed that I should not see this destruction! Odipo, come out and say how. Say how you want to throw away my beloved granddaughter.’ “You see, I was the last daughter in the family. The rest had been married or dead or married and dead. But not even this fact could save me. Not even the grandmother with her terrible prophecies could save me. In the middle of the night when grandmother was taking a break—she was so old, so old—my father simply told me, ‘Go with this old man…he’s done well to cure your brother.’ Sheepish and trying to extricate himself from the whole matter, he did not even walk his guest and I out of the gate. Fatigue, depression, guilt, mounting dissent the old woman had invoked among some villagers…. It was too much for an old man, even one with a resurrected son like my father. I could see he would soon need resurrection himself, though he would certainly not afford the fees. “I was only thirteen when I was taken to Takanewa. I had no idea what I was going to do there, how long I’d be there and whether and when I’d be back home. I had begun missing home that night I was sneaked out and I, like a lamb, kept quiet even though I knew I was being led to the unknown, possibly to death itself. Perhaps it was the medicine man’s magic. I just didn’t have the will and strength to raise a voice. Can you imagine that I, Atieno nyar Nyando, went away without protest, without bidding my people bye? And can you imagine that when we had crossed the Nyando and my grandma screamed, ‘My granddaughter, where are you?’ I didn’t even respond? Yes, I failed to wake up the whole land to the crime that was being committed on its own soil. Perhaps in the silence of that night, the screams would have pierced the stubborn heads of men, the tender hearts of women and the strong bodies of the youth. And perhaps a war would have been waged on the strange, old man and those who sold me to him. “The strange man! I had never walked with a man, never walked in the night. But this man introduced me to darkness, to the strange noises, the strange activities…. Whistling, singing and dancing, we went along. The Bush! I was fearful, oh how fearful I was! And the terrible knowledge nagged me; I knew all was not well where I was leaving and where I was going. But the strange man was most at home. I guess he was the night itself making strange noises, strange gestures and dancing and running….” “Night runner!” shouted my mother as though the man was with us here tonight. “Wait! This world, my sister, can join you to all sorts of strange men. This man could be a night runner, a magician, a healer, a counselor, a thief, a chief…. These days I forget some of the things he was which I began to see that night I was plucked from our home. We ran, we trotted, we walked. All night, we didn’t rest. I can’t imagine how I put up with all that, but I was a strong girl and he was an old man, so why couldn’t I excel in what he did?” “Don’t underrate old men,” warned my father, handing a calabash of kangara to Atieno. (She had finished hers.) She proceeded to tell the story even as she sipped the wine. “I did as he did not because I liked it, but because there was nothing else to do. In those days, I could be a follower, yes, even a follower of a devil. Innocence did me a wrong, my fellows. When I remember what I allowed to happen to me, I cry until tears dry from my eyes. But what could a thirteen-year old do in the wilderness with a strange man? “One week after that fateful night, the man told me, “We are now in Takanewa.” The wilderness was terrible, people. All the way from here to Takanewa was an endless expanse of wilderness, turning wilder and wilder as you moved farther and farther away. I could not count the number of strange trees, grasses, landscapes, villages…. I could not count the number of strange rivers, ponds, pools and, yes, lakes. Not that this land had plenty of water. No! I almost died of thirst one day.
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