I laid my father to rest today.
It wasn’t a big deal.
I mean, it was. My father had died, so, obviously, it was a big deal. For me at least.
But for the rest of the world, it wasn’t.
He was just another village drunk, so his death — and funeral — barely made the village news.
Of course, people came to give their condolences and to say a few kind words. But we all knew why they really came: there was food, free and plenty, and it was rice and goat stew, freshly made, fried even. A delicacy in these parts. It came along with some soda and local brew, enough to reinforce a few ironies.
Liver failure is not pleasant; it’s — apparently — one of the most painful ways to go. At least, that’s what the doctor from the Center IV clinic told me, as she casually prescribed a few drugs two months ago. She told me that she didn’t expect much, as his symptoms were far too advanced. In fact, she had said…
“Listen, I’m going to be blunt. Prepare for his death. It’s inevitable. Give him the best care you can for as long as you can. But don’t bother with hospital.”
Her words, as far as I could tell, simply meant one thing: Don’t waste your money.
I laid my father to rest today.
It wasn’t anything fancy. No cement grave, no tombstone, no funeral service providers. Not even the dignity of a coffin.
It was a hole in the ground. We wrapped him in sheets — white, at least — and lowered him into the earth.
The village priest mumbled a few words, cautioning strongly against the dangers of alcohol, and sin, generally. The village elders said “amen” and swigged some more local brew. He took communion, and the village elders said “amen”, ate the Eucharist bread, drank the wine, and taking their seats, swigged some more local brew.
It’s not a hole in the ground anymore, the place I buried my father. It’s now a smallish mound of earth that shows where he is buried. No cross, nothing to show that there is a person just six feet beneath the earth.
A dog, old and frail, sauntered over, sniffed around and lay on the freshly dug earth, becoming so comfortable that after a few seconds, it took a shit and didn’t even bother to cover it up.
My father. Nothing more, now, than a little mound of earth, with dog shit on top.
“Ashes to ashes, earth to earth.”
Indeed.
I laid my father to rest today.
…
“I know nothing, my son. I don’t even know what I don’t know.”
It was night time, a few years ago. We were sitting around the fireplace, after a heavy meal of kwon kabii and lapena. After an hour of random conversation and storytelling, everyone else had drifted off to sleep, excusing themselves one at a time and bidding their good nights.
Wubwut maber. Sleep well.
So it was just me and him left. And the dog, Major, who lay asleep a short distance from the flames, wheezing restlessly in his dreams. He was an old dog, Major, but even in his sleep, his ears still twitched, searching the night for any sound that was unfamiliar.
“He’s a good dog, isn’t he?”
My father’s voice broke the quiet night. I looked up from the dog and up to my father and grunted back a non-committal response.
He reached out towards the bonfire — the wang-oo — and pushed a piece of wood deeper into the smoldering embers. Sparks flew, crackling in the still night, followed by a large and very sudden burst of flame. Red, angry tiny embers scattered and faded into the night sky.
The light illuminated his face, dancing in soft light and haunting shadow.
He looked tired; gaunt, like a human shell that had outlived its usefulness. The wrinkles on his face were deep, and the scars many. His lips had the tell-tale red sheen and distended look of an alcoholic addicted to the very strong local gin that dripped night and day from the illegal home brewery in the next homestead, devastating in its potency and unrelenting in its addiction.
“The world has changed so much that I do not recognize it any more.
“In our days, the dry season and the wet seasons were as predictable as the rising and setting of the sun. You planted. You waited. The rains came. You weeded the gardens and you waited some more. The rains came and the plants grew and bore fruit. The sun scorched the earth and the fruit ripened. You harvested. And you stored some. You ate most of it and filled your belly with the essence of the earth. When the need arose, you sold some food and put clothes on your family’s back. And then you cleared the gardens. And waited.
The goats and cows, they followed the cycle. Even the dogs howled in the middle of the night to the rythm of nature.
Now… I don’t know. Nothing makes sense any more. Not to me, anyway…”
His voice trailed off as though he’d reached the limits of his knowledge.
I drew closer to the fire, shuffling along with my small wooden stool as I absentmindedly poked a stick into the flames, watching the bark hiss and pop as it first dried, smoldering and smoking, before catching flame and turning a fiercely violent red.
I heard him sipping from his plastic cup — the one which no one else touched , the one that was reserved for alcohol — and from the periphery, I saw him wipe his lips with the cuff of his shirt.
“I’m a simple man. You know this.” He continued, speaking into the cup, his voice softly echoing inside the large, dirty mug that was older than I was.
“I know what the people say about me. That I am a fool. That your mother was an even bigger fool for marrying me. Sometimes I see it in your eyes. The anger. The hate. And I know why. I understand.
But you know who never called me a fool? Your mother. God bless her soul. She was the sweetest, kindest woman I ever knew. She was my world. My everything.”
I knew what was coming next. And I didn’t have time for it. Not today.
“Goodnight, father.” I said, standing up and dusting the seat of my shorts. “Sleep well. Please don’t sleep outside.”
I walked to my hut. Tired and weary.
And angry.
Just before I shut the door, I heard his voice, faint, but unmistakable.
He was singing. And somewhere in the midst of his song, the sobs started.
Uncontrollable… unrelenting.
My own tears came a few seconds later.
…
I laid my father to rest today.
When all the food was finished, and the alcohol done, the guests left. As quietly as they had come, as cold and emotionless as the little sachets of extra gin they had hidden inside their coat pockets.
The truth is, no one really wanted to hang around that much.
It was a suicide after all.
…
I laid my father to rest yesterday.
And today, as I sat by the roadside waiting for the pickup that travelled to the town three times a week, I looked, for the hundredth time at the little piece of paper in my hand.
It felt – and looked – like it had aged a thousand years, in just two days after it had been discreetly slipped into my hands by my uncle, who had been the first to discover my father’s body.
That night, as the women wailed and clucked their tongues in dismay and mumbled curses to ward off other curses, and as the men wagged their heads and bickered amongst each other (some still holding their sachets of gin and straws for kwete, stark reminders of a night of drunken merry-making that had been hastily — and yet hesitatingly — abandoned), my uncle, bless his soul, had pulled me aside and whispered that he had found the paper in his brother’s clenched fists, even as his limp body dangled from the rafters of the hut.
It said, very simply:
My son. I am sorry. I tried, but it wasn’t enough. I miss your mother so much and I cannot continue like this… keeping you around as you wait for me to die.
I know I should have told you this earlier but I didn’t know how or when. And I know that this is a coward’s way out.
Go to town, ask for Mzee Ochan Latigo at Lapit Labolo. Tell him I sent you.
He will take you to your mother. Maybe I can for once do the right thing.
Goodbye my son.
I folded the piece of paper and stood up as the pick-up crawled up the small hill and stopped right next to where I was standing.
The driver, smiling, looked at me and asked…
“Boy. Are you ready to begin your journey?”