Am looking at this mental picture, It’s still early in the morning. It’s a young Maasai boy, barely three years old, standing a few metres in front of a manyatta. The Manyatta is in one end of a Maasai Boma deep inside Maasai land. From a few metres above one can see the other three manyattas, all conveniently located in different ends of the tall thick enclosure. There are cows roaming outside the boma, others sleeping, others standing idle chewing the previous day’s meal. Beyond that, all one can see is endless stretches of stones, anthills, scattered acacia and ground all around the boma going as far as the eye can see. There is no road, only footpaths. The boy is naked, apart from a beads’ chain around his waist and the dust on his feet he is as bare as the sand in a desert.
The boy is holding his little manhood, trying to push his piss as high as he can. He is determined, determined to shove it as far into the heavens as he can see, determined to piss on the rising sun. He has only managed a few inches apart from pissing all over his fingers and toes; all the same he is determined. His face is bright and he looks as happy as any child can ever be. He stops, a little disappointed that he hadn’t reached the sun. Next time. With pissing, there is always a next time
There is a call from inside the Manyatta. A crispy clear female voice with a gentle scratch on it calls on the boy. The first call is ignored, and then there is another one, a wordier one, as the boy picks a rock with the intention of throwing it at a calf strolling nearby. He drops the rock and runs towards the curved space used for entering the Manyatta. Words that follow sound like warning, some directions, and then soft instructions.
From the exit the boy comes out holding a big bowl. The bowl is filled with ugali and steaming fresh milk. His hands are dripping water and his dust covered feet are decorated by wet spots spread randomly up to the knees. He is smiling widely. He goes and sits next to a calf – the same one that was strolling – and dips his fingers into the meal oblivious of the flies landing on his hands, face and plate.
The woman comes out next. She looks around with a deep sense of satisfaction and smiles. She is proud to have her grandson around. She will keep him around as long as she can.
“Baba yako alipigia simu mzee asubuhi (your father called my husband in the morning)” My aunt says, disrupting my mental image sequence. All this time I hadn’t realized that my eyes were watering. I try to focus on her face. She looks like a moving image from one of these poor quality digital cameras. I look away and rub my eyes with my thumb acting like something foreign is inside them. Who was I kidding? She knew it would get to me. That is why my dad didn’t call me.
I didn’t know she was sick, had an operation they said. Maybe am guilty of negligence, didn’t ask about her a lot. Or did I? But then, I should have been told. Nobody thought it was important to mention it in our numerous conversations? What the hell are those damn facebook inboxes for if they can’t tell you about your ailing grandmother?
She passed away. It’s painful and I can’t think of any other way to lessen the pain apart from writing. Telling those that will read this how it feels. That Maasai boy in the boma is now seated in front of this laptop 19 years later. His fingers shaking as they type this story. The screen beginning to blur. Damn these tears
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