Twisted Times: Son of Man (Twisted Times Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

January 1984:

Low soft groans.

More whimpering.

Somebody somewhere is in pain.

The cry is familiar.

No… somebody must be in pain.

A figure appeared in the doorway to the bedroom of the ‘70s house.

Crying.

The crying is coming from the silhouette.

No. It isn’t a dream. It must be real.

Mother Theresa woke up only to come face to face with an ocean of darkness… but what had she just seen in the darkness? Who was that crying? She was sure that somebody was there. She could smell
her.
That crying could not be mistaken. Only one person could cry like that.

Then it came tumbling down on Theresa. She was fully awake now. Only one thing came to her mind – help.

Theresa had to do her best. Many young girls died while giving birth. She couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let that happen. Not to her daughter.

Hours later, Theresa was relieved. Her daughter was safe, alive and kicking.

Then the unthinkable happened.

Shannon denied the baby she had given birth to was hers.

Nobody told me that my brother was dead. But I knew long before it was a well-known fact. I saw people coming and going to offer their condolences.

Everybody gave out whatever they had, said a few sorry words for the demise and did
something.
Something here took the form of a chore, anything they could think of – washing the utensils, cleaning the house and the compound, tending to the cattle, and many other domestic duties. In addition, the family radio was playing those gospel songs that were selling like nothing else those days – the Emali Town choir, Kyande, Munishi, the
Twawaombea
hit song, and
Nilianza Safari.

I did not cry, though.

In Africa death is a taboo. People do not talk about it. They talk about death when it has occurred. African death is caused by somebody or something. Death in itself is associated with a bad act, a frightening happening, something that in itself calls for retribution and punishment. Apart from the denial that comes with death, I did not accept my brother was dead. I was surprised to find that I was not alone. Some family members felt that Danny’s death had come a little too early, that it was not in natural order he died that young. They sought to punish whoever/whatever had caused his death. Well, it was whoever. Whomever they consulted told them Danny was bewitched by an aunt.

However, nobody ever told me the truth, though. I happened to stumble on the doctor’s diagnosis report by mistake three years later. The globe of light that was in Danny’s right eye was not exactly what it had been taken to be, what had been neglected. It was retinoblastoma; cancer of the eye. It could have been treated had it not have been neglected for long. Over the years it had spread to other body parts, causing osteogenic sarcoma, a malignant bone tumour.

He was a good brother. I loved him though I never told him so or admitted it to myself in his lifetime. We were sworn natural enemies, ever fighting.

Danny and I grew up together. We only knew one person…
our elderly mother, granny.
Though she was one hell of a good mother, she taught us how to live the hard way.

She taught
us
that we were sons of man.

She taught
us
how to live.

She taught me how to live.

An unrelenting knocking on the door hurtled me back to the present. It was my sister June. She was carrying a DL khaki envelope. She gave it to me and turned to go. I did not have to ask her where it had come from.

The envelope had the state-owned university, Nashville University, logo and seal.

I could not hold my joy back.

“Why don’t you say you understand, Mother?” I said.

“
We
all want the best for you. I know you can’t see that now, but believe me, we have your best interests at heart.”

I felt like strangling her. How could she say that?
Not again, Mom.

“Mom, we’ve been through this already. I need you to talk to him. I must go and the scholarship does not cater for my upkeep.”

“You should listen to your
father…
”

“I see you all don’t understand,” I said flagrantly. “
You
count me not
your
son then,” I said matter-of-factly, unequivocally pokerfaced. Not a trace of any feeling; blatantly unfaltering of what I had said.

I saw her flinch.

“How could you say such a thing?
We
all love you…”

“And why don’t
you
give me what I want if
you
really love me,” I blurted out.

For a brief moment I weighed what she had said – Love. I did not have an iota of what parental love was.
They
did not love me. She did not love me. Not according to my definition of love at the moment. Wasn’t she the one who denied me when she gave birth to me? Or so I was told? Granny once said it in a bout of anger when they were arguing over God knew what and I heard her say, ‘You never wanted this child from the beginning. You denied him after birth and left him with me to take care of your mistakes only to bring another one later. My home is not a children’s home...’

“We will never wish you any ill. We want all the best for you. Why don’t you see that?”

“Sometimes I wonder whether I am really
your
son…”  I still had more ammunition left. The shock on her face was detrimental – I did not know to what. Still, she regained her composure in an instant. It seemed to me that she did not want to show me that I was on the winning.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, her hackles beginning to rise.

I said nothing.

Silence ensued for a moment before I spoke, “Mom, I am sorry. It’s just…”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

I looked at her straight in the eye. There in her eyes I saw something I had not been seeing all along. It had never occurred to me. I never knew it existed. In those maternal eyes there was an ocean of emotions.

Emotions. I recognized one as love.

She was calling to me to go and swim as much as I wanted in that ocean. Then, I did something I had never done to her. I hugged her.

Her muscles tensed. In that brusque hug all the boundaries were broken. Mother and son were united for the first time.

Then she began to withdraw, her hands where her breasts had been on my chest. For an instance, I felt that I loved her and no one else.

“Kennedy my son, I am scared. Your father is a sick man.”

The weight of what my mother said took time to sink in. Nevertheless, despite my wanting to be there for her, to reach out and console her, I found that all what she had said had no effect on me.

Yes, dad could be sick, but I wondered what that had to do with me. Was he not the one who, indirectly, used to show me that I was not his son?

Perhaps it was time for confessions.

I believe that sometimes people confess, pour themselves out to others, thinking that they would be empathized or sympathized with. Sometimes not all who listen to confessions want to be part of the truth told to them. People do not want to offer any help partly because they do not want any stake in other people’s problems and partly because they already have full gallons for themselves, or partly because they have got nothing to offer, even words. And many a time, once the truth comes out, it becomes hard to handle it. Truth doesn’t always set you free, it binds you to an untaken oath to keep it secret. For me I just did not want to offer anything. Not empathy. Not sympathy. Not the promise of keeping it secret. Not even words.

“Ken, please, be mindful of me your mother. When a child is well-behaved, obedient and subservient, the child becomes the father’s child because he feels flattered and proud when saying, ‘my son, or daughter, is like this or that.’ But if the child turns out to be a spoiled brat or a hard core, he or she becomes the mother’s child, because we mothers are the ones who bring
you
up.”

Mother was talking sense, but I wanted to blurt out that I was ready to be disowned, clouted, and even cursed than always let Father have his way. On second thoughts, I did not.

“Mom, I know that, but it’s difficult for me to see how come he can’t help and support me get what I want. Just for once Mom, talk to him. What do I have now? Papers of courses I never wanted. Whenever I put across what my heart desires all I get is
‘my mind is made up… you are taking this… you are taking that…’
for how long Mom am I going to live like this.   I want my life…”

“I wish I could do something. I told you he is sick. Don’t pile so much on him, please…”

I cared for Mom’s happiness, and I never wanted to hurt her feelings. She understood me better than anyone else, and I was free and close to her more than the way I was to
Dad
who was free to and with
his
daughters.

Dad never managed to have a son of his own, and that is how I came to have many sisters. They kept trying to have a son of his own.

Mom never wanted to conflict Dad and me. I knew she was sandwiched between a hard ground and a rock, but she seemed to favour dad’s side many a time.

“Kennedy, I do not want to say…” she began to say.

“Don’t worry,” I said before she went further. “Very soon you are not going to have anything to say.”

Everywhere was the aqua blue of the ocean. The smell of the coast was the smell of roses blended with perfume.

Lying supine on a mattress on the floor of the boat that we had hired at the hotel was my beloved in a Polka dot bikini. Her small bust heaved up and down rhythmically. For an instant I thought of the sweat slicked love we made, and I could not fight the urge to kiss her pouty lips. I bent to kiss her and then…
I woke up.

I checked my watch. It was 1:30 past midnight. I started replaying the dream. It was the same dream I had been having for long. I really loved her and I wanted to be with her.

Her
was Kate.

Kate and I were more than friends. I was about to declare my feelings to her when the devil spoilt everything. Another girl popped up and ruined the plan.

Pauline was angelic, no different from the paintings of the Virgin Mary. Being from a well-to-do family she thought she could get all what she wanted. Her mother was the Principal in the school and this not only gave her the idea that the whole world revolved around her but also the notion that the whole world beat a path to her door. All what she needed to do was just sneeze.

I did not know when
Pauline fell in love
with me, but the news took me by surprise. She used a proxy to get to me, but the proxy was not a good messenger. The missive Pauline had written to me was handed over to her secret admirer who went ahead to show it to Kate.

That was it. Kate never believed me. I tried to explain to her that there was nothing between me and her best friend, Pauline, but she did not believe. Kate told me of the letter that I never saw and told me to stay away from her the way they do it in movies.

Pauline’s beau, and my friend, Ralph, got mad at me for trying to snatch his girlfriend. Pauline’s secret admirer was Ralph’s friend. He told Randolph of
my liaison
with Pauline. That was the end of my friendship with Ralph.

Since then I kept on dreaming and hoping that one day Kate would forget the primary school bullshit and take me back to the realms of her heart.
Seven years, and still counting, was a long time.
I always dreamt of her, that one day we will be.

Now this night it was her again.

I stayed awake thinking of the lost glory with her. Amidst the maze of thoughts about her something occurred to me.

I needed help. Cathy, lovely Kate, could help me.

At last it was Kate to help me… yes? Time to mend torn friendships.
Kate, my lover and best friend.

The ride to Thika town the following day was the shortest ever partly because I was thinking of Kate and partly because the
matatu
that I took was practically flying. It was that time of the month when avaricious drivers took advantage of the end of the month rush risking macabre road carnage.

On alighting I did not waste time. I went straight to Thika Arcade where Kate’s parents operated a cybercafé. Trust my investigative skills, I had already gathered that she was around and she helped her mother in the day to day running of the cybercafé.

I saw Kate before she saw me. She was helping out a customer fix something he was not getting on the internet or so she told me later.

The first thing that caught me by surprise was her inexplicable beauty. The last time I saw her she did not have the aura of a Da Vinci’s La Gioconda. Her chubby cheeks exuded a radiance I only saw in the paintings of the Virgin Mary, cheekbones well formed as though it was Michelangelo himself who was working on them and her eyes were gibbous orbs of beauty and glamour. 

I had not seen Kate since leavers’ bash after completing our end of primary school exams. She went to the Coast over the long December holidays. When she came back I had already joined the seminary. The seminary’s program never coincided with that of other schools thence we never met for almost seven years. After completing high school she went to stay with her cousin who was in the military at the Coast.

Kate was barely a week since she had come back.

The encounter was rather awkward, but I understood. The place and space did not permit for hugs and what-have-you, but the coldness she greeted me with made me lose my confidence. I did not anticipate it to be this way.

We exchanged pleasantries meant to be the warmest mode of reunion of potential lovers who had not seen each other in almost seven years.

There was no beating around the bush. I told her how much I had missed her.
Let her disapprove of me,
I told myself.

She showed me over to the cashier’s desk to go and wait for her there while she finished with the customers. What made me optimistic was the tone of her voice when she told me so.

For hours we talked and talked, remembering
our
primary and high school days with nostalgia. None talked of our past relationship. After all we were just kids then.

I then told her what I needed from her, and why. She agreed to help me out.
Just like that.
“Come tomorrow at our place and I will see what I can do.” There were no words as promising as those ever said to me.

“Won’t you be coming to work tomorrow?” I asked.

“If I want to. I’m just but keeping myself busy here as I wait to go to college.”

“College?”

“Yep. I did not secure an entrance to the university.”

“I see. What would you be doing?”
“
Selling peanuts…
?” she said in Swahili, smiling coquettishly.

“You know what I’m asking,” I said to her.

She answered anyway. She was to do a Certified Public Secretary course.

“Dad advised me so… I don’t care. But I think it’s a shot worth. You know he himself is a secretary in the provincial administration office. He says it’s a good job to do and he’s more of my mentor.”

Well, many a time the wisest thing to do is keep quite. That’s what I did instead of corrupting her obeisance mind with my ‘children-should-be-allowed-to-choose-what-they-want’ thinking.

“Your choice,” I said rather aloof. “So you won’t be in town tomorrow?”

“Because of you…”
she said and winked at me. I would have given anything for her to wink again at me.

“I will be at home, alone. Mom will be going to church and Dad has a meeting in Nairobi.”

I thanked Kate for listening to me and everything, and then left.

*

“Well, how did it go?” I asked Mother the minute I got home.

“Nothing. He was not even moved, but I will talk to him.”

A lump blocked my throat. I wanted to die that very minute. Even after reading the scholarship letter Dad was not moved? Damn him.

“I am terribly sorry, son… he did not even read the letter.”

I did not know what to say.
He did not even read the letter?

I think it is the look Mom saw on my face that made her say what she opened her mouth to say, but I did not want any consolation. I waved her off.

I turned to go. “I am sorry, but I promise I will...”

“I am sorry too, Mom.” I said and left without looking back.