The middle aged man in a turban placed his left hand firmly
on the young lad’s head. His face looked menacing and threatening as if he was
facing some older and stronger adversary and not just the frightened lad who
shivered and trembled with the least of jerks. As the prayer got more and more fervent,
the jolts got stronger and stronger. These motions almost caused the boy to
fall backward but the man of God was there to seize him, drag him forward and
redo the circle again. His bushy beard the trademark of his religion was neat
and well kempt and a few strands were bridled together at the end to form a
knot. The clusters of hair were perhaps the greatest test of his unshakeable
belief that the God he chose to serve would triumph over all the forces of
evil. I don’t remember his name but his entire ilk were referred to as Japolo
meaning a man from heaven.
The man of God admonished the devil inside the young lad
sometimes confusing his quest to break free as a resolve of the devil to
challenge his powers something he couldn’t accept just lying down. He had to
respond, and to answer he did in style. He made a ball of fire and passed it
around through the terrified boys legs and arms. As the fire hovered over his
head the boy made one last desperate look at his aunt in an attempt to appeal
to her to end this tribulation. He could see the pain in her eyes and for one
second he was sure that he was about to be rescued.
However the last
shred of hope was blown when the man of God shouted to the young woman not to
interfere with the fight, that the cool demeanor and feigned innocence in the
boy’s eyes was the work of the devil. He intensified his movements and the boy
realized that fighting it was proving futile. He therefore just let be and got
resigned to his fate, whatever would follow, would happen. Japolo noticing this
proclaimed defeat on the forces of evil in one last act of hurrah.
The young boy ran for his aunt and embraced her for what
seemed like forever never wanting to be exposed to such acts of savagery again.
He knew though deep that the ritual would be done again, and again. The reprieve
was thus a temporary relief but one nonetheless that was to be welcomed with
open arms. But how did he get here in Got Kagumbo? For that was the places
name. You might be wondering where this anecdote is going or whether I changed
my writing style. Nothing of that sought, I just remembered glimpses of my
childhood that was characterized by such a rollercoaster experience that was
exhibited by joy and pain, expectations and despair, calmness and agitation all
in equal measure.
When I sometimes I hear my friends contend about who went to boarding school the earliest I suppress an
urge to laugh especially when they quantify that early to mean class four or
thereabouts. I started boarding school before I learnt how to read and write. Heck,
it was even before I learnt how to gormandize ugali properly. Am told it was just
for a month but am sure I stayed longer. Nevertheless a month is still enough a
stint, right? It’s not what you thinking-it wasn’t because my behavior was that
bad or any of those reasons. It was more like pilgrimage. Just like the ones
the Muslim take to Mecca only that I didn’t travel that far.
After all Got Kagumbo was just as holier (Got Means Mountain).I
shared Damieno’s fate- I heard that an evil lady had cast a spell on me as well.
So sending me there was to protect me from further harm and undo the damage
that was already done. I can’t remember well how bad it was that it warranted
this seclusion from family at such a tender age but to this day am grateful to
my aunt who orchestrated it.
Most students remember their first time in school, a parent
clasping your hand and dragging you like a bull to slaughter. Well, it was very
much the same, only that as my aunt waved goodbye it hit me that I would not be
seeing her for a long time! As the gate closed behind me the enormity of the
situation hit me like a thunderbolt. I remember standing there helpless warm
salty tears cascading down my visage. And every time she came to see me and
just left me there my repulsion increased, I couldn’t understand why she would
just leave me there, in that god forsaken place, with them!
I remember we had a school anthem back then and the words
are still etched in my brain. It went something like:
“Kagumbo ku to
iomo ang’owa?”
“Yesu e ma adwaro”
The soloist did the first line while the second line was a rejoinder.
The soloist asks what we came to seek in that mountain and the rest of us
replied that it was Jesus we sought.
If there is anything this assemblage taught well above
everything else was how to eat nyoyo, a skill that was very useful especially
in my high school years. This nyoyo was purely of boiled maize and salted to
taste. I used to be repulsed by it but as hunger rose, I couldn’t remember more
delicious a meal.
I write this piece because I remembered my aunt and just
what she did to me, the days on the end that she spend transversing the regions
seeking for a cure to whatever I suffered from then. I remember her carrying
the plum child as she walked on foot. I remember the tribulations she bore as
the child demanded food in the middle of nowhere. Long live Waya!
I would have gone on about Got Kagumbo it is just that it is
difficult to concentrate on writing with so much hustling and errands to run.
Maybe the holiday mood is sinking in or am just growing illiterate as our high school
teachers used to prophesize if we went home and kept away from our books .
Until next week!
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