By Jared Nyabaro
The inauspicious scarlet sun limps lazily towards the horizon. I hold mother’s waist tightly by my right hand, her left arm rests on my shoulders –like young lovers. Her right hand and my left clasp the silver urn intimately. The flowing black buibuis we’re adorning suavely sweep the pristine white sand as we amble down Cyangugu Beach,towards the foaming waves. The tide rises steadily, tossing miniature Swahili dhows sailing ashore. The air is pregnant with saline vapour, and a delicate aroma of smoked fish plays second wife.
“You’ll step forward and toss the ashes onto the lake,” mother nudges.
“Oops, who- me ?” I quip.
“Yes,” she affirms, and adds, “You held his hand as he breathed his last, his soul got entangled with yours.”
“Just, em……maybe….” I’m not sure what to say.
“He knew you first, and-….,” I counter.
“No arguments, please,” she cuts me short.
“- And he loved you more, vowed to do so till his last breath,” I insist.
“OK, Fa- we can do it together,” she agrees.
This while, Ganza is dead silent-scared stiff because he can’t venture into the lake. He’s clad in a black kanzu with a matching fez, barefooted as well. The wind gets wilder. The towering palm fronds whisper in conspiracy, let him rest here, they seem to beg. The bristling sand pricks our tender soles, but we dread crabs more. Their pincers might mistaken our toes for foes- as they creep under darkness to take supper.
Mother and I tread into the tepid water, as it folds the hems of our buibuis like upturned umbrellas. We embrace closely, then flip the urn onto the lake. A breeze caresses the ash, some of it is drifted eastwards, more of it splashes the turquoise water then dunks. Transparent pebbles rise as ash particles are licked by water. Mother fetches dad’s pocket-size notepad from under her lilac brassiere, tenacious courage dancing on her face. Her thumb and index finger she wets, then deftly turns to page ninety-five in the book. Tears cascade down her cheeks as they wet AT SUNSET, the last poem dad had woven:
When I breathe my very last
When my grip unto death will be fast
I would wish to rest
Eternally with the sea. First,
My sparkling self
With respect- put away
In a brilliant blaze
Then the ashes scattered
Onto the sea, sensationally
So that I’ll live forever
Like the sea itself.
I would not wish for
A costly cortege bidding me farewell
Wastage of time in speeches and eulogy
Wastage of energy by undertakers
Wastage of land befitting a burial site
A brilliant blaze my best bet
I’d rather be ashes than dust
So that I live forever with the sea
If only the dead’s wishes are let to be.
This is the same page dad is engrossed in as I daydream beside him in the Kigali-bound flight. As the plane lumbers down the runway for takeoff, he fishes the by-book from his suitcase overhead. It is the last flight from JF Kennedy International Airport, Queens in New York after the government banned entry and exit from the land of opportunity due to coronavirus. All the passengers aboard wear face masks, making them to look like the-not-so-fair gorillas of Virunga.
Across the aisle, a white couple sits restlessly. The husband keeps glancing at me, you’re in business class too?, his piercing eyes seem to ask. My mask is lowered, could it be the reason for his scarely stare?
“Why do you stare at us like that?” I blurt.
“I……I’m just wondering…,” he defends himself.
“About?” I ask annoyingly.
“I’ve been brought up to believe that all negroes are poor, retrograde buffoons,” he pukes. “Why can’t you wear your mask properly?”
All those around us wince as the revelation is rather shocking, but expected.
“Most whites believe that all Africans are intrinsically dangerous,” dad whispers.
“ Must he shove it down our throats like that? I counter.
Dad elaborates, “ They are aware that they must fear those whom they’ve wronged. Fear born of ancestral guilt, a heritage from centuries of slavery. Fear of reigning terror on innocent negroes.”
“Do you think the Captain and First Officer are lazy buffoons?” dad poses to him.
“Quite the contrary, they’re civilized,” he swears, “ that’s why they can fly a Jumbo!”
“Ygo!” the wife exclaims, disgust thawing all over her face.
“What of the black man who died from mechanical asphyxiation,” I chip in, “when a white policeman pressed his knee on his neck for eternity?”
“The negro deserved it!” Ygo brags, “Civilization demands that he should have confessed then argued later. He was guilty, until proven innocent.”
Dad cuts him short, “Even if he would have confessed, he’d still have been clobbered senseless, fake evidence planted on him and later charged with resisting arrest.”
The autopilot is engaged. The Boeing coasts like a gigantic eagle. Essential luxury. Most passengers doze off continually. Ygo can shove negroes, but not a good siesta. After an eternity, he somnambulates and mumbles,” Why do you think the body of this jet is painted white and the landing gear black?”
His eyes are still shut. I’m not certain whether he’s aware of what he’s doing, but do I care? I thus snap:
“Because it’s civilized. Does coronavirus distinguish between the civilized and the retrogrades? On the contrary, more melanin seems to scare it stiff, it ravages those without.” A tonne of an antidote it is.
Just in the heat of the argument, the Captain announces that we’re briefly landing at the Heathrow. Passengers disembark and stretch for about thirty minutes. Social distance is the song everywhere,and washing hands its chorus. We board the plane an hour later and depart London for Kigali. Ygo and his wife and daughter have come for a holiday in Africa, the land of lazy buffoons. He hopes to roam wild, savour gorillas and the big five- diverse fauna and flora- the unrivaled splendor.
This deep vitriol against blacks makes dad and I ponder about how mother and Arthur Ganza Junior are fairing in New York. What if they catch the virus? What if they are taken into Intensive Care Unit when we’re a continent and an ocean apart? What if they die? I dreaded the last question most, as much as dad did. Just before touching down at Kigali International Airport, we are treated to disheartening images flashed from the top of the hour newscast. Infections in Wuhan are plummeting while in New York they are surging. Government morgues are brimming with bodies, morticians at private establishments are overwhelmed. Social distance, quarantine, isolation are current buzzwords in a repertoire of pathological lexicon. Careful handling of the dead. Body bags. Mass graves. Torrential tears.
At the customs we’re scanned and subjected to mandatory testing of body temperature. We’re all in a single file. Ygo Johnson is in front, his wife Keith is next, then her daughter Shanice who takes after me- tall, slender, sylphlike- except complexion and attitude, dad is last. Anxiety is soaring, so is fear.
“Why can’t they have more quacks doing this?” Shanice poses.
“Like proper medics do in New York,” I counter, the sarcasm is palpable.
“Because this is Kigali,not New York- the city that sleeps not,” dad cuts in.
“We don’t have much time to waste,” the ‘quack’ roars.
The ‘quack’ taking the temperature embraces dad heartily. His laughter portrays familiarity. From their conversation, he read dad’s The Sacred Beauty, which was an optional novel in his high school days. The book’s distinct approach to matters life, death in particular, changed his perspective about life. One hundred and seventy three passengers and eight crew- as a matter of factly- require more ‘quacks’ to take their temperature. Ygo’s reads thirty eight degrees celcius, he’s isolated. Keith’s reads thirty six point six, Shanice’s thirty eight point five. She, too, is isolated. Arthur Guru,my dad’s, is thirty eight point seven, but it’s recorded as thirty six by the ‘quack’ so that he’s not isolated. Mine is thirty six point three and I’m as free as coronavirus to go. Thirty eight passengers, the First Officer and an air hostess are quarantined at a facility proximal to the airport. Ygo and daughter are quarantined too, Keith is let to go, but where- without her family? All of us might have caught the virus, only that we’re asymptomatic. Ygo’s family might not sojourn southwards to relish The Land of a Thousand Hills, the African savannah with lush rolling hills and cloud shadows. And the gigantic jumbos nibbling at sun-ripened amarula fruits in Akagera,and the iconic gorillas. Ygo is nostalgic about this paradise, the previous year when he visited, he uploaded the African elephants on Instagram and captioned them as thus: “It’s amazing how they fill up the horizon. Everything about elephants is calm, gentle, soothing. To watch such huge animals march on the open emerald plains was truly mesmerizing- the while at Echo Cliff Eco-Camp, Akagera National Park,Rwanda.” It’s good riddance though. Nature is suffocated, with coronavirus, it can breathe a sigh of relief. Less visits to the parks and reserves mean less motorists, less littering, less pollution. The parks are on holiday, rejuvenating with quiet and natural order.
Just in this precarious moment, dad’s phone rings. The ringtone– In the sweet by and by, We shall meet on that beautiful shore, We shall sing on that beautiful shore, The melodious songs…..is a harbinger for seclusion, either ephemeral or eternal. Dad gives his phone a blank stare. It’s mother who’s Zooming.
“Hope all is well,” dad wants to know.
“Ganza is quarantined,” she says, then blows her nose, “I don’t know what will happen to me if…if…”
Her sobs are infectious. She toys a burgundy kerchief, wiping torrents of flow down her chubby cheeks.
Dad inquires, “Why, what happened?”
“He was taken ill yesterday- he tested positive for coronavirus and was quarantined at Langone Health facility,” mother explains.
“Are you at Langone presently?” dad wants to know.
“I was not allowed to visit him, I’m really devastated. The medical staff are weary and vulnerable though they’ve supplies and protective gears. They, too, are sharing the emotional burden of working, hoping and waiting. May I talk to Fa briefly,” mother pleads amid sobs. She is fond of referring to me as Fa, short for Fatma. Seldom does she refer to me as Muhire,which I took from my grandma. Whenever she does, I’m made to feel fragrant like a freshly cut jasmine. Her penchant to nip names is contagious ,making dad to refer to his dotting son as Gan.
We get into a cab heading home. I’m sitting alone at the back as I converse with mother on Zoom. Her eyes are reddish and the face haggard from weeping incessantly. Ganza’s sickness has taken a toll on her ,it would get worse if dad is quarantined.
“I wish you were all here, sweet Fa,” she coos.
I soothe her, “It shall be well- and…..t,” I gasp for breath.
“It feels like a year already, like a lonesome, moonless night bereft of dawn,” she laments.
My wells are full, and they let torrents of flow without restraint. Looking at mother crying makes me more dreary. I strive to numb my feelings as much as I can without avail. Suddenly, In the sweet by and by is heard again. A message pops up on her other phone’s screen. Zoom enables us read the message together: Is this young negro going to die? Is he ever going to see you, dad and Fa again? These racists believe we’re part of the menace, we’re as bad as the bats in Wuhan.
“To have sent a text message means Ganza’s recuperating well,” I encourage mother.
Her voice totters, “ Maybe- “
“Yeah, most patients worsen,” dad affirms, “ they end up in ICU, or worse still…..“
“He’s improving, only that he’s still isolated,” mother reveals.
“I’ll miss you, I’ll miss my students, I’ll miss that great city,” dad regrets.
“All will be well, darling, you’ll definitely be back after this storm,” mother hopes.
The capital city of The Land of a Thousand Hills is desolate. On Hitimana Street,in the good old days,the Mojo’s Lounge could be blaring with Fatimata by Sam Mangwana, not anymore. Revelers can rave and twerk all night from home, how about the homeless? Dawdling as street urchins during coronavirus is an inherent death risk. Most hotels are closed or only sell packed food, so left overs are no longer an option. As people lock themselves inside, they lock these street children outside with pangs of hunger, biting cold and molestation. No traffic snarl-up as usual, few hawkers sell face masks and hand sanitizers. Dad’s silent, and deeply so. His mind must be whirling about the masters and doctoral students he is supervising, who are to graduate at the end of the year. Will they make it? As we exit the CBD, there’s a police roadblock. We’ve to alight, get our temperature taken once more and explain why we’re travelling yet the government has banned upcountry travel for four months.
“Slow down then reverse, take another route- I’ve been having a fever,” dad urges the driver.
“If your temperature exceeds the normal, they’re going to isolate you,” the driver hints.
Dad retorts, “I can’t survive in those pitiable quarantine centres.
The deplorable situation in those government facilities is not news. Congestion, bedbugs and poor meals are the norm, besides, one has to foot the bill at the end of confinement. Those who cannot fork out thousands of shillings usually sneak by jumping over walls. The government has had their pictures and details published in local newspapers to alert the public. The temperature taker’s excitement is palpable. Dad’s is forcefully taken: thirty eight point nine. He’s terrified as he’s ordered into the police jeep. He hesitates.
“Do you think we’re playing hide and seek?” an officer snarls.
The lackadaisical look on his face frightens. The iniquities of the ill-trained cops are well documented. Dad backtracks. The despicable conditions play in his mind like a gory movie. He bolts. Gets lost among a crop of pedestrians. An officer threatens to shoot him, he cocks his carbine but lets go. The cab’s driver parks by the roadside. Dad imagines he’s being chased. I call mother, her phones are off. The driver honks unremittingly. It’s drizzling. Fright. Tension. Tears. Twilight. The curfew starts at seven. The driver proposes to take me to his home. He conjectures about how good-hearted he is. I remember Ygo, the good-looking white serpent. He seeks my contact. I flinch. He tries fondling me. I bolt out of the cab faster than dad did. One of the female cops, a constable Eid comes to my rescue. She helps me take the suitcases and dad’s phones out. Her miniature maroon umbrella is too small for both of us, we shelter in a police jeep.
“I hope he’s not harmed you,” Ms Eid wants to know.
“Not at all, I’m fine, thank you,” I say.
She cautions me, “You need to be conscientious.”
I only nod to this. She places her left arm on my shoulders and we embrace like clouds.
She suggests, “Can I take you to my place- if you don’t mind,that’s.”
“I……I am not s….sure,” I stammer amid sobs.
“Maybe from there you can trace that man……” she reassures me.
“A man!” I gasp. “He’s my dad, we flew together from New York.”
“Really? Can you call him?” she wants to know.
“I can’t,” I crane my neck to look at dad’s phones, “ He’s left his phones here.”
“Oh, sorry dear. Maybe he’ll be back,” she wishes.
In adversity time is a bitch. We brood for a while as my mind whirls about what might befall me. As we traverse city center, only moths can be seen dancing their frivolous lives away around scarlet street lamps.Dad is lost. Ganza is quarantined. Mother can’t be reached on phone.
“Where do all these chokoras go to at a bleak time like this?” I inquire.
“They’ve to be creative; into garbage bins, culverts, around rubbish heaps,” she says.
At Ms Eid’s humble abode his only son, Kafar is playing on the balcony. The men and women in uniform below prowl the streets enforcing the curfew. There must be something about wearing uniform that brings the worst instincts in people. The culture of violence is so entrenched and normalized, it’s the wax that has sealed the have nots’ ears for decades. A kerfuffle ensues between grocers who are packing their wares and the law enforcers. The latter shoot in the air, ostensibly to disperse the news- thirsty residents. Residents who dread rain. Residents who dread the land cruiser sirens, but the police batons they dread most. Pictures of curfew breakers being clobbered senseless still wriggle in their minds. Perhaps it’s bullet-proof jackets they need most,not masks. Unbeknownst to them, a stray bullet lodges in Kafar’s neck,shoves him to the floor of the balcony.
“Allah Akbar,” Ms Eid exclaims.
A neighbor places Kafar on his mother’s lap as we strain to stop the blood gushing from the wound on the neck. His beige cardigan is drowned in blood. Just then, one of dad’s phone rings: In the sweet by and by…. It’s a new number calling.
“Hello, who am I speaking to please?” a shrill voice inquires.
“I am Fa- Fatma Arthur,” I add, quivering.
“I am so sorry, Arthur Guru has been knocked down by a speeding bus,” she reveals.
“What happened?” I want to know, “Is it fatal?”
“Please come over” she pleads.
“Where exactly?” I inquire.
“At the junction of Kona……..ktch……ktch….,” I can’t hear her clearly. The neighbours are trooping in droves, their doleful wailing rises to a crescendo. Ms Eid’s stands out. I move downstairs, my left hand shielding the left ear from the noise.
“Where exactly?” I repeat.
“At the junction of Kona Mbaya Avenue and Heroes highway,” she directs.
The caller hangs up. Dad’s injured somewhere, maybe dying. Kafar is gasping for breath, groaning in pain as his heartbeat sacredly wanes.
It’s half past ten. The entrance to the casualty section of the National Hospital is crowded. Whoever called me to the scene of the accident is not at the hospital. He might have gotten the number from a business card, which got lost in the melee. Dad’s only captured in the hospital’s admission records as an adult African male. He has been placed on a stretcher, writhing in pain, nursing a broken jaw, rib and left arm. The medics abandon him as soon as he starts coughing up blood. While the efficacy of competent medical practices wowed me in New York, at home medics hold ordinary citizens in utter contempt. They can treat a known dog better, not so a commoner. While racism ravages The Land of the Free, classism gnaws us in The Land of a Thousand Hills.
“Can’t you take him to the Intensive Care Unit?” I bark.
“He has to wait, all ICU beds are occupied,” the plump nurse-in-charge snorts.
“What about first aid- to halt this bleeding?” I seek.
“We’ve to get the results for coronavirus first,” she insists.
I explain, “The coughing has been caused by the trauma on his heart, not covid 19.”
Had my dad a tribal tag, the nurse could have been emphatic. Had she known that he is not an ordinary, she could have accorded him treatment befitting his status. All her ilk are interested in is seeking more donor funds, yet only a pittance is spent to buy personal protective gears, body bags, tea and snacks.
The nurse comes back with a stethoscope, places it on dad’s bosom and listens. The frown on her face crowns what her lips can’t utter. I intertwine my left hand with dad’s.
I whisper, “If you become too sick to speak for yourself, who would you like to speak for you?”
He doesn’t answer, but squeezes tightly instead. He whimpers openly about his dying, his interment- his wishes for his ashes.
“You’re not going to die,” I counter.
“I know I’m gone- it’s sacred, my next adventure………” he reveals.
His eyes possess a camera clarity, I can fit in his pupils and outswim him to paradise, where his soul craves.
“That my daughter is here makes it more beautiful ,I will die but the carbon in me won’t, it’s career does not end with me. It will nourish a beautiful blossom here, and a gorgeous girl there (he squeezes more intimately) on a cycle of plant and animal life. That’s The Sacred Beau…..” In this moment of anguish I become aware of his mortality, mine as well. I hold his hand as I feel his soul entangle with mine like decanted jasmine petals do on a fair skin.
The test for coronavirus turns negative. It’s too late though. The hospital’s managers tender their apology, they insistently lie that they did everything to save dad when he was brought to their rotting facility. Ganza has been ostracized by friends since he was discharged from Langone. Would these malicious people have been happier if he had died of the virus?
Like the dove out of Noah’s Ark, Ganza and mother fly home after months of isolation. At Cyangugu shore, memories glint: As a maiden when mother, resplendent in a dazzling white wedding gown, walks down the aisle then takes a solemn vow, “I, Edith Mugwaneza, do take thee Arthur Guru Gatanazi, as my beloved husband, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.” She takes off the diamond necklace engraved Arthur at the top, a heart in the middle and Edith in the bottom. She flings it eastwards and says grace. Darkness has engulfed the beach. We seek our shoes, wave lake Kivu bye, as waves bid us adios.