STORYMOJA

With a tired and worried mind, she watched Imra push his favourite red truck towards her.  Normally she would make a silly face which always made him burst into a fit of gleeful gurgles, then push it back towards him.  Anxiously Imra waited for their routine to play out, his eyes twinkling, ready to burst into a fit of gleeful gurgles.  Sensing the reluctanness in Nana, Imra opened his mouth and started crying.  Immediately after Izra heard his brother crying, he frowned, puzzled, then opened his mouth and he joined in. 

Automatially without much feelings, Nana picked up both babies, one on either arm and swayed with them to the rhythm of their cries, aimlessly and absentmindedly, trying unsuccessfully to soothe them. 

She yawned as she mumbled a song, hoping to calm them but the twins sensing the sadness and tension in their Nana, screamed even louder.  She yawned again.  She hadn’t slept in weeks.  Waking up at four so as to start the walk to work early, and hardly sleeping from the constant screams of her sick two and a half year old son. 

She looked at the twins who are fourteen months older than her boy but who are much bigger in build.  She thought of their diet compared to his – eggs, dairy, meats, fishs, vegetables, fruits – with strict instructions that if anything tasted bad it should be thrown out.  Every time the twins’ mother was not looking she would pack the ‘bad tasting’ foods and left-overs for her baby.  She didn’t understand waste.  She couldn’t afford to waste.  Every spooonful of food whether good or bad meant survival for her son. 

On Sundays she would cook a feast for four, six and sometimes even eight.  She would take tray after tray outside to the garden of serving dishes piled up high with chapati, kuku wa kupaka, samaki wa nazi, kisamvu cha karanga, beans and groundnut relish and savoury rice.  She would feel a choke gripping her throat as she served food that would be eaten and wasted in a day that was enough to feed her family for a whole month.  The smell of dishes dressed in spices, coconut cream and curry powder would tease her nostrils and tickled her empty stomach while stiffling a choke that threatened to turn into a sob. 

The guests like Madam would be dressed in dashiki, agbada, boubou and lace, with heads wrapped in aso-oke fabrics, looking like peacocks.  With their heavily bejewelled hands they lifted glasses and cups of ukwaju juice and masala tea to wash down the food, oblivious of her presence standing like a statute at a far corner waiting for an order.  Once the dishes had been removed, she would go to the kitchen and make herself her daily diet of  ugali and beans, bland beans without coconut cream or tomatoes.  As it was a waste, as Madam would say.  As long the day would be she was always grateful at the end of the day as she would have left overs to take to her son. 

The twins scream louder, while Imra’s small hands hit her, trying to get her attention.  But their screams were drowned by her thoughts as she wondered where she would get money to take her baby to the hospital.  The bus fare she had been saving was too little and the baby needed the operation soon. 

The seven years she had worked there she had never been given a raise.  Her salary  was not even enough to cover her bus fares, meals and rent for her one roomed apartment.  The week before, after exhausting all her resources, she summed up all courage and faced her employer with a desperation plea – to save her son’s life – but she was turned away like stray dog. 

“You ungrateful woman!  I feed you, I clothe your bastard of a son and you still ask for more?  Never satisfaied, are you?  Always wanting more and more!  Next you will want my husband to be the father of that bastard of yours!” Madam had screamed at her. 

She thought of the hand-me down she always got from Madam off her babies – torn or stained little t-shirts and short.  Slowly she put the screaming babies down on a lush carpet that covered the living room floor.  Confused they suddenly kept quiet, looking up at her with their teary eyes, not understanding what had become of their Nana.  With a long heavy sigh, she looked around the expensively furnished room – her eyes falling on the expensive furnishings and equipment. 

Quickly she walked outside – half run and half walked, leaving the babies unattended.  Confused the babies start wailing again.  Their voices drowning behind her as she ran, saying silently prayers of repetence with each step she took.  Though her heart was heavy, her feet felt light under her heavy heart.  Motivated by the fear of imminent death, she ran as fast as her feet could carry her. 

Then she found him, leaning against a tree with a match stick in his mouth.  She had used him before when moving houses.  He was the only one who took pity on her and lowered the fare.  Quickly she walked towards him and started talking to him with rapid hand movements.  He shrugged then got into his truck, while she followed quickly and got to the passenger’s side. 

She found the twins curled on the carpet.  They had probably cried until they feel asleep.  Ignoring them, she got to work, not even stopping for a break, her hands and feet moving swiftly. 

She then went to Madam’s room which she knew would be locked, but had to make sure.  Finally she went to the twins’ room.  New t-shirts and shorts.  Maybe sweaters too. 

As she loaded the TV onto the hired truck she looked back at the white bungalow as she murmured silently to herself more than anybody else, “I’m so sorry, madam, I am doing this for my son.”

© Sandra Mushi 2009