Letters to mother

Mama school good. Teacher learn us to write to sing ba ba black ship to read. Mama school good school very good.
This was the first letter he ever wrote me. It was not really a letter but something to show me he could now write since he had started going to school. Not that I could read. I had never gone to school all my life. Then, girls never went to school, they went to their husbands! It is Bahati my son who taught me how to read when he got to secondary school. I now wish he had never taught me how to read. Then, I would not be able to read this letter, his last letter.
Bahati, what have they done to you? I am finished! I am finished! Without you I am nothing! Nothing! Bahati, without you I am David before goliath without my sling. My husband, my son, my life, why did they pick on you? Uuuuuuwi! Why, why oh why, why you?
Oh, I am sorry for that outburst but you will have to bear with me. It is very painful, this letter is. He was everything I had. Do you know how it feels like to be a fisherman without a lake? That’s how I feel without Bahati my son. And that I have to learn about it in a letter! Oh, how I wish I never knew how to read. Bahati, I wish you never taught me how to read. Then, I would never be able to read this letter, your last letter!
I am not saying that all his letters brought bitterness to my heart, am I? No am not! His letters always brought warmth to my heart. Whenever they would be delivered, I would stop doing whatever I was at to go and read them. Whether I was in the shamba ploughing, at the river fetching water, in my hut brewing chang’aa or with other women gossiping, I would have to stop the work.
His letters always renewed my hope in life. I always kept them under my mattress in my hut. I treasured them as I treasured my own life. These were the connection between him and me, between mother and son, between mother and only son. In times of boredom I would retrieve them from under the mattress and go over them again and again. From his earliest that said ‘mama school good … school very good’ to his most recent. His letters made me proud of my son. They made me know that my struggle to bring him up single handedly were not in vain. All that scuffling with the police as I brewed and sold chang’aa to earn him school fees was not in vain after all. My son would stand by me, his letters confirmed this. He would get a good job and support his poor mother.
I will not tell you about his father. I will not tell you about the drunkard who always beat me as if he had paid bride wealth to purchase a punching bag. No, I will not tell you about that beast who got himself a fifteen year old girl and sent me away from his home like a dog. He had found himself a wife and did not need us anymore, me and my scabies infested baby. No, I will not tell you about him.
Instead, I will tell you about my son’s letters. Going through my son’s letters always wiped these bitter memories off my mind. They gave me hope to keep on keeping on. I would be happy to show you all his letters but it is not possible. They are so many. Maybe I should show you some. Yes, I will show you one. He wrote me this one when he got to the big city to start his work. He had just finished his secondary education and Omwami Isimba agreed to employ him as one of his drivers. Omwami Isimba … To realize that it is them who have caused me this misery! I wish I had never trusted them. Oh, how people change.
Wasn’t Omwami once as poor as I am? Did we not brew chang’aa with his wife Esther? Didn’t Esther and I bribe the police together to save our chang’aa, our livelihood? Oh! How people change! Omwami and his wife Esther used to be our neighbours here in this very village. They lived in that fallen hut across my fence. Tattered, hungry and poor, that was our lot – the Omwamis and we. We shared everything, from cooking sufurias to kitchen salt. They were us and we were them. Then the winds of change started sweeping across the whole country. Elections were nearing but this time it was different. All other parties had united against the old party. Songs were sung – The old party is bad, It’s time for change, A new beginning, Down with corruption, It’s time to give back – so many songs, so many slogans.
But still, both the new and old parties dished out money to voters. They came with briefcases filled with fifty shilling notes. The new party too! Each voter got fifty shillings. They sung about a new beginning but still dished out money. They sang of no more corruption but still dished out money. They sung of no more bribery but still dished out money. Fifty shillings for the five years they would be in power. Ten shillings a year. They must have found us very cheap!
No one cared to mind. The politicians were clever enough to offer free chang’aa alongside the fifty shillings. I had never sold so much chang’aa since I got into business. Omwami Isimba of all the people was the candidate for the new party. He had simply told Esther to give out free chang’aa and he got his nomination. In these rural parts of the country where everybody is poor, hopeless and disillusioned, chang’aa is life. A giver of chang’aa is a giver of life. Omwami gave us chang’aa, we will give him our votes! Now that Omwami had become a contender, I was assigned as his chang’aa distributor and I made quite a sale out of it. I sold enough chang’aa to drown a whale!
The new party won the elections and Omwami got his way into parliament. There was talk then of better things to come. Jobs were to be created, prices were to be slashed; corruption was to be fought and so on and so forth. That was when Omwami decided to take Bahati my son and make him one of his new drivers. Within a month he had already bought three vehicles. One for himself, one for Esther and the other for the children. But even if he could now buy twenty cars in a day, even if he could now eat at a five star hotel, even if he was now an MP, what gave them the right to cause me such misery? Bahati my son what gave them the right to do this to you? Uuuuuwi! Where do I go now? Whose guest shall I be?
Oops! There I go again with my outbursts but like I said, you’ll have to bear with me. This is the cry of a down trodden mother for her son. Now where was I? You’ll have to forgive me but I’m a very bad story teller. I was supposed to be showing you a letter he had written me when he got the big city to drive Omwami around. But being a bad story teller, I keep on jumping from this issue to the other. Anyway, a bad story teller or not, my son’s story must be told. I will now show you the letter he wrote me when he got the city that very first time to start his job as Omwami’s driver. Here it is.

Dear mama,
How are things back at home? Things are fine with me here in the city though I am trying so much to adjust.
Life here is difficult and bad. People here worship money. It is money here, money there, money everywhere! Mama, life in the village is good. In this city it is nothing but money. No love, no smiles, no greetings. Just money!
Mama do you think I am lying? I will bring you here one day so that you can see for yourself. All streets are lined with cripples, blind men, deaf men, men with wounds as open as sufurias, men in pain, some genuine others pretending. All these beg for money. This is not the village mama. People wake up in the morning knowing that “ I am going to beg” not to work, “ I am going to steal” not to work, to beg and to steal money.
In this city, there are homeless children everywhere. They are called children of the streets. One wonders, did the street mother and father them? In this city, mama, no one is a friend. Any one could be a thief, a conman, a gangster – even the police! It is all for money. I recently met uncle Juma but he had no time for me. He was rushing to his shop - to make money. One could not tell he was my father’s brother. He rushed off as if he had been told I am one of the robbers in this ugly city.
Anyway, that is the way of the city. How are you fairing on? I hope things are not so bad. I have enclosed two thousand shillings in this letter. Use five hundred shillings to build another granary where you will store the beans that are in the kitchen. You can pay the boys in the village one hundred and fifty so that they can help you harvest the maize I planted. Eight hundred shillings is for you. You can use it as you wish. Give the remaining money to my friend Yusuf. I had talked to him about a bigger house which he should build for me.
I know you are wondering why I need a bigger house. Mama, I have found a girl and I like her. I know you are worried that she is a town girl, one who cannot go to the shamba but she is not. She is also from our village and she came to the city to work as a waiter in a hotel. She is good, beautiful and very caring. I love her. Her name is Edna and I will bring her home so that you can see her. I am sure you will like her.
I have a little problem with Peter, Omwami’s son. He wants my Edna by force. I live in Omwami’s servants’ quarters and when Peter saw her come to visit me he started running after her. Edna does not like him and he tried to use his money to influence her. Oh! How people change! Wasn’t Peter my best friend back at the village before his father became our MP. Did we not grow up as brothers. Didn’t we burn and sell charcoal together to raise money to help you, our parents? What didn’t we do together? Nowadays he does not even want to see me let alone talk. Oh! How people change.
Anyway this should not worry you much. I love Edna and she I. There is no way Peter will have her. You take care of things back there at home knowing that I am fine. Do not worry so much about our troubles. God will see us through. He has brought us so far. I love you and miss you so much. I miss your good food too! Goodbye.

Your loving son,
Bahati.

Such letters always left a smile painted across my face. My life had been a bitter chain of painful episodes and my son had become my messiah, my saviour. Life had become hopeless for me but as my son grew older my hopes started rising again. You can tell this by looking at the letter I have just shown you. He loved his mother, he would take care of her to the end of the road. He was all that she had.
Where do I go now that he has been finished? They have finished him, they have ruined him. Bahati, I am finished. There is this letter I have not shown you. It is the letter I am crying about. When I received this letter yesterday, I got very happy. My son’s letters were a joy of its own kind in my life. Whether or not they brought money, I still cherished them. His letters were a testimony that this woman had not lost all in life. That above all, she had a son..
I was distilling chang’aa when it was delivered. It was brought from the shops where the driver of the matatu from the big city had left it. I quickly left the chang’aa alone and rushed into the house to read it. To find out how my son was fairing on in the city. To find out when he would come home to see his mama. Will he bring that Edna girl he always talked about? I must admit that as mother, I was a little jealous of this girl. Not that I did not like her, I had never met her. I just could not help fearing that she would take my position in my son’s life. But I had to let my son go. I know Bahati well enough and there is no way he would forget me. I guess that is our fate as women. We are close to our children from the time they enter our wombs. We spend sleepless nights by them when they are small to make sure they are okay. We look after them until they become big and strong but in the long run they live us to go and stay with strangers they just met in the outside world, outside our motherly love. And so a man and woman shall leave their mothers and the two shall become one!
So much was on my mind as I opened the letter hurriedly. I now wish I had never opened the letter. I wish I had never read the letter. Bahati my son, I wish you had never taught me how to read. Then, I would not be able to read this letter, your last letter.
Where does one begin? What wrong did I do to deserve this pain, this misery? What does one do? Do you cry until your tears run dry, do you tear of your clothes and roll in the dust, do you shout your voice hoarse, what do you do? Where does someone, nay, a mother like me find justice in this world? Let me read you this last letter and you will tell me where to turn to, tell me where to go, where to find justice.
Listen carefully it says: Dear mama, things have gone bad. I will keep the story short since I do not have much time to write this letter.
I got home last Saturday and found a rude shock waiting for me in my servants’ quarter room. I had left Edna in the room when I left in the morning and on coming back I did not find her, I found her corpse! I found the naked body of my lovely Edna sprawled on the floor. She must have been hit by some heavy thing on the head because her forehead was swollen. Shock gripped me. I could not tell head or tail of what had happened. My mouth ran dry, my voice disappeared, and my blood froze in my veins. Yes, I was not dreaming. That was my girl, my love lying naked on the floor. No doubt she had been raped. Who did this to my girl? I rushed out of my room in panic and headed for Omwami’s house. I do not know what I was going to do there but I just went. My head drummed with pain. I did not even know myself.
Another rude shock was waiting for me at Omwami’s door. Before I could even knock on the door, I overheard Omwami talking on the phone inside the house. He was speaking to someone in the police force. He was telling that someone how his son had messed. His son had accidentally killed a petty thief who was hiding in a servant’s room. The servant was one of the drivers. He was saying that he wanted the driver blackmailed. Yes, make it look like the driver killed the girl … Yes it is a girl … No it will no be hard, the driver is a poor wretch I picked from the village … Do not worry, I will settle that …That is a hard bargain but I will make it seventy five thousand shillings … Okay but make it clean, my son’s name should not appear anywhere. And the press should get none of this, my reputation, you know … Yes, a clean job, remember I am paying you.
Mama, I could not believe my ears. Peter, my childhood friend had raped and killed my Edna and I was being framed as the murderer. I had to run fast, very fast.
I turned away and ran towards the gate. My heart was beating fast and I was sweating all over. On reaching the gate, I found Peter and the watchman blocking my way. I was going nowhere, Peter said. They had called the police and I should be picked anytime to help with investigations. It was the same Peter we had grown up side by side. The same Peter we had schooled together. The same Peter we had gone without food together. Money makes beasts out of men.
I looked at Peter and anger boiled up in me. He had wronged me this much and he was now boasting that I will pay for his sins. No, he will not have it his way this time. I found myself snatching a rungu from the watchman and hitting Peter squarely in the head. The watchman came at me and I gave him one too on the shoulder and he fell. I then turned to Peter and pounded life out of him with the rungu. Yes, I beat him to death. Mama it was not me, it was the anger.
I am now a wanted man. Wanted for two counts of murder. That of my Edna and that of Peter. Mama your son is a killer, a serial killer. Do you think I can let them get me mama? No I can’t. By the time they get to me, I will be with Edna. We will be together in that world where there is no more suffering. We will love forever, together forever.
I am so sorry mama. I did not intend it to end this way. I guess fate had this in store for me. By the time you will be reading this letter, my body will be hanging somewhere on a tree but my soul will be with you, always. Goodbye mama. I am so sorry. Goodbye.
That is it, there it is! That is my son’s last letter. A mother’s last letter from her son. Now tell me, where does mama Bahati find justice? Where does she begin? What does she do? Where does one find justice in this land? Bahati my son, I am finished! Without you I am done. Without you I am nothing, nothing, nothing!

©2008 Otiato Opali