Endless as the Waters of River Nzoia

It was early in the morning and the sun had just but peeped over the hills in the east. Everything was quiet in Sigalame village apart from the relentless cry of the little girl that flowed endlessly from the lonely hut. A crowd had already gathered by and more people were trickling in. None of them had dared enter the hut. They just came, peeped into the house momentarily and moved aside covering their wide open mouths with their hands. They had formed little groups around the hut talking in low tones about this tragedy that had befallen them.
In the hut everything neatly lay in place, a testimony that there had been no struggle whatsoever. The bed, a worn out mattress and dirty un-matching sheets, was neatly spread and no one had used it for the night. Beside it was a stool that acted as a table with a Bible on it. On the other end of the room were tins neatly arranged on a rack these served as the utensils. Besides the Utensil was a clay water pot sitting quietly in the silence. On the floor, the little girl cried. Tears rolled down her cheeks like the endless waters of River Nzoia, never ending. Her face had lost expression and one could not tell whether that was anger, bitterness or sadness that had settled on her face. She just stared blankly at the people in the doorway and wailed. Her voice did not seem to get exhausted, it just wailed on in a single monotonous tone that was as endless as the tears that rolled down her cheeks, endless as River Nzoia! Beside her lay the lifeless body of the woman. It lay sprawled across the floor facing the grass thatch roof of the house. The eyes were wide open and as pale as a sheet in the moonlight. Wide open, the eyes stared at the grass thatch roof trying to solve the puzzle of this brutal death by looking for an answer in the tufts of grass that made the thatch. Between her flabby breasts was lodged the kitchen knife, proud and firm. Her blood had soaked into the earth and had clotted where the knife had stabbed.
Outside the hut, people gathered in small groups and whispered in low tones. To the right of the hut lay two graves, one big and the other small. In the big grave lay Emanuel, the villagers called him Manu. In his life, he had been the husband to the woman lying sprawled on the floor. He had also fathered the two children, the girl who was crying tears as endless as the waters of River Nzoia and the little boy who lay in the smaller grave that lay beside the big grave, Manu’s grave.
The mother of the two little children was dead. No, not the woman lying sprawled in the hut with a knife in her chest. That too was dead but the mother of the children had died earlier. Manu had married the woman who lay sprawled with a knife in the heart but after unsuccessful trials, he realized that she was barren. He then demanded that the woman’s relatives provide him with a sibeyo, a compensation not to be married but to bear him the children his wife could not. Nafula, a smaller sister to the woman who lay dead in the hut, therefore gave birth to the two little children, Manu’s children. Was it bad luck or was it fate that got Nafula killed? She was swept away by the flooding waters of River Nzoia during a season of heavy rains. She had gone to fetch water at the river and she never returned, neither was her body ever found.
But death never gets tired of reaping. About a year ago, the grim reaper left villagers asking of the age old question, whence cometh another. In the Sigalame book of village records, the most drunkard slot was occupied by Manu. Never had Sigalame village seen a drunkard like Manu in its entire existence.
He spent entire nights and days drinking chang’aa at Senga’s place. He would cut trees in his compound, sell them as firewood to Senga in return for chang’aa. All this while, the woman with a knife between her flabby breasts, the little girl with River Nzoia tears and the boy lying in the small grave all went hungry. Manu drank on and on as his wife and children slept hungry. On coming home after a spree, he would belch stale alcohol onto the woman’s face as he asked for food. Realizing that no food was forthcoming, he would slap her, kick her and later on enter her. All this time he would be calling her names, barren, useless, ugly, all names. The woman never talked because this, to her, was life.
As he kicked and slapped their mother, the little children would watch from a distance with hopeless eyes. Not only did they go hungry for days, not only did they walk naked in tatters, not only did they miss out on school but their mother also beat them. The anger that Manu nailed into their mother found an outlet in them. Immediately Manu would leave for Senga’s place after a night of beating his wife, the children would be faced with their own session of whacks. Very small mistakes earned them very thorough beatings. They had no one to turn to. Telling Manu about it would only infuriate her more and earn them more beatings when he was gone and if anything, he was never there to listen. At one time the little boy told the father about the beatings, this earned the woman an extra share to her normal beatings from Manu and subsequently earned the children an extra share of their beatings from her when he was gone.
A year ago, Manu was found dead in a ditch early one morning after he had disappeared for a whole week’s drinking. He had felled a whole tree that week and his supplies in exchange to firewood that week seemed endless at Senga’s. Nothing could get him out of Senga’s during that week, nothing except death. The woman buried him beside their hut and the few villagers who attended the funeral knew one thing for sure, never had Sigalame seen a drunkard as tough as Manu and all they were left to ask was; whence cometh another?
Last night when the little girl started crying, none of the villagers were bothered because they were used to the cries of the little girl. All they did was comment from the safety of their homes that ‘Mama Obuha beats that girl too much.’ After Emmanuel’s death, the woman intensified the beatings she gave the children. In her heart, she hated the two little angels with a passion. What bothered her most was the fact that they were not her real children. They only reminded her of her inability to give birth.
It was only two months after Emanuel’s death that Obuha died. The woman had sent him to the shop and on his way he had lost the five shillings that was to purchase a packet of salt. The woman consequently beat the child well. She took a piece of wood and thwacked the child as if she was pounding life out of a snake. The little boy sustained internal bleeding and after a week of ailing without any medical care, he died. As the boy took in his last gasps of air before his death, he gave the woman a long and hard look. The woman shivered at the stare from the boy and looked away. In the eyes, the woman saw vengeance, she saw hatred and revenge. All these in the eyes of a little boy, a little dying boy.
The villagers never knew the cause of Obuha’s death, they just buried him in a small grave beside his father’s. It is no wonder that when they heard the little girl crying last night, they were not moved. They only commented from the safety of their homes that ‘Mama Obuha beats that girl too much.’
While they were commenting from the safety of their huts, Mama Obuha was killing the small girl. The small girl had spilt some salt on the floor and the woman was determined to teach her that things were hard to come by in this hut. She picked the same piece of wood that had killed Obuha and started hitting the child. The deafening screams from the child pierced the quiet night in Sigalame but all the villagers could do was comment from the safety of their homes that Mama Obuha beats that girl too much.
The girl writhed on the floor as the piece of wood that had killed her brother landed heavily and mercilessly on her. The woman struck her ribs her back, her buttocks her head her everywhere! She was determined to teach this child that things in this hut were not bought by stones. How could she spill a whole pinch of salt? As she went on beating the child the woman felt rather than saw something move behind her back. She instinctively turned around and what she saw made her drop the piece of wood in disbelief.
She looked straight into those vengeful eyes, those hateful eyes, eyes burning with revenge, Obuha’s eyes. The boy, or was it his ghost held the Kitchen knife in his hand. On the floor, the little girl did not realize anything except that the beating had taken a break. She covered her head with her hands waiting for the beating to resume but to her amazement, she saw the limp body of the woman falling on her. On the woman’s chest between her flabby breasts, the kitchen knife was lodged, proud and firm. The rest of the house was quite and no one else was in sight.
Her heart beat faster as she raised her screams to higher pitches. Down her cheeks, tears as endless as the waters of River Nzoia freely flowed. In the safety of their houses, the villager only said that Mama Obuha beats that girl too much.
The villagers only went to find out what was happening when they realized that the child’s screams had lasted the whole night and that she was still crying in the morning. Having called on the woman from outside her door and receiving the endless wails for an answer, they decided to bring down the door and they were met with one of death’s best masterpieces yet.
None of them dared enter the house. they only gathered in groups around the hut whispering in low tones as they waited for the police to arrive at the scene. To the right of the hut, two graves peacefully lay, one big and the other small. In the hut, the woman lay dead facing the grass thatch roof of the house. Beside her the little girl cried tears as endless as the waters of River Nzoia.

©2008 Otiato Opali