Tuesday, March 31, 2009

The Plate of Ugali

By Sandra A. Mushi


My mama used to say a real African man doesn’t eat chips or pasta. That’s food for a mzungu man who gets his nails manicured, face scrubbed and lips conditioned with lip balm. A real African man eats ugali, my mama used to say. With their calloused fingers with rough nails he would mould the stiff porridge into little balls, dunk each ball into a stew then dunk the stew covered ball into his mouth with chapped lips.

I would sit at the corner of the room watching his Adam’s apple bopping up and down as he swallowed a ball of ugali and meat stew. His jaw always moving in super-human speed as he chewed, making the veins on his forehead pop out angrily.

Ugali would make your man strong, my mama used to say. Strong enough to take care of you and our family, she would add. What she didn’t add was that ugali would make him strong enough to beat me black and blue. But maybe she was always right, because it was a plate of ugali that gave me strength today.

It had started with his plate of ugali not being warm enough. Then the following time he beat me black and blue it was because the bowl of stew did not have enough meat. The other times before that it was the disciplinary slap, as the elders called it. Married women needed the slap every now and then, they would say, to keep them in check.

Then he beat me again black and blue when I failed to pound his kisamvu the way he liked it. I had been vomiting the whole day; infact even getting up was a problem.

“My mother cultivated a whole farm the day she was giving birth and you say you can’t cook for your husband?” He had bellowed. “What kind of a woman are you?”

“But mume wangu, the doctor said …” lamenting, I had tried to explain before I was interrupted by a slap. The room started spinning around me.

“Has the doctor married you?” He gave me another slap which sent me reeling to the floor vomiting blood, “is the doctor your husband now? Or are you having an affair?”

My baby did not make it. I almost did not make it too. I broke a few bones and I almost became blinded on my left eye. After that I became numb to the pain. It was one reason after another – as long as I was his punching bag – and almost always it was a plate of ugali that started it. Yep, his source of strength. Like the hair on Samson in the bible. Maybe ugali makes one mad. Maybe it had a drug.

Today he broke my two front teeth – after breaking four others last week. I laughed madly as I looked at my four year old with his milk teeth missing. He grins at me nervously showing his gums.

Today he beat me because I refused to serve his mistress a plate of ugali. Like my body numbing to pain, my heart had numbed to reason. Maybe it was my fault when the plate of ugali wasn’t warm enough because I had run out of coal to warm the food; maybe it was my fault when I didn’t negotiate with the butchery to give me more meat than the money could buy; maybe it was my fault that I was too lazy too pound cassava when I was due; maybe it was my fault when I had used to the last of the flour to cook my baby porridge for lunch instead of cooking him his ugali; maybe it had all been my fault. But how could this be my fault? My mama told me my husband came first, then my children.

I had put some food aside for my husband, then fed the remaining to my children. How was that my fault? I never said anything when he brought her and moved me out of our marital bed. I said nothing.

He kicked his plate of ugali when there wasn’t enough for his mistress and made me eat from the floor after beating me black and blue - wounding the scars that had not even healed. On all fours I bent down and ate like a dog. As I lay clutching my stomach I see the mouse that I have been trying to catch for a while, rushing to the last crumbs of ugali on the floor. No amount of rat poison seemed to kill it. Rodent. Maybe I had been giving it the poison with the wrong food. Rodent. Rodent. I should have mixed the poison in ugali. Rodent. Or is it rodent and man. Rodent man. Kick. Rodent man. Kick. Rodent man, I think.

I feel humiliated when I hear her cheering him on. It was okay before, as I probably needed disciplining. But it’s not okay now. She is not supposed to be here, cheering on. But the ugali gave me strength.

“Stupid woman! Go make another plate,” he had kicked me on the shins as his mistress laughed again, louder this time. “And make it enough to give us strength for the work ahead of us tonight!”

Ugali has given me strength too. I look down as I limp to the back yard. I don’t want them to see my face. The smile on my face. Yes, ugali has given me strength.

Quickly I grab a khanga to hide my new scars, covering myself I dash to my neighbour to borrow me some money from her. Just as quickly I send my oldest to the market. Flour, kisamvu, coconut, curry powder, peanuts, nyanya chungu and some powder that will kill that rodent. Today I will make the best plate of ugali ever. The kisamvu will have peanut sauce and the dagaa will have coconut milk and nyanya chungu. Today I will catch that rodent with a plate of ugali for sure.

Lunch

By Sandra A. Mushi


We all loved watching Uncle Aziz eat. Was it the towel that was the attraction or the big belly or the shirt? Mohamed and John from down the street once fought over that. They argued heatedly until their fight of words turned into a fight of fists. We never knew what it was that drew us but we were always drawn to that dining room window during lunch hours. The street would suddenly become quiet when Uncle Aziz ate; all games on the dusty street would cease, the laughter of happy children would cease, the critter clutter of dirty running feet would cease.

We would all huddle outside the window watching him – waiting to see the towel - with our ball of old socks for a make shift football next to us. Our dirty little stubs of fingers would cling on the chipping window sill staring. The flowers that were once under the dining room window not flowers anymore, but a tread mat to cushion our grubby feet.

Even baby Maria, who was a difficult eater. Aunt Miriam would place her on a mat in front of Uncle Aziz, as if hypnotized by the movements from the towel to the face then back to the plate and eventually mouth, baby Maria would stare open mouthed and quickly Aunt Miriam would spoon feed her.

Uncle Aziz had a big laughter, as big as his belly. He always laughed when the table was being laid, his big throaty laughter that sounding like Mount Kilimanjaro rumbling.

Aunt Miriam always set the table, making a clattering noise as she lifted and moved the ceramic dishes. The clanking noise of the dishes was a sign for Uncle Aziz – this was when he would go inside to his room and change from the trousers he had been wearing during the day into a kikoi. We always wondered why he never left the shirt in his room when changing as he always took it off eventually.

Uncle Aziz would walk into the dining room, laughing – the small overflowing room vibrating with his laughter. The small room becomes even smaller with his big frame swallowing each corner of it. His big belly would bump into a chair or two as he walked to his chair, sometimes knocking over the already cracked vase with plastic flowers – the centre piece of the old mninga dining table.

Aunt Miriam would place a plastic table cloth on top of the white starched cotton table cloth with her famed immaculately stitched colourful embroidery. She would then place several plastic table mats before placing a big plate. Then the big jug of ice water cold water and a long glass would follow. The jug was always covered with an equally immaculately stitched colourful embroidered doily.

Re-wrapping her loose khanga and wiping the sweat off her brow, Aunt Miriam quickly would walk from the kitchen to the dining room with plates and bowls of dishes – until the table was crammed with a plate of ugali or mihogo or wali, the coconut milk in rice or in the cassava fragrancing the room; a bowl of maharage, Uncle Aziz always like sultanas in his beans; a plate with pieces of meat stew or deep fried sato, meat stew swimming in oily sauce of potatoes, green peppers, nyanya chungu or the fish glistering with oil; a bowl of matembele or kisamvu, the potato or cassava leaves cooked in peanut butter; a bowl of chachandu, the strong fragrance of the chillies and garlic condiment overpowering our young noses; a glass of mtindi, the fresh yoghurt sweetened with honey and a bowl of fruit salad with mangoes, pineapples, pawpaw and bananas. Finally the towel would be placed on the right side of the big plate, a white starched neatly folded towel.

Uncle Aziz would then walk to the sink tucked at the corner next to the china cabinet and quickly wash his hands. As he passed his chair, Uncle Aziz would unconsciously finger the towel – as if feeling if it is well starched. Just as quickly he would dry his hands on the fading blue towel draped on the loose once chrome towel ring.

He would massage his stomach in circular motions before finally sitting down. His chair the one at the head of the table, next to the china cabinet; before sitting he would take off his shirt, then drape it warily on the posts of the old mninga chair as if careful not to crease it. Even if the weather was cold, Uncle Aziz always took off his shirt. His big belly would make a jelly movement as it spilt out from the shirt. We would stifle giggles as we watched the jelly freedom dance as we called it. We always thought of it as a relief dance – relieved of being released from being squeezed in the shirt. He would then pull out the chair, while all the while eyeing the towel.

He would then unfold the towel and place it on right shoulder. We would all shift comfortably under the window sill watching more closely now, Uncle Aziz totally unaware of his young audience.

Uncle Aziz would then move the big plate closer, and start dishing out – a bit of this and that, maybe a bit more of this and that and then he would pour some ice cold water in the tall glass, his laughter still ringing resonating in the room, and the towel slowly shifting from his big naked shoulder. He would then take the towel and wipe the little spots of sweat slowly forming on his forehead, before taking a sip of the cold water. John who believed it was the towel that was the attraction would giggle gleefully.

With his right hand, Uncle Aziz would start eating. Swiftly the dance with his hands from the plate to his mouth to the towel to his face and finally back to the plate again would start, his shirtless belly shaking, while we stared in amazement.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Uncle Jonas

By Demere Kitunga

Uncle Jonas is our local pastor. He is a frail seventy years old man walking with a limp. Despite his age and frailty, Uncle Jonas spits fire and brimstone from the pulpit. As one member of the congregation—a deaconess who also happens to be his sister would put it, “If you are not converted listening to his sermons, then you are beyond saving.”

To our chagrin, except for my mother of course, it is rumoured that Uncle Jonas is about to start a splinter church. The rumour has it also that the reason he is going to do so is because he is not satisfied with the way things are run at our church. According to him, the rumour continues, sermons are becoming too sombre and focusing too much on the after life leaving the Lord’s flock at a loss for what to do under the extreme poverty they are facing today. Some people go further as to suggest that they heard him say the spiritual bread regular pastors serve is not filling enough so in his splinter church one will have to be a miracle worker like him to conduct service.

‘People are looking for miracles’ thus it is claimed Uncle Jonas was heard trying to convince his fellow pastors. Those who know the story allege also that instead of heeding to his call his fellow church elders resorted to reporting him to higher authorities. The rumour goes on to allege that the people from headquarters have already carried out an enquiry and found him faulty; and that Uncle Jonas is about to be excommunicated.

I t is obvious that these rumours originate from two opposing sources. Either the opposing sources are Uncle Jonas’ foes on one side and friends of the other, or those faithful to our church against those ready to join his splinter church. All in all, one version of the rumour has it that our church will remain empty when Uncle Jonas starts his own church; and that this will be very soon. Even though I am no fun of Uncle Jonas on account of the grudge my mother holds him, I tend to agree with this group. I can bet on my departed grandmother’s kindred soul his church will be more popular than our church. Already the market place overflows on days when Uncle Jonas holds open sermons and healing service.

The lead theme of Uncle Jonas’ mission is wealth. “God did not will for his people to languish in poverty.” Uncle Jonas is often heard preaching to those who care to listen. And listen they do especially the good for nothing young loafers who would rather while away the time in ‘kijiwe’ corners rather than perform the least of a days labour.

Listening to his sermons, Uncle Jonas reminds me of King Leopold’s message to the missionaries heading to the Congo in those many years past that we hardly have any memory of these days. According to my history readings, this King of Belgium during the time of ‘Scramble for Africa’ on the 19th century gave an opposite message to missionaries coming to Africa to convert ‘natives’ into Christianity. He instructed them to teach the ‘nigger’ that only the poor would inherit the earth and to urge them not to belabour with seeking worldly possessions but to seek the virtues that would grant them a ticket to partake in the glories of the after life which perpetual poverty was ranking highest on the list. And while at it, he urged them to tell their subjects to obey their new White rulers because all authority comes from God and He has willed them to rule the universe.

Uncle Jonas’ sermons are an antithesis of the philosophy attributed to King Leopold, the architect of African colonisation. As I listen to him and marvel at the gymnastics punctuating his speech, I wonder if his is not a call for his congregation to wake up from over a century old stupor created by the purveyors of the said philosophy. This thought kind of fascinates me but I don’t say it aloud for fear of my mother’s wrath; and with it a strain in our relationship. If you want to upset her, all you need to do is say something positive about Uncle Jonas within her ear shot.

It is out of curiosity that I found myself amidst the throng that listens to Uncle Jonas every Wednesday at the market square. Curious to know what it is that makes people flock at his sermons I sneaked to the market place against my Mama’s good judgement. This happened a day or two after my mother made official her sentiments about him. I had known all along that mother held him with suspicion, but I didn’t know how deep her disdain and mistrust of him went. Just to test the waters I asked her if she didn’t mind me attending Uncle Jonas’ sermons. Mother pursed her lips and lifted her shoulders in exasperation and looking the other way responded,

“Listening to people like Jonas can send you to hell. People like him ought to be in jail!”

No amount of cajoling would make mama say more on the issue. Though it did not deter me from listening to Jonas, from then on, I make sure I always do it or anything to do with Jonas behind my mama’s back. It is not what she said that wetted my curiosity, but what wasn’t said. With all my heart I have since wanted to get to the bottom of what lays behind my mothers loath of Uncle Jonas. To start with, I resorted to the art of eavesdropping that I had developed and perfected as a child. This is how I was able to pick anecdotes from disjointed conversations between mother and her buddies that gave me a bird’s eye view of the matter.

‘He is harbouring a sinister secret in his heart that will send him running for the rest of his life. With all his gymnastics, I don’t think he will have the courage to face Jesus if he comes down today.” I heard Mama telling one of our neighbours one day.

“I wonder what he will do if they ex-communicate him.” The other woman wondered.

“Even if they excommunicate him today, he will, like Lucifer, find a way of rehabilitating himself, even if it means sacrificing the lives of his believers, he will. The man is a criminal I tell you and he didn’t start today.”

The conversation always dies as soon as mother becomes aware of the presence of an unwanted attention. “There are clouds.” Mother would caution her interlocutor, who would understand the code and stop in mid sentence.

*********

My mother used to be a good church goer until Uncle Jonas was appointed our local pastor. Since then, Mama goes to church only when the pastor is away. It is a wonder that she has neither been excommunicated nor received a visit from church elders to explain her reasons for backsliding. Apparently, her loath for Uncle Jonas has a long history. I once heard her say Uncle Jonas had no guts to order her excommunication. When asked why, she simply said, “The man is not only a criminal he is a coward!”

Convinced that there is a big story concerning Uncle Jonas that Mama is privy to, I decided to investigate. “I have to do this to put my mind at ease,” I say to myself as I plan my investigation. I start by putting the pieces together but the more I try the more complicated the puzzle becomes. I one evidence after another gives me an impression that whatever it is that made Mama hold such a grudge against Uncle Jonas, must have something to do with the late Aunty Lulu. By the way mama talks of her, you can tell she was very fond of her late cousin. I decide to make her memory my starting point. Time and again I ask mother to tell me about Aunty Lulu. Try as I can though I do not manage to make her go beyond what she meant to her. Mama was only ten years old when Aunt Lulu died, but until now, the telling of her death draws tears from her eyes. Once she is thus overcome by emotions the story reaches a dead end.

I once had the audacity to suggest some connection between Aunty Lulu and our local pastor. “They grew up together, didn’t they mother?” I asked feigning innocence.

“You are too nosy, child. Learn how to behave or the dung in your neck folds may never drop.” She said and added “Why pry into secrets of the departed? If you continue this habit of pocking into other peoples affairs, you will one day get into trouble a tell you!” I was about to apologise when she sneered, “Jonas is a ruthless man and now he claims to be a man of God. He cannot have his name be mixed up with sinister stories like what happened to your Aunty Lulu, do you hear me? Never should I hear you talk like that again?”

That closed the chapter. It however just fanned my curiosity as it added to the mystery. The chapter I closed with mother was as fast opened with my grandmother; with whom we shared many secret and a common trait of mirth. With her, I didn’t have to do any cajoling.

“How did Aunty Lulu die?” is all I needed to ask.

*********

Long time ago, when my mother was young, Aunty Lulu and Uncle Jonas were lovers. Her father was a teacher working far from home. Because the mission school located in our village was better than the one in which Aunty Lulu’s father taught, he decided to leave his children behind. What is more, he wanted his children to be anchored in the ways of his people rather than pick habits of strangers among whom he worked and lived. All the children, five of them in total, became boarders in our local mission school but each was placed under the care of a relative just in case they needed something the school could not provide. Aunty Lulu was left under the charge of my grandmother who was her mother’s half sister and best friend.

Uncle Jonas’ parents lived in the backdrop of the mission settlement and he was among people who valued mission education but not the faith it preached. He father figured out that he would bequeath to his son his way of life as a polygamous man and member of the occult when Jonas is ready to be introduced to the oracle when he reaches puberty. In the meantime, he sent him to school among the people whose religion was in direct opposition of his belief system. To make matters worse, by the time Jonas his first born son was mature enough to take his rightful place in the order of things, he was already baptized and training to become a pastor.

Both Aunt Lulu and Uncle Jonas were boarders in the mission school middle school. On week ends, they both came to visit my grandmother who was also a paternal second cousin to Uncle Jonas’s mother. Middle schools were few, and more prestigious than local authority schools; the only government funded schools available to ordinary African children at the time. ‘Those were the days when we were under the rule by wazungu,’ my grandmother interjects as she explaining, making sure in the process she gives me a history lesson she thinks they haven’t taught me properly at university.

Problems started when Aunt Lulu discovered that Uncle Jonas was deceiving her. She found out that his people had already spoken to the people of another girl who was also a student in their school. When Aunt Lulu discovered that the two families were about to close the betrothal deal without her Jonas mentioning anything of the sort to her, she was devastated. She confronted him with a threat that she would endtheir relationship but he insisted those were nothing but malicious rumours. But as it is today, it seems some things could not remain a secret for long in our village and especially when it involves juicy gossips about which girl has been spoken for. Any betrothal meant a big feast attended by the whole village and no one wanted to miss out on a rumour of an impending feast.

It is said that Aunty Lulu was prettier than the girl Uncle Jonas was going to marry; and that in actual fact, he was not in love with the latter. The only problem was that Aunty Lulu being a daughter of converted parents did not undergo traditional rite of passage and Uncle Jonas’ parents who were followers of our indigenous religion and cultural practices would not allow their son soon to be a member of the occult as they thought he would, to marry a kighiria. His protests that he had already promised Lulu marriage fell on deaf ears of parents who were raised to know as a fact that no son of theirs would promise marriage to a woman before consulting with and soliciting consent from them. Even Granma had cautioned Lulu about such traditions when she heard her chatter to friends and family about the promise she shared with Jonas at Kwanamzange, the spot where young people went on Sabbath afternoons to while away the time.

“Even if we have received the light, there are things about our culture we cannot turn our backs on.” Granma cautioned.

In her excitement, Lulu did not grasp the full extent of that advice until things turned sour.

Jonas was caught in a dilemma. On the one hand he had made a promise he was being pressured to honour, on the other he had parents he wasn’t expected to disobey. While he juggled between appeasing his lover and buying time with his parents who were already performing a string of rituals required before the final day arrives for the clans to be united, Aunty Lulu made resolved to move on with her life. A difficult decision it was but no sooner than it was made did it get reversed as it turned out to be a burden she wasn’t willing to carry alone. Why? She discovered that she was heavy with child. Now it was a matter of life and death for her to make sure Uncle Jonas takes responsibility for her condition. But Uncle Jonas had just been accepted to train to become a pastor so he wasn’t about to jeopardize his chances by accepting to have anything to do with making a girl pregnancy before wedlock.

“We can get married before it shows,” Aunt Lulu tried to reason with him. “The Pastor will not go along with your parents objections.” She implored citing ample cases in which the church had intervened when the local customs were put forward as a stumbling block for brothers and sisters of the light to be united. Wasn’t this among them? Aunt Lulu reasoned. But deep down she had another fear. She too was afraid that if they didn’t do something about it she would be excommunicated from church and be ostracized by family and community—of light and dark faiths alike! Pregnancy before wedlock was a worse crime for both worlds especially if no one came forward to acknowledge fatherhood.

“I have a plan,” Uncle Jonas came up with a strategy one day after many evasive confrontations.

“Let’s use Amos! Amos has been after you for a long time. Why don’t you agree to marry him let your people receive visitors for you from a his folks while we figure out what to do about my impending marriage to Miriam?”

Aunt Lulu was desperate. She wanted so badly to believe him; that he would honestly make things right; for above all she loved him. “You give me your word of honour Jonas, don’t you?”

“Of course Lulu, what are you thinking? You know I love you but if I get expelled what will become of us and the baby?”

It made sense. His voice betrayed no personal ambition…. Aunty Lulu thought of his devotion to church and its mission…. Jonas was a choir master and he played the organ in church… he was a model of good behaviour and he had charm. Every girl envied Lulu her good fortune to have Jonas fall for her. Of course none of them knew that back home, outside the reach of mission settlement and the light, Jonas so revered his father and the rituals of indigenous faith that his father still practiced with zeal when he was on leave. Deep in his heart Jonas knew that unless a miracle occurred he would not alter the course of his impending marriage to the daughter of the high priestess simply because he had found a new faith which would secure him a job in the modern knowledge industry but saying that aloud would cause him so much trouble with Lulu he preferred to tell a lie to buy time.

After a lot of hesitation Aunt Lulu accepted to go along with the plan though she wasn’t sure how long she would be able to sustain such a lie. Amos was a decent man whose only crime was to love her. She was certain his love for her was true even if her heart was for Jonas. Deceiving him was something she did with a heavy heart, but her mind was so much focused on her own survival she wouldn’t allow herself time for empathy.

It didn’t take long for a marriage proposal to be made and the wedding date to be set. In those days, girls went to school only until they were betrothed, so Aunt Lulu’s parents received word of their daughter’s betrothal with joy. They were happy to receive dowry and be relieved of the anxiety of caring for a post pubescent unmarried girl growing up away from the watchful eye of her mother and who was even not initiated into indigenous ways of self discipline. The greatest fear was the shame of having a grandchild whose pedigree is not acknowledged. It was beyond shame for such a thing to happen though since the new religion came; which made it taboo for converts to partake in traditional initiations; more and more girls were falling pray to such pregnancies. Lulu’s parents still valued traditional rites and wished their children could partake in them so as to internalize values that would make them full citizens of their society, in communion with both the living and departed members of their clan; but they wanted to have the best of both worlds and the new religion which prohibited such practices promised a secure income for them and exposure to a wider scope of modern life. It also promised a happy after life with no interference from nagging ancestors.

By the time Lulu’s marriage negotiations ended, she was already five months pregnant. She was caught up so deep in a web of deceit she no longer knew how to extricate herself. Jonas her co-conspirator was by then already married and Amos was so convinced that she had returned his love that she felt pain at the pit of her stomach at the mere though of him knowing that it was all nothing but illusion. As Aunt Lulu languished in the agony of betrayal and deception, things took another twist. Word was returned from Amos’ people—who lived two hills away from the mission and its surrounding settlement of people of the new light; that Lulu’s mother needed to hold counsel with her daughter before they would accept her as a bride. This message held meaning that all mothers understood. Grandmother handled it with great secrecy waiting for the go betweens to finish the ritual of telling and retelling before she could break the news whatever it was to her sister; Lulu’s mother.

As it turned out, Lulu’s in-laws were not sure if the child she was carrying was their son’s. They noticed her condition immediately they had a chance to greet the bride to be, but the negotiations were too advanced for them to raise the issue at the time. They sent a secret emissary to enquire from Granma, who had already noticed it before and quizzed her niece who insisted it belonged to Amos. Granma echoed what Aunty Lulu had told her back to the go-betweens. Mother in-law who was privy to the rumour about the previous relationship wanted a confirmation from her son. When she queried Amos if he had indeed transgressed into her fiancée’s bed chamber before it was officially sanctioned, he was shocked at the mere suggestion! His chastity and hers were things he had taken for granted relishing the day she would be truly his with the full sanction of God and congregation. Fearing the humiliation that would befall her bride if the rumours were confirmed, he resorted to asking her privately as soon as he returned from his village.

“Is it true Lulu?”

“What?”

She didn’t have to answer. Her reaction told the whole story.

“So?” Amos asked. “What are we going to do?”

It is the word we that did the trick. After such maliciousness on her part, Lulu was overwhelmed to note that Amos was still seeking for a joint solution. Unlike Adam who distanced himself from his erring Eve, Amos still considered them united. She confessed and promised to rectify things by confessing in the presence of the pastor. Devastated, Amos did not wait. He left school that very evening and no one from our side of the hills has seen or heard of him since.

With Amos gone, Aunty Lulu could have gotten away with her lie, but her conscience would not let her. She sought audience with Jonas and gave him advance notice that she could no longer live with the burden that heavy and that she was going to spill the beans. The though of him being expelled from school, thus cutting short his career as a pastor was too much for him. So Uncle Jonas hatched another plan. He sought the service of a medicine man who gave him a portion to make Lulu forget the nonsense about making their shared secret public. He also wanted the medicine to cleanse her of her pregnancy. That way there would be nothing to stop him from his ambition.

Jonas tricked his wife into preparing the best dish he needed to take to his protégé at the mission. He gave her ingredients and instructions on how to prepare Chicken in ikungu source just the way he knew Aunty Lulu would like it. This is the food Lulu used to serve him whenever he visited as a special guest at Granma’s place where she often spent her holidays. One fine evening, he invited her to meet him at their usual rendezvous. Even though their relations had thawed, he promised her he wanted to iron out a few things with her and that he was willing to acknowledge her even if it meant being expelled from school. He even promised he would search for Amos and have him absolved from responsibility and reinstated in school. He wrote all that in a letter that was hand delivered by a young messenger who gave it to my mother asking her pass it on to her big sister who was on a self imposed seclusion. In the letter which mother read before handing over to Aunty Lulu, Amos had itemised things they would discuss and agree on.

Aunt Lulu was convinced. The meeting happened as planned. No one knows what exactly transpired. It was at dusk when Aunt Lulu came back. She sneaked in the room she shared with mother and went straight to bed. She didn’t even take supper. When mother asked her what transpired, she said Jonas served her best meal, was very loving and had promised her that her problems would be solved that same night.

“How?” Mother asked but all Aunty Lulu said was,

“He is working on it tonight. Be patient, she continued, tomorrow isn’t that far is it?”

In the small hours of morning Aunty Lulu started to haemorrhage. The local midwife was called and tried all she could to make it stop with no success. The school matron trained in the new ways of taking care of prenatal complications was also called together with the mission dispensary attendant but no medicine or therapy could stop the haemorrhage. In the meantime, Aunty Lulu was in agony and hallucinating. She kept shouting to something or someone only her was seeing, saying over and over again, “Go away you lier, so this is how you planned to solve the problem?”

Eventually she lost her speech altogether. All the while she was still struggling to say something that no one would understand. By midday, she was dead.

No one but Mother knew about the letter, the food and the stuff Jonas had talked to the late Aunty Lulu about, but she was too young for her word to be taken seriously by the grieving adults. Mother tried to search among Aunt Lulu’s stuff so she may share her worst fears with the grown ups but the letter was nowhere to be found. It was her word against a deafening silence that became her everlasting memory of Aunty Lulu.

-THE END-

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Kaukalange

By Eric Kalunga

Once upon a time in land far far away there lived a little girl who had a cat. The cat was called Nunda and it was evil and it ate the neighbour’s chickens_

The neighbours complained but the little girl and her parents refused to do anything about it because the little girl loved the cat so much.

So Nunda ate and grew and it ate some more. Soon it ran out of chickens and began to eat goats. It ate the goats and it grew.

It grew so much that people began to fear it. They pleaded with the owners to get rid of it but again they did not listen.

Then nunda began to eat calfs and then cows. It ate all the cows in the village and all the goats and the sheep as well until there were no animals left.

Then it began to eat little children. By this time it was too late to do anything. The cat had grown to the size of a small house.

People tried to escape but it ran them down and ate them. Soon there was no one left but just one woman who was pregnant.

She was frightened and went to hide in the ceiling of her house. The beast never found her.

She gave birth to a baby boy. The moment that the baby came out she placed him inside a hot frying pan with sizzling oil. She fried the baby.

And the boy then leaped out of the frying pan, grown and talking.

She called him Kaukalange, child of a snake.

He asked his mother about his brothers and sisters and his mother told him that nunda ate them. He then asked where his aunts and uncles were and his mother told him that nunda ate them. He asked about his neighbours and all the other little boys and girls outside and his mother told him that nunda ate them all.

Kaukalange then vowed to kill the monster that ate his village and free everybody. So early the next morning he set out with a bow and arrows to seek and defeat the monster.

In the evening he came back dragging behind him the carcass of a huge animal.

He called out to his mother, “mother is this nunda?”

His mother peeked out of the house and shook her head, “no, my son, that is not nunda. You have just killed an elephant, nunda is a thousand times bigger.”

The next morning Kaukalange set off again in search of the monster cat. In the evening he brought back a lion.

“Mother,” he called out again, “is this nunda?”

His mother peeked out of the house and shook her head, “no, my son, that is not nunda. You have just killed a lion, nunda is a thousand times more terrifying.”

The morning after that the boy set out again to find nunda and free his people. Later that evening he came back empty handed.

His mother came out to meet to him, “what happened my son?” she asked.

He said, “I met a big and terrible animal today, we fought and I defeated it. But I couldn’t bring it here for you to see because it was too heavy.”

“Come, show me where this animal is and I shall tell you of it is the terrible nunda,” his mother told him.

Together they set off. Deep in the forest they came upon the carcass of an animal as big as a mountain. Arrows were sticking out of its body and the trees nearby were all flattened to the ground.

“Is this nunda, mother?” Kaukalange asked.

“Yes indeed my son,” his mother replied, “this is the beast that ate everyone in our village.”

Kaukalange quickly drew a knife and sliced open the belly of the beast. All the animals and people that nunda ate came tumbling out.

It was a long stream of people and animals. People set up fires to warm themselves in the night chill while waiting for others to come out of Nunda, There was great joy as old friends and relatives saw each other and hugged.

The last person to come out was Kaukalange’s uncle. He had an arrow sticking out of his left eye. One of the arrows that shot the animal went through to him. He was not very happy.

“Who did this to me?” He screamed angrily.

He wouldn’t listen when people told him it was an accident. He demanded that they hold Kaukalange for him so that he could pierce the boy’s eye in return.

At hearing this everyone was very angry. They then took him and put him back inside the stomach of nunda. Then they sew the belly shut with him still inside.

Everyone was glad to see him go. They thanked Kaukalange for freeing them and went back to the village where they lived happily ever after.

The end.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Welcome

Dear writers

Welcome to Soma writers club.

We meet the second Friday of every month.

Our first meeting took place February Friday 13, and we laid some ground rules for what our forum is going to be like.

It is a writers’ forum where you write and share with others. It is also a place where you can receive constructive criticism on your work.

What kind of work is admissible here?
Any kind of writing is ok. Essays, novels, short stories, vignettes, bios,plays, scripts etc.

The only rule is YOU must be the writer of that work.

What you will get is people who will give you useful feedback on your work. It will also be a place to get tips on getting your work published.

Presentation
You can read your piece to a live audience. You can also perform the story, poetry or script on a mic or you can post it online and get feedback later. Posting is encouraged for longer posts that you want to be read in their whole.

Blog
Post here: http://somawritersclub.blogspot.com.
Posting is optional.
This will give enough time for others to read and review your work before the meeting. Comments are also welcome.


Some guidelines
Everyone must participate. Participation includes submitting work for evaluation as well as commenting on others’ work.
You won’t get feedback on your work if you have not commented on what others have submitted. Feedback is highly encouraged.
You must treat others with the respect and dignity they deserve. Criticism must be constructive and directed towards work submitted and not the person unless this has a direct bearing on the work itself.
Elaborate on your comments. Broad comments like ‘it’s bad’ or 'i like it' are not encouraged. Comments should aim to help the writer improve.
Write.
Develop a thick skin and take the criticism.

Finally we are still growing and rules are bound to change as more people participate.
The next meeting is at 6pm on Friday 13, March 2009.
The venue is Soma Book Cafe.

That’s it.

Address questions to
Demere Kitunga
Demere.soma@infinet.co.tz

Eric Kalunga
epkalunga@yahoo.co.uk