The last letter

No deathly night like this one. Even the crickets in the ground ceased. Earlier in the evening an owl had perched on our makeshift kitchen and hooted all the while; occasionally, my mother would get out and throw a burning splint at it – to scare the owl away with its omen. I was frightened that this was an ominous sign.

My mother pushed open the fragile tin door to our room. We were all strewn on the floor with torn blankets loosely covering our frail bodies against the biting cold.

“Mother” I shouted.

“Quiet son, I am covering you. It’s a cold night. Sleep”. She replied softly.

I rested my head back on my folded arm and placed my other hand right between my legs to keep warm. I watched lazily  as my mother’s form faded in the dark, then I heard her spring bed creek and knew she was in her room already. I loved her. She was our father and mother for three years now since our father left.

I groped in the dark and reached for the tin lamp. We hardly have the lamp lighting long since the price of kerosene went up and lately everyone in our house has learnt to find things even in the dark. I sat up against the mud wall and pushed my hand under the heap of old clothes that was my pillow and fetched out a small sheet of securely wrapped paper. I carefully unwrapped the paper and got two match sticks and a small rod-shaped, slightly hard paper that I had peeled off from the match box lighting end.

I thought my siblings would wake up; but seemingly they had no room in their slumber land to deal with this emerging issue.  They were dead asleep. Asleep like they already were in the Promised Land devouring the goodness of the Lord. They snored, snored like they had swallowed some small generator engines.

I struck the match stick against the small lighting bit and on the third strike it lit.  There was light. I tiptoed to the old arm chair where I kept my school bag. I opened the bag, got out an exercise book and tore a blank page. I opened my geometrical set and picked a short pencil that was kept in line with my counting sticks for our Mathematics lessons in school.

I wanted to write a letter to my father. 

To tell him that we needed him back home. I wanted to apologize on behalf of my mother – in case she did anything wrong to make him leave. I wanted to tell him my mother is beautiful – beautiful than Topista. I wanted him to ask Topista to release the spell she cast on him and let him come home to his children. I wanted to tell him my mother sees groups of other women talking and when she draws near they keep quiet and this spoils her mood. I wanted to tell him mother maybe looking less beautiful now because she bore him five beautiful children and Topista has none so far: that it is our fault and not mother’s. I wanted to tell father that we loved him.

“The big tree has fallen and the little birds have crashed with the nest. What shall I do? Now tears will be my food and sorrow will be my haven forever!” My mother shouted amid tears.

 It was clear enough she was shouting from outside. What could have woken her at this hour of the night? Why was her voice so laden with sorrow? What was she doing outside? My mind was engulfed with a barrage of thoughts, my heart pumped faster and a cold chill went all the way down my spine. My hand grew frail and my eyes hazy. My pencil and paper dropped and my fingers lingered motionless like branches on leafless trees.

“No. This is not true, this is not true my father in heaven. Why Lord? Why?” I could identify Aunt Tabitha’s voice and then I heard more voices and more footsteps and more screams.

I stood still with my loose torn t-shirt hanging precariously on my body like strings of broken litungu.[i] Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and my tears dripped free like the grass grows. I didn’t know why I was crying. Clearly, something was wrong – the air was dense with grief.

I walked out. By now my siblings were lazily coiling out of sleep and rubbing their eyes. The door was wide open. I could see a crowd gathered at our gate – they were weeping and murmuring. I walked towards the gate with some confidence since there was many people around.

I saw him – lying motionless on the dewy grass, cold and pale. My Father who was gone for three years!

I wanted to write him a letter tonight. But time tarried and now I will write no more, for he will read no more.

By Alenga Torosterdt.

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[i] Litungu: This is an 8-stringed lyre made and played by the Luhya community from Western Kenya.

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