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Meeting Mama

By Edward Eremugo Luka (Sudan)

Meeting Mama

By Edward Eremugo Luka

The climb up the hill is very exhausting. My breathing increases and my heart beats faster and faster. I sit on the small, black, smooth-topped rock on the hill. I take gulps of air to soothe myself. The weather is fine and clear this morning as the sun rises from behind the far mountains. They are called the Lokikili Mountains, after the tribe living there. Mama told me stories about them once. Mama told me many stories about the Lokikili people. They are warriors, she said, just like our neighbouring tribe which also lives in the mountains close to us. When there is fighting, they are said to be fierce and agile on their feet. Now things have changed. No more spears and arrows, only guns. 

From here I can see the whole village spread out in the valley like a huge carpet with a spectrum of colours. It is like those carpets brought from abroad. Mama used to say they were brought from far away, across the sea and through the forest to the village. The carpets were different from the ones our village people made from papyrus. Those were more colourful and thicker. They were brought by the Arab merchants who had shops in the village. Now the merchants are all gone. They left because of the war.

Far out on the horizon are the green fields, and those are where the farms are located. It is where the groundnuts and maize are growing. I can also see part of the field where the potatoes and other vegetables are planted.  The rains have been generous this year. The harvest will be good. It is everyone’s prayer. Last year the rains stopped early before anyone could harvest anything. The crops were all burnt by the sun in the fields. Maybe it is a blessed year this time around.

To my left are the dark yellow roofs of the thatched huts. Strangely enough, there are not many houses with corrugated iron roofs in the village. In fact, there is only one. And that belong to the chief. I can’t see the house from my vantage point. Chief Oluma’s house is hidden behind the mango trees by the river on the other side of the village. Maybe his house is different because he is the village chief.

Oluma. He is a funny chief. He likes to joke with people on the road. When he goes around he moves with his Bazingili, the man who carries his whip. I remember one time before the war, when my friends and I met him on the path to the market. We ran and hid in the bush. Bazingili was a very big, ugly man. Children ran from him. But people in the village liked the chief. Whenever there are disputes, he solves them with wisdom. Nobody complains after the chief passes judgment. But he likes women. Oluma has many wives. In fact many of them are very young, just a few years older than me. I remember him taking one girl from our school to be his wife. She agreed because he is the chief. We laughed at her before. But now she is happy being the chief’s wife.

I told Mama that being the chief’s wife must be fun. I asked her one day whether I can become one of his wives. Mama just laughed. She said the chief only chose the best women in the village. Sometimes I dreamt that Mama was married to the chief. In the dreams we played in the chief’s compound. I told her the dreams but she said they cannot come true. She is a widow and cannot marry a chief. I teased her about it and she just laughed. When Mama wants to make you stop talking about a subject she doesn’t like, she just laughs. That is Mama.

This is my favourite spot. When I want to get away from the noise and talk of the village I come here. I have the whole spot to myself. No one seems to come here anymore. It is where I come to meet Mama. I come here to talk to her about my life. I wish she were with me every day.

Before the village became what is today, a collection of shabby huts and Rakuba shelters, life was different. A lot was happening here. There were the weekend dances. People gathered from the other villages around here for the dances. There was a lot of merry making and laughter and life. I liked the dances. There was this young man from the neighbouring village. He was tall and handsome. I admired his style and dancing moves. He was also a very good drummer. Everyone in the villages liked him. When he took the drums, the rhythm was so beautiful that everyone joined the dancing. His manner was quite amazing. It was like the drum sticks were the extension of his hands.

All that is gone; nothing is left. You can see it in the faces of the people. They all look like zombies. Now life is just about surviving. It only centres on a few things, nothing more. People worry how to get food for the children. They concentrate on how to scratch a living. Our home is also difficult. It is full of extended family members. But it is not my real home.

I came to live with my Aunt after the death of Mama. She died at child birth, when she was giving birth to my little brother. I don’t know exactly what happened. Or, rather, I don’t understand what happened. But my Aunt said it was the baby that killed her. Koko is a big boy now. He can run and say some words. Auntie Lena is Mama to him. Maybe, when he grows up, I will have to tell him about Mama. I will need to tell Koko all about our Mama. Auntie Lena looks after him. I cannot believe that he caused the death of Mama. He is so cute. I love to play with him and carry him around. He loves it so much. Especially when I carry him on my back and I am on all fours. He is my little brother. I promised Mama the other day I will look after him very well. She was happy about that.

Life is hard for everyone in the village. The war has caused a lot of suffering and destruction. Many young people were killed. I know several boys from the village who departed to fight and never came back. People say they all died. The boys go to fight; the girls stay at home. For the girls, life rotates around a routine that can be monotonous. Wake up in the morning. Clean the compound. Light the fire. Put hot water on for Uncle. Go to the river to fetch water. Make porridge. Wash clothes that need washing. Cook food. Go back to the river. It is a cycle of work.

There is one part of this work which is fun, though. To make the flour for our food, we have to pound and grind it ourselves. We use the big stone for this purpose. A friend once told me they use a machine in the town to grind flour. We don’t have it here in the village. So we do it with our hands as groups. We talk and laugh and sing. It takes the strain out of the hard work.

There is no school any more. The war has closed all schools. I loved school. The teachers have also gone to fight. The day our teacher left, he said he would come back. I hope so. He was such a good teacher. He taught English. I love English. He made us read aloud in class and told us stories from big books. I really missed school. I hope the war stops soon so that I can go back. From where I stand, I can see the long structure that is our school. There are only five classrooms in it. Those who finished school here are sent to the neighbouring village to complete their learning. We were taught under the big Neem tree sometimes. We used to love studying in the open. However, when it rained, it meant there would be no classes for the rest of the day.

The schools are now being used for refugees who come to the village from other places. They are all in rags, hungry and tired looking. There is little food for them. Occasionally, some people come to the village with food. White people in big trucks with food sent from abroad. They give out flour and oil and beans. That is all. Because they need to buy other things, they sell some of their food to the village people for a little money, to buy salt, for example.

I see them every day when I go to the river to fetch water. Their children play under our trees in the school yard. The women are always busy, trying to cook something for the children. The men have nothing to do. There is no work in the village anymore. They just sit around in groups, playing Mongola, dug out on the ground near the market place. They play from morning to evening. They go home only in the late evening to eat whatever the women been able to prepare.

* * *

Mama stands beside me. I know she is there because I suddenly feel a cold breeze. I turn to her. She is smiling.

“I am happy to see you Mama.”

She holds me close to her and we sit down on the big rock. She likes sitting in the same place every day. She also has her favourite spot. Like me.

“You are growing fast my child.”

That was Mama’s voice. She had the most beautiful voice. It has a slight pitch to it, which remains in your head long after she has gone. Her voice cannot be forgotten. It has such distinctiveness. When I was much younger, she used to sing old songs from the past. She said the songs were sung during the harvest, as women cut the sorghum and maize. She had always led in the songs because of her voice.

 “I have a lot to tell you today mama.”

I stop to look at her. Where can I start? I have a lot of things to tell my Mama. She holds my hand and looks into my eyes. Her smile is stunning. She is still so young. She had to go when she was still in her prime. I want her with me always.

Her smile reminds me of her picture, with Daddy, taken many years ago. It was black and white. The picture was taken by some Kawajas – those white men who came to the town. Mama had the picture on the table in her room. It had turned yellowish with age because of much thumbing. She was kneeling near a big shrub, and touching the tip of a leave, like she wanted to pluck it. She was smiling, happy to have her picture taken and showing a set of teeth so white. She was the most beautiful Mama I had ever seen.

In the picture, Daddy was standing behind her, wearing a white shirt and dark trousers. His face had a faraway look to it, like he did not want his picture taken. Daddy did like a lot of things. Maybe that was why he left us so early. He disagreed with anybody, even the chief, if he thought he was right. Daddy disappeared before Mama died. He was taken away by soldiers who came to the village. We have not heard anything about him since. It was five years ago. Then mama died.

 “I am listening, Opiangwa,” Mama says. “Tell me.”

I want to tell her about Izaru, the boy in the village. He is being a big trouble to me these days. Izaru is a good boy, but I don’t like his ways. He used to be in the same class as me. But now he does nothing, like everyone else. Onr day I was coming from the river, carrying the bucket of water on my head. I was with a group of girls from the village. He came from behind me out of the bush and tickled me. It surprised me so much that I dropped the whole bucket of water on the ground. It ruined the bucket. It was very difficult to explain to Auntie Lena what happened. I was really angry with him that day. But he seemed to like me. The girls thought so too. They have teased me about him since that day. One girl in particular, Kapuki, loved to bring the subject up every time she wanted to make me angry. She is a naughty one, that girl. She talks about things we don’t understand. Maybe it’s because she is older than us. She knows a lot.

I know I am trapped. I cannot tell Mama now. Maybe I will tell her later, some other time. When she calls me with that name, I know she is being coercive. It is the name she knows means a lot to me. Opiangwa. I like the name. It has a true African ring to it. When Mama calls me using this name, I concede to do anything. Not today Mama, I plead inside.

“I have been a good girl, Mama.”

“I know my daughter. I know you will make us proud one day. I hope the war ends soon and you go back to school. Your father and I think highly of you.”

“But life is hard, Mama, without you and Daddy. It is a struggle.”

“I know you will succeed. Just concentrate on your goals in life. This situation will not last forever. It will come to an end. You have to be ready to move on with your life.”

“Auntie Lena takes good care of us, Koko and me.”

“Yes. She is a good sister. I know she will look after you like her own. Take care of Koko, Opiangwa.”

Mama puts her arms around me again. Her caress soothes my heart. Emotion fills my inside, building up like a boiling pot about to explode. The moment takes me many years back, when I was just starting school. We were playing a game with the other kids in the school yard. I took my sandals off as we ran around, chasing each other in the game of Sembelu. I ran into a small bush behind the classrooms and injured my foot on broken glass that I had not seen. The wound bled very badly. I cried from the pain. The girls had to call the teacher, who tied it with a piece of cloth and carried me home to Mama. Mama was afraid for me. She took me in her arms and calmed me down. I can feel that comfort now. The same feeling I had many years ago.

“I want all this to end, Mama. I want to go back to school. I want to study and be a teacher. I would like to teach small children one day.”

“It will. One day. I left you and Koko at the time you needed me most my dear. How I wish I could be there with you. I want to see you both grow into fine young people.

Mama stands up and looks around. Her face looks worried. She must be thinking a lot about us, our future without her and Daddy. There and then, I know what I will do to make her really happy. I have to be strong, do my best in everything. I have to succeed in my studies when the schools open again. I have to accomplish that for Mama.

* * *

“Who are you talking to?” a voice says behind me.

It is Auntie Lena. She stands there, her face scrawled in a stern and serious look. She is my favourite aunt. I love her, not because she is my Mama’s sister, but because she is sweet in her own right.

I smile at her. She can be stern and serious when she has to. Like today, she is being very serious. She must have been looking for me. I can sense the serious talk that will follow. But I am not afraid today. I had spoken to Mama already. I can go home now.

I turn around and Mama is gone. She has gone back to wherever she came from. She leaves as silently as she comes. I know she will be looking after me always from where she is. I know that because I feel her every day. I feel her in everything I do.

Auntie Lena stands behind me and holds my hand. I look at her. I feel sorry for her sometimes. Her sweetness is very contagious. You can never be angry with her. If only she had found a good husband to take care of her. She is always worried about us. Her husband spends a lot of his time drinking and cares less about the family. Auntie Lena is the backbone of the family now. She is a strong woman.

“I am talking to Mama”, I say. I know she will not believe me. Mama died more than five years now and talking to her will seem bizarre. But I don’t mind that at all.

“You are day-dreaming again.”

“No Auntie, I meet Mama here every week.”

“If you continue to do that you will not be able to take care of yourself in the future.”

So she does not believe me. Who will ever believe that I really see my mother? Can I even explain?

“But Auntie . . .”

“Come here my little one,” Auntie Lena cuts me short in her sweet motherly voice. “I know you miss your mama so much. We are here for you.”

This is Auntie Lena’s favourite name for me: Little One. She likes to call me that. For Auntie Lena I will always remain so. I am always her little one, even if I am no longer that little. Countless times, I want to tell her that I am a big girl now. Koko is the little one. But the sweetness with which she speaks makes it hard to contradict her.

“Thanks Auntie,” I say. Thoughts of Mama again make me want to cry. Tears swell in my eyes and slowly flow down my cheek. Before they turn into floods, I wipe them off with the back of my hand.

Auntie Lena comes over and holds me close. She looks into my eyes, her sweet smile penetrating my heart and calming my inside with a fresh lease of affection.

“Come my dear. Let us go home. There is a lot of work waiting for us at home.”

Auntie Lena takes my hand and we start going towards home. Going downhill is easy. The path is clear and hard. The early morning dew has evaporated with the first rays of the sun. The grey sky is being filled with pregnant rain clouds, dark clouds rising from the east. It is going to rain soon, I thought. This is definitely a good year for the rains.

I turn to look back. There I see Mama, waving to me. I am already looking forward to meeting Mama again.