1
STILL WATERS
*
The hill rose in a precipitous ascend, overlooking the submissive valley below. Its rugged contours and sparsed verdure contrasted with the all consuming forest cover in the valley below. A river flowed right through the centre of the fold, dissecting the human settlements and the forest cover. It was quiet and reserved, snaking its way past the kinked lanscape of the area in silent defiance, before disappearing behind a cluster of trees far ahead. It was not an intimidating river as such, but it was home to overwhelming potent, strength harboured beneath its still veneer, power with force to kill. River Jemange had a tendency of breaking banks during the rainy season. When it did, the calm waters would flip mode and turn into a brown, murky mass of destruction, raging into nearby homesteads at the foot of the hill and laying to waste anything, and anyone that crossed its grain. But now was not the time. Now it was reposed. Had it been human enough, it would be lounging on a sofa reading the day's paper. The waters were crystal clear, gleaming in the reddish-orange tint of the evening sun, allowing one the magnificent view of the unassuming aquatic life below,from luxuriant bed of green algae and powdery mildew to the tiny fish and tadpoles that rippled the water below the surface. Floating on the river were conspicuous white and purple multiple petalled water lily flowers and the wide-leafed and spikey-flowered pond weed, all adding to the calmness of it all. This river was the source of water for domestic chores for the villagers of Ivojo, and this gloaming saw a few villagers reach in with their buckets and jerrycans for some. Across the river, the forest spread far into the horizon- a cohesive verdure of indimidating yet fascinating draw, alluring but sinister, virgin yet dangerous. Chattering of monkeys and chirping of birds rose from the trees, a sign that this art of natural woodwork had yet to be defiled by the greedy teeth of the human chainsaw. It was rich with wildlife, perhaps too rich, for during harvesting seasons, the people clashed with monkeys and baboons that always crossed over to sooth their pangs of hunger with food that didn't belong to them. Legend had it that, infact, a lion or two had been killed in the village. The accounts were scant so the story remained unproven, perhaps awaiting corroboration from heavens. Still, it was a peaceful village. As peacefull as the river that flowed at its feet.
Settlements on the belly of the hill were scattered but one paticular homestead caught the eye and tingled interest. It stood at the apex of the hill, sitting apretty like a crown on a deserving head. The main house was an L- shaped structure with red-bricked walls, silvery, shimmering iron sheets and a blackened chimney. From this chimney, tentacles of wispy smoke rose in glee to eternal freedom into the sky, a sign that something-obviously something good- was cooking. To the left, at the entrance, a tall, two-trunked Teak leaned precariously over the path, as if buying time before crashing down. But it wouldn't crash. For decades upon decades, year in year out, it remained thus, swaying slowly to a feeble breeze, beating violently against raging storms and shading heads during drought. A ball of resilience it was and it showed as it softly whispered to the gentle asking of the wind.
Against the wall of the house, on the verandah, under a large, rectangular window with open panes and blue mullions, sat an elderly man, his feet stretched fully across a trench running infront of the house and rested on the grass, grass that was consisted in the entire compoud save for verandahs and random ugly patches of dry earth. He adjusted the glasses over his sunken eyes as he turned over a new page of the book he was reading. He was a grizzled man, with a well kept moustache and a stubbled cheek covered with pimples. A cool wind swept across the compound and a few of the trees around whispered. The sky was lit in bright orange, the lining of the clouds taking a reddish hue, the shadows of the trees, elongated and thinned, slapped against the walls of the houses, marking the end of yet another long day in the warm month of August. The old man was Mr Kilak, a retired 'engineer'. He cleared his throat, a frown on his face as he flipped another page.
From the house, emerged a tall, lean young man, with a long face and a clean shaven head. His ears were pointed and his eyes, unlike his father's, were popped, bright and alert. He adjusted his black buttoned down shirt. He had on a pair of maroon cargo shorts and a pair of white sneakers to complete his modern look. His father had always frowned upon the modern mode of dressing, terming it an abomination and a frown , faint as faint could ever be, flitted across his face as he looked at the boy from the top of his wooden framed glasses.
"Dad you called me?" Maka enquired as he stood before his father with hyperbolic manifestations of respect. Mzee Kilak nodded slightly as he took off his glasses. He looked up at the boy with no veritable emotion.
"Sit down," he said with authoritative curtness as he put down the book, leaving it face down so as not to lose his page. Maka took a spot close to his father's feet, though careful enough to keep some distance. He looked away at the thin millet stalks and felt fear grip the whole of him, and his heart burst into angry racing thuds. The old man was difficult to read and this further compounded Maka's fear. It was hard to tell if he had gotten wind of his sin. He sighed. Hopefully not, otherwise-
"Tomorrow you are going to university," Mzee Kilak started as he sat upright on the tiny three-legged stool. Maka felt his muscles tauten and his nerves stretch. He felt his bones crash and his chest heave violently. He cleared his throat. He had to keep calm and remain loyal to his true nature lest he gave himself away. Like his father, Maka never showed any aggressive emotions.
"Yes father,"he mumbled, turning his eyes to the book his father had placed next to him. 'The Deger Chuoyo Experience', read the title on a red paperback cover with funny illustrations. His old man tended to be quite an avid reader, and Maka always wondered why. Himself, he only read ingredients on Coca Cola bottles and noodles packets. He never found much pleasure in reading. Infact it happened to be one of the most boring activities he could ever take part in. Yet here was his father, spending whole days poring over writings.
"I hope you are ready for this kind of life." Mzee Kilak said as he let his sorry, sunken eyes study his son.
"Yes father, I am ready," Said Maka, feeling a bit rude for being so curt and aloof. But it was almost expected when father and son sat down together. Father cut the authoritative master while son looked up like a submissive servant.
Theirs was a tense relationship, full of short disjointed sentences, silence that dragged on and false starts. Maka always felt inhibited and intimidated when around his father while Mzee Kilak just didn't understand his son. The boy always was too distant sometimes. Infact, he had noted, in the past few days the boy had started to become more and more detached. He seemed disturbed and Mzee Kilak had concluded it as signs of anxiety. But Mzee Kilak was not sure how to reach out without making him recoil in self-preservation.
"When you get there, I have said this many times before, concentrate on your studies." The old man said, blowing tiny balls of smoke from the knot at the end of the kiko. Maka nodded earnestly,his eyes not leaving the book.
"I wouldn't want you to get there and bring bad news back here eh. Be like your sisters. You see they are already through eh? You see they didn't give problems si ndio? You shouldn't be any different."
Maka nodded slightly. Not that he was even insych with what his father was saying. It was a nod that affirmed he was listening so as not to be outed as infact not caring less about the profundity being uttered before him. Yet even then, the word 'bad news' his father spoke of repeated in his head like a catchphrase. He knew exactly what the old man meant when he said 'bad news'. Indeed Mzee Kilak was the strict, dictatorial type with not even a degree's variance in his governance. He was a staunch moralist, a man so steadfast to his cause that he still refused to meet his two daughters' boyfriends despite the girls being way over eighteen. This had earned him respect throughout the village, with even elders older than him drinking from his wisdom fountain. Only his wife, Maka's mother, could stand up to him, but even she knew how to choose her battles otherwise a black eye or broken tooth would be the medal for her efforts. And it was this strictness that made Maka feel great fear and trepidation, for he had broken a moral code dear to his father. He could feel his palms sweat and his muscles tighten and clench. He looked at his watch- ten minutes to six. He sighed. It was hard being an only son. He was the apple of his father's eye, though that was not immediately apparent to an outside or casual eye. The old man took great pride in his male seed, bragging about him everywhere else but home. Maka, being rather diffident and timid, was not pleased. 'My son will rule this land someday' he was once told of his father's utterances and he had crashed. It felt as though his father had handed him his pride on a spoon and tasked him with ensuring that it did not drop and break. That perhaps, was why his apprehension gave way to resolve as he made a vow not to let his old man down- well not all the way down since he had already dragged the old man halfway down already. He would make amends, he promised.
"I won't let you down father, "he said, determination on his sallow face as he looked at his father straight in the eyes for the first time during the conversation. However his guilt wrapped round him, smothering the quiet determination he had gathered. He tore his eyes away from the old man's quickly. Then his phone gave a beep and he knew it was time. 'Im waitin' it read. By now night was falling. As he looked down at his phone, his peripheral vision made him aware of his father's studious gaze. If looks could unlock secrets, his father would already be wading knee-deep in the shock that awaited him, for his gaze was intense and quizzing. But I will make amends, Maka thought as he put his phone away.
"Don't take too long outside," Mzee Kilak said suddenly, as if knowing Maka had somewhere to go. Maka thought again. Could it be that his father knew what had happened and was wisely waiting for him to come clean. The old man's calmness rattled him. It was usual yet felt strangely unfamiliar. He rose slowly from the grass that had flattened under his weight, beat off invisible dust from his shorts and walked away, using the reverse gate, the one that lead to the valley. Mzee Kilak watched untill his son disappeared behind the house. It seemed the prospect of life away from home was having a toll on that boy, but-well-he would get used to it. He rose then, picked up his book and the three-legged stool and stepped into the house.
**
Maka made an urgent rush down the hill. The path meandered down the hill, the next step concealed behind grown, rich-green maize stalks and trees with heavy crowns whose leaves stirred to a slow breeze. Occassionally, he would kick random stones as he hurried, lost in his mangled thoughts. He walked into Mzee Bando's boma. Mzee Bando was Mzee Kilak's distant cousin and good friend. Had he been aware of his every step, Maka would have avoided passing through here. He halted suddenly and thought of turning back, but the old man, despite the encroaching darkness, had already caught sight of him. Maka pushed on, waving as he tried to hurry past, but the old man spoke up, slowing him down greatly.
"Maka, my son, goodevening,"
"Good evening sir," Maka replied, forcing a smile.
" Big day kesho eh?"
"Yes," Maka gave a stilted reply as the old man nodded in approval.
"Come, come here boy," Mzee Banda called him. Maka, already choking with anger and frustation at the delay, thought of ignoring the old man. His phone buzzed in his pocket against his thigh and the urgency rose again. 'Where r u?'
"So how do you feel?" Mzee Banda asked as Maka greeted his two wives, who smiled with jolly at him. I feel like choking you and your forced small talk old man.
"Well its exciting,"he said glancing down at the valley.
"Son, when you go there-" Maka felt irritation and raw anger rise in him fast. It was sickening how everyone thought they had wisdom to share when something that could potentially benefit them was in the offing.
"Go make us proud Maka. We are looking up to you. Go read books, talk to big bosses to give you jobs, make good money and come help your father-"
He must have taken about a minute or less but by the time Maka brought himself out from the murks of his thoughts, it seemed as though it had been an hour.
"So we will see you off, eh?" Mzee Banda continued. Maka cracked another forced smile and nodded. The whole village but him was anticipating tomorrow. Somehow he had to settle this issue before the break of tomorrow. He bade them and turned.
"He is such a good boy," he heard one of Mzee Bando's wives comment as Mzee Bando and his other wife commented in approval. His stomach churned. How unfair life was! That a simple boy like him could have such heavy expectations rested on his teenage faculties. Even the wreck, Marouane, had gone crazy for way less expectation and he could only imagine what havoc he could wreck if he snapped. Now he hated himself. He hated everyone for expecting too much from him. He was human for christsakes! He hated himself even more for the quiet and timid demeanour that was his mien, for only he knew what demons were caged beneath the calm surface.
***
The quiet waters of Jemange River lapped on against the bank. Tiny ripples from small fish, frogs and tadpoles disturbed the surface. Lush grass spread pleasantly along the river bank, sprawling back, away from the river to the foot of the hill, right next to the last line of the maize stalks. A few tall bristle grasses unevened an otherwise naturally manicured stretch. Bordering the maize stalks were small rocks, greyish and creviced, their base sodden and covered in slimy, green algae. A few creeping wood sorrels thrived right next to these rocks. On one of these rocks, sat Celina, fidgetting with a yellow wood sorrel flower. She stared helplessly into the forest, the dark, scaring, endless maze of uncompromising trees. This was her future she was looking at, black and riddled with precarious deadends. She visibly shook at the thought of being nothing other than another village girl. The flower in her hand dropped. Two women who had been fetching water in a different part of the river walked past her, the yellow jerrycans balanced craftfully on their heads.
"Celina why are you here all alone?" The one behind asked.
"Oh nothing aunty. Just thinking." Celina replied. She spoke in a sweet melodious voice, one that bespoke of unadulterated innocence. The woman nodded and moved along. Celina looked down at her phone. She sighed impatiently and shuffled her feet. Then she stopped and started shaking them like one trembling. The soft thud of footfalls called her up. She looked up and saw the thin figure lumber towards her. She rose to her feet. There was no smile nor general jubilance on her face. Her eyes remained dry, only displaying raw anticipation.
As he approached her, Maka was mesmerised. In the gloaming, she was still beautiful. Her skin glowed in a yellow tinge in the shade of the evening sun and her brown eyes were large and inviting and he felt drawn in just like the eventful night of the seventh of July-
"Sasa," she greeted dryly.
"Poa sana,"he replied, avoiding her eyes as he focused instead on her beautiful legs, which remained exposed as the dress landed somewhere above her knees. Then their eyes met by accident and each one tried to diffuse the awkwardness by looking away.
"So have you thought about it," she asked. Maka sighed and dipped his hands into his pocket. He brushed past her and sat on the rock Celina had previously been sitting on. He rested his elbows on his lap and raised his palm to his chin. For a while, he sat thus, eyes distant and the rest if him showing no visible emotion. Then with in a clear voice, he spoke up.
"You will have to get rid of it," he said without a modicum of shame, "I will help you with that." His tone signified resolve and his rather casual solidness left Celina dumbfounded. She stared at his unapologetic face with horror as if she was seeing a ghoul approach her.
"What?" She finally vocalised her shock. " Excuse me Mark but what did you just say?" Somehow in this whole village, she was the only one who got his name right, beating even those who gave him that name.
"Celina are you ready for this?" He asked as he looked about suspiciously, wary of a privy eye. There were plenty of them in this village.
"No Mark, but what you are asking for is-is stupid!"
"Celina," he called her quietly," See I have a future-"
"And I don't?"
"Just let me finish-"
"Oh Mark I'm sorry. You should have thought about that future before you did this to me. Besides I have a future of my own too, Mark." She spoke with some grit and the tone filled Mark with rage. He rose and walked up to her.
"We will have to do this, for our future's sake." He was less assured now and infact seemed visibly shaken, his voice tremulous.
"What-what if something goes wrong?" Celina now seemed in his stride, less aggressive yet still suspicious of him.
"Don't be so negative Celina. Mama Sussana is an expert in this."
"Now who is Mama Sussana?"
"She is a nurse I got to know the other day."
"So you want me to abort through the backdoor?"
"Acha izo Celly. She is trustworthy-"
"My foot!" Celina convulged, her eyes red and popped in fury, "I'm not doing it." She spoke with finality as she stepped back. This act triggered Mark's short temper and he found himself smothering a bubbling venom with short clicks of his tongue.
"Listen woman," He bellowed as he moved towards her, shaking an index finger at her, " I will not let you ruin my future-"
"Why Mark, why is it just about you?" She asked her voice tailing off as she broke down, "What about me Mark?"
Mark receded and went back into his thoughts. Celina had always been a hard nut to crack and he needed to change tact. Darkness had already enveloped everything. On the hills, yellow lights went on sporadically as the shadows of the maize and trees shuffled softly to a gentle wind. Crickets chirped aloud as a cold air rested over the land. Not many people came around much now so this gave them ample time to sort out the issue.
"Okay then fine," Mark said after a lengthy ponder," here is what we will do. Let me go to school tomorrow then we will see what to do when you go to your school. I will get in touch with some friends in Nairobi sawa?" It was the least he could do. He wasn't angry now. He was scared. That fear that wrapped round him as a child and made him pee on himself when he was caught red-handed licking sugar now embraced him like long lost bossom buddies. He quailed like a senile octonegerian, beads of sweat gleaming on his puckered forehead. Celina scoffed and shook her head.
"Listen Mark. I may be gullible but I am not stupid," she said," You could have sorted it out weeks ago if you hadn't been so stubborn. Sorry Mark but I won't let you leave before you provide a viable solution."
"But I have given you a solution!" Mark snapped back, a great fit of rage erupting in him as he rushed up and eyeballed her intensely. The demons were beginning to crawl from their hibernation.
"Well I don't like it," Celina put in resolutely, firm and unshaken.
"Well then what do you want?" Mark sighed in resignation.
"Marry me Mark," Celina said suddenly. It was not abrupt as Mark had already feared of this, yet still hearing her utter it so strongly and with such confidence made it seem like a slap across his face.
"Yes Mark. I want us to be man and wife. This child will grow up with a father."
"You stupid whore!" He retorted with a rasping slap across her cheeks that threw her head back. He reached for her,grabbed her hard by her biceps and began shaking her violently. "You will do as I say." He pushed her away. She lumbered before staggering and falling hard on her back. She whimpered as she writhed in some pain. Mark looked on. She rose, a vicious glint flashing in her eyes. For a fleeting moment, the two exchanged glares, as if daring each other to a contest. It was difficult to believe that just a few weeks back, it was love, lust, passion that passed through their eyes to each other. Now, it was contempt and hatred, spiced up with malice and just about to be served with violence.
"I am taking this to your father," Celina finally broke the silent stalemate. Then she turned and began stomping away. Mark convulged. He gave a heavy exhale and lunged at her. He spun her around and smacked her hard across her face. She shrieked and fell. Before she could recover, he jumped on her and sat astride her. The two struggled for a while as he tried to pin her down. Then he reached for her mouth and used his palm to gag her. Her flailing hands found his face and she started digging her nails into his cheeks. He grunted as short spasms of stinging pain shot from the tearing cheeks and spread throughout his face. He got a grip of her neck. Finally! The evil grimace on his grotesque and twisted face seemed to say as he began to press her jugular. She kicked and he could feel the convulsion of her body beneath him as she wriggled to get free. But God bless her soul. He was stronger. He chuckled as he started banging her head on the ground, his other hand skillfully stifling her screams. He was blinded. Blinded by fury. A fury only he knew the depths of. He grunted as he pounded her harder on the ground.
"You will tell no one about this," he growled. What started as a thud now began squelching. With each thump, her struggles diminished. Her grip on his face relaxed. She wriggled less now. Then her arms dropped. Still he beat her head. His eyes were red. Red as the blood that flowed out of the back of Celina's broken skull. His face was contorted with malice so strong it could put anyone in close propinquity to death. Now he thudded less hard the limp body beneath him. Her covulsions were gone. Then he let go with one final push and gave a heavy sigh. He used the back of his hand to wipe away the tears that had blurred his vision. He looked at her. At the gleaming crimson blood that had started to grow into a pool,its redness flowing slowly over the blades of grass around her head. Her once large and lovely eyes now were stretched wide in horror, staring lifelessly at her assailant, perhaps eternally questioning just what demon had caused this man that she so dearly had loved to assert death upon her so cruelly. He took his other hand away from her mouth, which was agape and twisted in an eternal, terrified scream.
Still not believing, he began slapping her lightly on her cheeks.
"Celina, Celina!" He called out desperately, sweat flooding his face as if he had just completed a marathon. "Celina acha games. Amka." Yet even as he spoke, he didn't sound convinced that she could hear him. His shirt clung onto his body, drenched in perspiration. He got up and looked at her. He thought he saw a movement of her finger. Yet he knew he had killed. His heart now threatened the enclosure of his chest, thumping hard, in fear and anger, so forceful that he felt it agitate his whole body. The light illuminating into his future went out completely. Left behind, a dark, brooding void. Darkness was fully over land. Soon his father would call. Maybe his mother too. He knelt next to her and held her face again.
"Celina I'm sorry," now it was tears washing down his agonised face. "Celina I love you," he cried in anguish. He stared at her, somehow waiting for her to get up and continue shouting at him, something that at that moment would have been way better. Even if she were to get up and rip his balls out, he would take it with a grin of pain. Anything. Anything but death. But no. She was dead. Forever. And he was a wreck, a psychopath, a sociopath. A MURDERER! Tears came in an endless deluge as he looked at the red shimmer of blood in his hands.
Instinctively, he grabbed her by her feet and dragged her to the river. Unassuming frogs gave throatal croaks from its shallow depths. He heaved as he pushed the frail body into the cold waters with a soft lap. He thought he saw her open her eyes. He looked around, shaking from great fear. He dipped his hands into the water and washed off the blood as if washing off the fatigue of a job well done. He looked up the hill again. An unnerving silence and hush rested over the whole village. The lights seemed to indicate that the village was watching him in pondered silence. His body went cold as a burst of adrenaline spread through the channels of his body. Then, he pulled back and launched himself across the river, making a mad dash for the sinister darkness of the whispering forest. There was no turning back-
Behind, the village went on. Soon, they would wake up to a shocking murder. Soon, the village of Ivojo would learn that their son, the pride of the hills and beyond, the epitome of a good education, the flesh and blood of the respected Mzee Kilak, had killed twice.
The end
Still Waters, from the anthology, Destitute of Fate and other short stories.
