tall tales and all

Fiction

Poetry

A Tale of Exile

Literary Monuments

Thotlines

Audience Response

What does a Soul do
When the last pillar of hope
From which its thread of life dangles
Comes crushing down

What does a Soul do
When its last circle of friends
Snuff out the light upon its path
Sending it tumbling down

What does a Soul do
When God wills not to spare it
The midnight cup of scarlet Sorrow
And anguish splits its furrowed brow
Into bloodsweats of Gethsemane

It departs.

The eagle's eye spots its target and begins to circle the air above. His movements are slow, meditated, precisely calculated, better than the unfailing tick-tock of a clock. He has been traversing the skies for many days, moving away from the cloudy zones that blocked his vision by day, relaxing the wings of his determined flight and regrouping the substance of his thoughts by night. The dark compressed tunnel of his nose stores every smell collected in his journeys, to remind him especially of places not to revisit. The unbreakable arch of his beak commands a post between the deep wells of his eyes, like a steel bridge that takes a leap suddenly into the sea, its back rising like a mighty wave and thinning out into a sword point. No prey escapes its grip. And now with the final swoop to claim his possession, riding upon his throne of absolute power, fueled by the winds of instinctive certainty, the sum of all his being has come to this moment... this moment... this moment, "One thousand!" he shouted, flung his arms up into the sky, and danced around the mound of his cans and bottles. He was the king of the world!

Mwangangi had just accomplished a feat like none other in his life. He has managed to collect a thousand cans in a day. He had sat down with himself and set this very specific goal: that in a day, he would collect nothing less than a thousand cans. He had invested two dollars in a map, laid out a meticulous plan through the night under a lamp in the street corner, pin-pointed all the areas he would descend upon within a five-mile radius, and at the break of dawn he had set to work. Mission accomplished! Now he danced at the altar of his throne and dared anyone to dislodge him.

"You got the pampers?" Shaniqua asked Lenana as he approached the car, his hands full with shopping bags. Lenana stopped in his tracks. Directly across the Supermarket's parking lot was a railway crossing. A few feet away from the railway line was a man dancing around a mound of cans and bottles. He was shouting, "The eagle rules! The eagle rules!" Lenana watched the man, and the more he watched him, the more he was sure he knew him. He stood on the spot for what seemed an eternity, watching. When recognition finally came, the groceries slid from his hands right there on the pavement; eggs, spinach, fruit, and pampers. They dropped as if the earth had opened up beneath and snatched the reality of the moment away from him. They dropped, and a whole lot else dropped from his heart.

Shaniqua panicked. She had never seen that look on Lenana's face. She thought he was having a heart attack. She left the kids in the car and started moving briskly towards Lenana. At that very moment, Lenana's feet found motion, and he started moving briskly towards the dancing man. Shaniqua stopped, puzzled, and followed the object of his attention. She saw the dancing man and became even more confused. She quickly picked up the groceries, threw the broken eggs into the trash can, and headed back to the car. She sat there quietly, waiting for him. For the first time since they got married, she did not have a thought of any kind roaming the gray matter of her head about Lenana. She started filling that void with new thoughts. Could it be a brother he had never told her about? One of the many children his father had? Perhaps the family sent him to look for Lenana and he got lost in the big America? Her curiosity and excitement rose by the minute. She waited.

Lenana, like a zombie, approached the dancing man. The man became aware of this intruder into his circle of worship. He stopped, and faced him. Recognition dawned.

"Mwangangi," Lenana went first, almost in a whisper.

"Lenana," responded Mwangangi, much like a happy child.

"Wh... what... why are you here?" Lenana couldn't quite formulate the right question. The man was a camouflage of tatters, grime, and stink. He wore several jackets whose original colours could be anything across the rainbow spectrum. His hair was a big raggedy afro with a brownish tint. His shoes were wrapped in transparent plastic bags that made them shine. From where he stood, Lenana could smell alcohol on his breath when he spoke. He could not reconcile this image with the Mwangangi he had known so closely years ago.

"Destiny takes you to any grove on this God's dirt ball. You must obey the command of the invisible hand that propels you. So here I am," answered the Eagle.

It was Mwangangi alright, always the philosopher. Lenana was still caught up in a cloud of disbelief. Ten years ago, when they first met, this mirage before him had been a Master's student in Divinity, full of life and dreams. He had guided and mentored Lenana when he first landed in this country. He had let Lenana in on his dreams; that he was going to teach, make some good money, and after two years, head back home, find a wife, and settle down to serving his people. He had dreams of becoming the Member of Parliament for his home area, for starters. His back-up plan was to teach at the University and work his way to Vice Chancellor. Or even become a pastor and eventually the Arch Bishop of Kenya. He had spoken with so much passion that Lenana had had no reason to disbelieve him. Seeing Mwangangi this way brought deep and dark fear into Lenana.

"What... what happened?" Still he ventured. Words failed him.

"Life happened, my boy. Life happened." Mwangangi stood protectively next to his merchandize. A thousand cans and bottles could fetch him no less than a whopping fortune of fifty dollars.

"Er, my wife and kids are waiting for me in the car. Please come home with us for dinner," Lenana was pleading. He had too many questions, but this was not the place to ask them. Mwangangi smiled, flashing a set of perfect white teeth. The sight of them shocked Lenana. At least there was something redeeming in this broken façade. "Wife and kids. That's a nice slice of life. Are you enjoying it, my boy?" Mwangangi posed.

"I believe I am," Lenana answered.

"You believe!" That smile again.

"I mean... I know," Lenana corrected his phrasing.

"That's a fitting promotion of thought. One is human, the other is divine," said Mwangangi. Lenana was lost. Mwangangi observed the puzzle lines upon his brow. "To proclaim belief is to admit the presence of doubt. To know is a mark of godliness."

"Huh?" Lenana knew his friend was challenging him to a mental duel.

"Why would you feel a need to proclaim belief in that which Is, unless you doubt it is?"

Dejavu. Flashes of days when they would engage in endless philosophizing. Lenana indulged him. "I proclaim belief in something because I believe it is."

"No. You do so because you have bought the belief, which did not originate from you. You know yourself to have doubt, but you think the more you proclaim that belief the more it becomes a truism."

"A truism does not have to originate from me. I could learn it from a wiser person," countered Lenana.

"Very good. But for anything you learn to be true for you, you need not proclaim it. It is in concert with your still small voice. It simply Is." Lenana was listening, waiting for Mwangangi to falter in his argument. "Most of what you are taught and asked to accept are falsehoods. You were conditioned to accept them since the day you asked your first question as a child. That's how the world builds its institutions of power."

"Doesn't make sense. You want to say then that all our beliefs - political, cultural, or religious - are based on falsehoods?"

"No. Only the beliefs you are asked not to challenge. And they make up more than ninety percent of your world's belief systems."

"So more than ninety percent of the world is structured on falsehoods," Lenana laughed.

"Yes. Your world is an ignorant happy lot," Mwangangi concluded.

"Well... I guess it's the price we must pay for civilization. Surely, you must admit that if all our questioning small voices were given a platform, this world would be a tower of Babel!" Lenana felt proud of his argument; it sounded educated.

Mwangangi nodded proudly, "Well said, Lenana, Well said! You win this duel. Just remember, he is a slave who does not allow himself to question, to challenge, and to remould that which comes through imperfect humanity. Nothing under the sun is infallible. Nothing is to be believed. All notions must to be deeply searched and tested for Truth until you reach that place of silent knowing. There, no fear resides, no proclamations need be made. The world suffers from blind faith. Be part of its salvation!"

Lenana stuck rooted to the ground, waiting for the rest of the sermon. He had forgotten just how eloquent and captivating Mwangangi could be. Then it hit him, sadly, that the sermon was over. He threw up his hands in exasperation, overwhelmed by a sense of helplessness.

"Aah! Why, Mwangangi?? Why are you here? You could be a professor at some University for heaven's sake!"

"What gives you the idea I'm not?"

Lenana was not going to get entangled in philosophizing anymore.

"Come home with us. Please."

"No. Go on ahead. Stop trying to nail yourself on the cross for me. I'm fine."

Stubborn man, Lenana hissed silently. "I'll come with some food tomorrow. The two of us will sit and talk. What is your address?" He wasn't giving up.

Mwangangi pointed to the culvert a small distance away. Lenana could see some cardboards and miscellaneous paraphernalia under the culvert. It was the man's "home." He sighed. "I'll come by tomorrow morning, about seven."

"Good. Don't bring food. They've got good breakfast at Jasmine Gardens. We'll go there." Lenana laughed. He thought Mwangangi was joking. At Jasmine Gardens, commonly knows as the Gardens, did only the children of a higher god frequent. "I'm serious, Kijana. The Gardens tomorrow."

"Wouldn't that amount to nailing myself on the cross for you?" Lenana threw an instinctive jab.

"No. I'm calling the shots. I'm not at your alter." Lenana realized the man was serious. He looked at him with an old flame of respect. He had never lost that spunk, that cutting edge that could have made him all that he wanted to be - Kenya's President, or Vice-Chancellor, or Arch Bishop.

"Could I bring you a change of clothing... you know... maybe take you some place where you can take a shower?"

"No. I'm fine just as I am. I want to wake up and find you right here at the break of dawn, ready to take me for breakfast at the Gardens."

"Yes, Sir. The Gardens it is." He saluted his old mentor, watched him salute back, and turned to leave. His thoughts zip-zapped at break-neck speed within the parameters of his skull. Tomorrow, he will be taking this old friend - tatters, grime, and stink - to one of the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in the city. He headed back to the car, wondering what just happened. His wife was waiting patiently.

"Who was that, Len?" Shaniqua asked cautiously.

"Mwangangi."

"Mwangangi?" She was puzzled. "Isn't Mwangangi the man who helped you settle down in this country?"

"Yep." There was silence between them as Lenana drove home. Shaniqua opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

"You talk about him all the time. Don't you always say he must be a big man in Kenya now?"

"Yep."

"You say he's the kind of man any Kenyan who comes here should emulate. Get an education, go back and serve the country."

"Yep."

"You sing Mwangangi's praise like a song all the time."

"Yes I do." He kept his eyes steadily on the road.

"What is he doing here looking like that?" The woman wasn't letting go.

"I don't know, Shan." Steady, Lenana, steady.

"What did he say? How can a man you speak so highly of end up... like that?"

Lenana sighed. "I'll find out tomorrow. Let's just get home and put the kids to bed."

They drove home silently, Shaniqua's curiosity heightened so much that this very moment, all she lived for was the story Lenana would come back with after meeting his friend again. She had this brand new belief that in knowing Mwangangi's story, she would know a part of Lenana she didn't know. She had never give up trying to understand her husband. Lenana on the other hand was slowly beginning his descent to his knees. He needed some serious prayers. With every ticking second, the thought of taking Mwangangi to Jasmine Gardens grew thorns and dared him to deny the man.

Neither one of them had anything to eat that night. They had lost their appetites; one from excitement, the other from fear. After the twins were fed and put in their cribs, Lenana sat by the foot of the bed and watched them sleep peacefully. They sucked at their thumbs, oblivious to their father's growing agony. Then he turned to look at Shaniqua. She had gone to sleep immediately, having had no troublesome thoughts to keep her awake. Here were his three disciples, sleeping peacefully while he agonized in thought. He sat there, alone in the dark.

What fate drove Mwangangi to that place? What drove the man to ask for breakfast at the Gardens? How I'm I going to walk in there with him... like that?

God was silent.

Why should it bother me if I stood him up? What am I to him? What is he to me? I haven't seen him in such a long while, why should it matter that I turn up? Perhaps he's a little insane and has already forgotten that I turned up today. A man dancing around a mound of cans isn't quite normal, you know. What if I met my boss having breakfast there... Lenana went on reasoning with his conscience for long, fighting his way out of this promise he made. He needed to talk to someone.

"Shan! Shan!" he whispered, shaking her.

"What?" she asked groggily.

"Stay awake! Help me think!"

"Ok, hon..." she drifted back to sleep like a charm. Lanana went on staring at the darkness, alone.

He said life took him where he is. What about choice? What happened to you, friend?? Could it have been me in those rags, shouting, "the eagle rules!" sleeping under that culvert, with such a brain going to waste? Could that invisible hand of destiny have taken me to such a grove on this God's dirt ball? What happened? The image of Mwangangi and his words haunted him.

"Shan... please stay awake. I need you..." No answer. He retraced his trail back to the darkness of his lonely thoughts. The hours of the night ticked by. There was not a kindred soul at this very moment he could share the content of his unguarded heart with. He had seen the raw face of another man's humiliation, and that left his own heart gaping like an open sore. How he longed to share his vulnerability, tell someone that he was afraid, that he was sad, that he was confused. But he was alone.

He must meet Mwangangi tomorrow, as agreed, at the Gardens. This decision felt like a cool breeze fanning the thick drops of sweat that had formed upon his brow.

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As the clock in Lenana's sitting room struck three in the night, the hard nose of a boot struck the side of Mwangangi's sleeping body so hard a rib cracked. Mwangangi's scream rented the air for a split second before a hand gagged him with a rag. Some more kicks rained on him, sending more ribs wailing within. Having little strength to fight, Mwangangi watched the brutal attack on his body, trying to release his mind so it can soar above this valley of perdition like an eagle. Then it all stopped. The attacker shone a bright torch in his victim's face, saw that he was still conscious, and spat a gunk of tobacco slime on him.

"You black monkey scum of the earth. You think you can put my son in jail and get away with it. F***ing piece o' black s***." The attacker went down on his haunches and put his face a few inches from Mwangangi's pained expression. He gripped the black monkey's chin hard and looked into its eyes, spewing out a thousand demons of hates. "May the vultures eat you alive." Mwangangi peered painfully at the familiar face of his Caucasian attacker, and silenly forgave him. He rained a few more kicks on the helpless man and left, the sound of his boots receding into the night. No witness, just the ever present eye of destiny watching from above.

Mwangangi struggled not to lose consciousness. He summoned his last bits of strength, reached under his cardboard for a his pencil and writing pad, and went to work on his final words:

Lenana, my boy,

Today, when I saw you, I knew my day of departure had come, for an angel does not come visiting without a reason. Do not feel flattered kijana; you have no wings yet, and you have a long way to go. To be quite honest with you, I have been at war with Destiny to bring this day sooner. Yes, son. Sometimes, when you find yourself kneeling alone too long in the dark hours, so long that bloodsweats begin to drip from your brow, you know it is time to depart.

I've often tried to release my spirit, make it soar above this earthly entrapment that suffers pain, but I fail. Still, even in this tortured state, there's always that pure grain of hope deep inside that surprises you now and then with a determination to stay alive. But no more, my boy. No more. For another cruel hand has come visiting tonight. You see, I had tried to do justice once when a certain creation of God assaulted me. I testified against him in court and now he's behind bars. But tonight, my body has paid painfully for my actions. The man's father came after me. I'm in agony. Blood drips from my brow. That inescapable cup is finally come. I know you will not deny me tomorrow. I know you will brave the unthinkable thought of suffering shame by having to take me with you to the Gardens. I know you will come. I saw it in your eyes.

Look under my sleeping mat. You will find my mother's address. Get in touch with her. Tell her it is well. The Eagle still flies.

Always your friend,

Matthew Mwangangi

With that, the Eagle stood, braving the pain of his cracked ribs and punctured organs, and staggered closer to the railway line. He just wanted to see the full moon. He raised his face to it, and it poured its milky balm down on him, healing every cracked bone, every raptured vein, every torn muscle. It smoothed out every wrinkle of sorrow, every furrow of toil, every scar of abuse. Its magnetic gravity raised his spirit above the scum of the earth, above the blanket of years of darkness, above the relentless fangs of despair. It is well, it is well. The Eagle flies. The whistle of an approaching train blew...

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To be continued...

Note: This is a literary monument embedded in a short story series and narrated as fiction. The character of Matthew Mwangangi was inspired by a real person, Martin Maingi, whose death was reported in Salem, Massachusetts paper. He was a student in Divinity and was said to speak brilliantly even in his vagabond days. Although I never met him in person, I met him in the course of penning this tale, or so it seems to me.

Mkawasi Mcharo Hall
© mkmc