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tall tales and all
Fiction
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A Tale of Exile
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A Lesson
from the Book of Mama
St. Luke's is an Anglican church that has stood on the hilltop of Chawia, Taita, for many decades, built to facilitate the imperial work of the missionaries in Kenya.
Through the eighties and into the new millennium, the plummeting economy had caused the mushrooming of countless harambees to construct this-and-that for the Chawia parish. The villagers who attended these harambees are themselves poor folk, and every coin they donate is like giving up an arm.
As it is with all harambees, the amount of money raised was dependent on the personality one invited as a guest of honour. At St. Luke's, Chawia parish, most often, the people invited their local MP. The one I knew at the time when I received Mama's lesson was a man with vision and the gift of gab, but no financial clout.
I remember he often called upon his constituents to arise to the realization of their God-given natural wealth: the expanse of wild land strewn with gem stones; to walk through its thorns and thistles, and exploit it for their good.
Not enough people heeded his message, for the worn-out hills that rose above this thorned and thistled land provided them with the comfort of ancestral familiarity and ease of tilling. Besides, a hungry person embedded in a failing economy did not buy vision easily. Interestingly though, the poor invested in symbols of social status.
The remnant missionary-inspired churches that stood concretely on hilltops were more a symbol of communal security for the villagers, as one who owned a piece of real estate, than they were a spiritual sanctuary.
And so whenever the pastor called on a local MP to officiate at a harambee, the MP would be the contributor of about 80% of the funds. Rich or not, he gave significantly more than what the ordinary villager gave. Usually, he would be invited up to the pulpit where he would give a political speech, make his contribution, accept "escorting" donations, and proceed to run the auction.
The items brought for auction were mainly fresh harvest such as bananas, maize, chickens, eggs, cabbage, cassava, etc. I know this chemical-free, naturally tasteful harvest would cost an arm and a leg if it found its way to an American organic store, but it never fetched its worth, in global economic terms, at the harambee.
Well, everyone's contribution would be publicly announced, for this is the norm in Kenyan harambees, and this system inadvertently created socio-economic class categorization in the village. Not everyone was equal, which meant that not everyone could be treated equally, and the inequality would keep growing. It's just the genetic make-up of capitalism wherever it ingrains itself.
One Sunday, Mama said to me, "Take a basket."
I said, "What for, Mama?"
"We are going up to the church. I have been asked to be the guest of honour at a harambee," she said.
I was very surprised, because they had never asked Mama to officiate at a church harambee. She didn't have a deep pocket at all, just that she was well respected. But the bigger surprise is that she would be officiating in her own capacity as an ordinary mother, not as her husband's representative. She did not hold any political office either.
It was extremely rare that a woman received such a request. It was very much a man's world, you know. I was almost disturbed because I imagined they had set her up for failure. But I knew better than to tell Mama of my conspiracy theories, born in the idle mind of an almost-adult teenager who thought she knew everything.
"What shall I put in the basket?" I asked.
"Nothing," she said.
Now I got even more disturbed. We had some fresh harvest in the store which we could take to the harambee, how could we go with an empty basket?
"But why?" I pressed on.
"Just take an empty basket. Take a shower and let's get ready to leave before the sun stands above our heads." She was not going to provide an answer.
And so, with a puzzled and terrified mind, we set off to the top of the hill where St. Luke's stood. The hills have always been peaceful and enchanting, even for one born and raised there. The walk helped calm my mind.
We were warmly welcomed, and as we were ushered to the front pews, I begun to feel like a VIP. A certain bounce sprung into my stride. Power, even in the smallest dosage, can intoxicate one not accustomed to it. I was barely of legal age! It was like giving a child alcohol. They should have sat my behind at the back.
The church was not bursting at the seams; just a decent turn-out on an ordinary Sunday. When Mama was asked to start the harambee, I wondered what to do with our empty basket.
"Hold on to it," she said. And so I did.
As Mama stood there, she thanked the church and spoke as one would in conversation with familiar visitors, as if they were family, not a congregation anticipating largesse. By this time, I had realized Mama was not fazed by anything. It seemed to me she was quite alright if the fundraiser grossed only 10 shillings. So I relaxed and listened to her.
"Mathayo 6:3 yaghora: 'Ela oho iji kwafunya makuwio ghangi, kulindie hata mghenyi wako wa kavui usakemanya'" She was quoting the bible from the book of Matthew 6:3, "But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth."
"Bring the basket," she said to me. I quickly jumped up and gave her the empty basket, as if I was expecting it to miraculously fill up with 100-shilling bills. She looked to me like she could whip up any good old prophet's miracle right there. I held my breath.
She continued. "Whatever you have brought from your harvest, may God bless your right hand. We will auction it later. Now, whatever you have in your left hand, proceed slowly to the altar and drop it silently in this basket."
A procession towards the altar begun, and before my eyes, Mama's empty basket started filling up with bills and coins dropped in with the conspiratorial left hand. No one knew who had contributed how much.
I watched every villager in the congregation, shoeless and sandaled, walk up and walk back to their seats at if they had just accomplished the most incredible thing in the world. There were excited whispers going around. The air was charged with something new.
Only years later did what I was witnessing occur to me as the smell, taste, and magical touch of empowerment. It is that invisible substance that dignifies you, no matter what your station in life.
By the time the auction came around, no one felt belittled by how much they gave for a bunch of bananas. Neither did Mama try to manipulate the last coin from poor folk. When the sum total was counted and announced, it was significantly less than what is normally raised by a moneyed politician. Still, the atmosphere was charged with the peace and the enchantment of the hills.
The people were not deprived; they were enabled. It was just... different, fresh, inspiring. Mama had reached out with a magic wand from her heart and raised their weary heads. It was not so much the church building that needed repairs; it was the people that needed a paradigm shift, a sense of rejuvenation.
As they left the church, they carried in their stride a sense of ownership to the process of harambee, a feeling of dignity at being an equal part of building the church, even if they knew there would always be someone richer and someone poorer. Mama made it alright, as Mama always does.
This is the lesson according to the book of Mama.
Amen.
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!
Mkawasi Mcharo Hall
May 14th 2006
Glossary:
*Harambee: Kenyan word for "pulling together".
*MP: Member of Parliament, one who represents a constituency in the central government.
*Taita: A hilly area in the coastal interior of Kenya occupied by the Wadawida community.
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