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tall tales and all
Fiction
Poetry
A Tale of Exile
Literary Monuments
Thotlines
Audience Response
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It is fourty-seven minutes after nine in the late dawn of Chicago. She sits by Starbucks sipping cappuccino and sings her song of Zion. She sings the memory of her home and all that she left behind. She sings the promises she made to herself that now lie unfulfilled in the pages of her heart. She sings the unforgiving passage of time that leaves her ashamed at how long she has sat waiting by the rivers of Babylon.
Ah! But does she remember the first of her promises as if she made them only yesterday: that she shall return to her country, her Zion, to her loved ones, to the people among whom her soul thrives, to the land where the word "home" makes sense. Now days have turned into months, and months into years. Hours of struggle through daylight and graveyard shifts have rewarded her with a noose of debt around her sorry neck. The more money she makes, the more her debts mount up. She has been unable to fathom the terror technics of the corporate Monster that rules in the cage of the free and the bowels of the brave. She has given in to watching her small self caught in the tentacles of the Monster and thrashed left and right against the iron grid of the cage while its fangs suck the last drops of the little joys that give meaning to her toiling hours. Rent comes knocking demandingly like an abusive husband at the beginning of each month, glaring at her with that Osiris eye at the centre of his green pyramid-shaped forehead. Car Insurance drives by every end of month at a demonic speed, comes to a screeching halt right outside her door, and waits her turn to devour. The Credit Card family sing their endless hymns of gluttony in competing octaves from the pits of her wallet; she could never shut them up, the scoundrels. Her account suffers chronic bouts of monetary deficiency syndrome, constantly threatening to shut down all its bodily functions. Many a night, Mumbi has lain awake helplessly listening to its heartbeat go into numerous flatlines. In Babylon, city of the prodigals, only humour keet her sane.
As the humidity rises outside, she slowly draws in a breath of crippled air staggering in from the rhythmic purr of an air conditioner, then releases it reluctantly, holding it prisoner for as long as she can, and finaly fills in the void it has just left with a sip of her morning indulgence. The smooth aroma of the cappuccino massages her tired soul... as she sings her song of hope, by the rivers of Babylon, the land of her exile.
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Mumbi crossed the busy morning streets of Chicago and headed for her place of work. She told herself she did not care that she was late again. She was allowed African People's Time once in a while. Especially when she was feeling rather uninspired about her job with Keegan Net Solutions. She was an IT "specialist", having taken a year off her Master's program in Fine Art to learn a skill that would pay her bills. She was told there was money in Information Technology. So she invested what earnings she had saved up from part-time jobs for the nine-month IT course. Later, she took up an internship with Keegan Net Solutions and then graduated to a full time job; it paid off handsomely, and then some.
Through the years, she had pressed on with a seemingly endless reservoir of energy. She had always been a dedicated worker, but lately, she just felt... tired. Bob Keegan, her boss, had not commented on her coming late three times in a row this past week. She had never been late since she started working for him two years ago. She knew she was tempting fate. Or was it the intoxicating aroma of the cappuccino at Starbucks that tempted her every morning? No, she knew exactly what it was. It was the many hours she spent lately singing her song of Zion.
In the dreamy world of sitting by the riverbed of exile, watching the waters of time carry her life to a blurred future, Mumbi had discovered a community of her own people in cyberspace. There, her fellow exiles met, socialized, and discussed the whys and wherefores of their beleaguered nation. She was fast getting hooked on this cyber forum of faceless exiles. She was now at her desk, ready to tackle the pile of paper work in front of her. But slowly, her mind sniffed its way to familiar souls floating in cyberspace. She struggled against this sudden urge to log on and catch up with them. Already, she was on Bob's sore side with her lateness.
"That just came in this morning," said Mark, startling Mumbi. He dropping a letter on her desk which she ripped open and immediately threw away. Junk mail. Nothing sensible or of sentimental value ever came through snail mail, what a drab physical world technology had created.
"Thanks... Hey, has the big man ask for me?" Mumbi asked Mark as he moved on to deliver other mail. Mark was a sixty-two year old African-American who had lived all his life in Chicago. He and his wife were childless, and Mumbi enjoyed the fatherly dotting she received from him.
"What's going on, boopy?" He asked her.
"Nothing to worry about, Mark... Well?"
"Well what?"
"Did he ask for me?"
"No, he didn't ax for you yet. But he takin' a note fo' sho'. You was late las' week three times, You shoulda came on time today. Late ain't your style!"
"I'll... shape up."
Mark looked very closely into her face.
"You better do that real soon, boop. I'm proud of you. Don't you go putin' no shame on the Motherland," and he went on ahead with his office assistant duties.
Mumbi sighed with relief...
"M'mubi!"
... and just as soon almost jumped out of her skin. Bob was peeking out through his door which directly faced Mumbi's desk.
"I'd like to see you in my office now," said Bob, matter-of-factly, his face disappearing behind his door.
Mumbi panicked. She took in a deep breath, gathered her skirts, and strode into Bob's office with a confidence she'd just pieced together with quick glue. She could smell the sack coming.
"This is a contract with King's Theatre," he said as he handed her a folder, "I haven't had much time to see what the problem with their system is; it crashed yesterday. Go there and see if you can fix it by evening."
"O!"
"Oh?"
"No... I mean, yes, I'll get down to it right away, Bob."
"Good. I need to catch the next flight to Atlanta. Be ready with a report by the time I get back tomorrow morning. I know I can count on you." He held her gaze for one intense second, picked up his briefcase, and left.
Bob was giving "M'mubi", as he called her, a chance to prove herself, and she knew it. Of course he had noticed her lateness. How could he not? He's had his eye on her... for long. She got back to her desk and opened her email for any important messages before making a call to King's Theatre. She had one message:
>coming to chicago on buusiness thiss weekenD.. can we meat? regrds, lenana<
Lenana?... Oh, the guy from the cyber forum. Too many errors in his email. She clicked it away and Lenana disappeared from her mind in a blink. Mumbi took a quick tour of the forum where she met with her kind. The fourth posting she read was an eloquent piece Lenana had written on the challenges of Africa's developing economies. Something was wrong here... Was this not the very same hand that had composed a private message with such careless spelling and grammar? Then it occurred to her that his friendly banter on the forum also had that quality of carelessness, maybe that's why she had never really noticed him. But when he engaged in serious discourse, the postings were so eloquent and well written. Cyberspace was like a mirror that reflected one's multiple personalities, she thought. She had brutally judged a man by the grammar of his email. Well... I've never met this Lenana fellow, no need for guilt. She logged out and was soon deeply absorbed in her King's Theatre assignment.
By the next day, after a grueling ten hours at King's Theatre, Mumbi discovered that their computers had crushed due a defective Internet ticketing system. She had provided a solution, got the technicians to fix the mess, and then spent the night filing her report.
Bob, back from Atlanta, looked at the report incredulously.
"M'mubi, did you sleep at all?"
"No. But I got two complementary tickets to the Chicago premier of "Phantom of the Opera" at the King's Theatre this weekend. They include dinner too." She was being sassy, laughing coquettishly in his face, just for a fleeting second. She turned around to leave his office, her entire jungle essence leaving ripples behind, with Bob practically drowning in it. He gulped gallons of rising testosterone, grasped at the stapler for dear life, and remained staring at his slightly open door. Darn! Scent of a tigress. Was it true what they said about African women... Bob shook his Caucasian head to clear his mind and sat down. If only he knew what was disturbing her so much as to begin turning up late for work. But it was not his style to get personal with an employee. His feelings would have to hold. For now, he consoled himself, it was enough that she seemed to be back on track.
That weekend, Mumbi went to the premier of "Phantom of the Opera" alone. Lenana had dinner in Chicago, alone. Bob made love to his wife absent-mindedly.
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It is One o'clock after the midnight hour. Mumbi is still wide awake. Has been for most of the night. She wishes she were home. Home where the music of the birds floats through your window to usher in the new rays of the sun. Home where the mooing of the cows and the fresh smell of their morning dung reminds you that the world is not all hard tarmac and cold pavement. Home where Nyina wa Mumbi, with all her chronic back and neck pains advertised every morning is better news than a string of four-letter words hurled at you by drivers suffering chronic early morning road-rage. Home, sweet home, where the river divides the breezy hills of Embu from the rich mounds of Kirinyaga.
That river - or was it a stream - it seemed more like a roaring river in her mind now... That river whose waters she sat beside for hours, day after day, confiding in it all her dreams, all her fantasies, all her deepest secrets. The waters never told. They never judged. They never took sides. The waters just listened, soothed her with their song as they meandered down the valley, cleansed her weary spirit, and gave her new strength. Sometimes, the waters laughed with her when the wind blew a different direction. And oh! Sometimes the waters got naughty and whistled at her when they sent the winds playing their musical chords on the leaves. Sitting by the river banks with her feet in the water, she would look up and see the leaves winking at her... the waters, the winds, the leaves... and suddenly, a big fat drop of rain would hit her head, and she would laugh with nature as it ganged up to teased her and chase her like a young lover up the slopes back to Nyina wa Mumbi's homestead. By the time she got home, the rain would be hitting the tin roof with a pretentious vengeance. Not now, my love, she would tease the rain, I will let you tickle my feet tomorrow, when your waters have filled up the riverbed. She would smile contentedly. Mumbi would light the stove, put the teapot on, and wait for her mother to come in from her chores.
"Mumbi!" her mother called out after coming from her Mother's Union meeting at the local church one Friday evening.
"Mother!" answered Mumbi, pouring the tea into the flask.
"This came for you through the church," her mother announced, handing her the letter. Nyina wa Mumbi wheeled herself in through the specially widened main door. She was crippled, born without the use of her legs; one of those things Mumbi had fought God about for years. Yet that had never deterred her mother from anything and everything her other abilities allowed her. She especially was a born leader, and she seemed to over do it. She was chairperson of the local Mother's Union, the leader of the women's basket weaving group, the leading voice in a lobby group seeking to have the chief removed from office for grabbing a market plot, the sole bread-winner and mother of seven. Her husband and the father of all her children had been a good man and a retired civil servant with a monthly pension of three thousand Kenya shillings (forty US dollars) at the time of his death seven years ago. He had been a passenger in a speeding matatu when it lost control and went careening down a bridge while trying to overtake a lorry. Christmas day. No survivors. Mumbi had copped through the years by never talking about it.
"What does the letter say?" Mother enquired impatiently.
"Mother, I got accepted!" Mumbi was beside herself with excitement.
"Aililililililililili! God be praised!" Nyina wa Mumbi raised her hands in jubilation and ululated at the same time. Without a break in rhythm and mood, she was moved into song and that graceful Kikuyu shoulder swaying. Mumbi joined in, the neighbours heard and joined in one by one, then in groups. Within the hour, the homestead was awash with song, dance, thanksgiving, and tea. They had all been aware that Mumbi was waiting for admission into college in America; the church had been praying about it for a long time.
As the evening wore on, Nyina wa Kamotho, Mumbi's aunt, stood up to speak. She lived quite a distance across the river, but when news reached her, she had immediately left her coffee beans half-sorted and crossed the river to join in the celebration. Her speed and unfailing presence at every wedding, funeral, send-off, Chief's baraza... remained one of the comical legends surrounding this woman. Her tiny stature carried with it the surprising eloquence of a court poet. Nyina wa Kamotho cleared her throat and elevated her shoulders.
"Mumbi, my daughter, you have made us proud. Do not forget your people; do not forget your roots. Remember, upon the heights of Kirinyaga, you are the gift of life that Ngai placed on the empty lap of Gikuyu at the dawn of creation. In the sacred grove of the Mukuyu tree, Gikuyu found you, Mumbi, the Mother of us all. And upon the sacred grove of your breast, Ngai shall send your befitting match. Do not bring us the fruit of a foreign seed!"
At this point, the court poet closed her eyes momentarily to savour the iambic pentameter of her own words before proceeding.
"The ghost of your father is dancing with joy at this very moment. Cradle the children of your dreams, as Mumbi cradled her young, Achera, Agachiku, Airimu, Ambui, Angare, Anjiru, Angui, Aithaga, and Aitherandu, until they became the nation we now are. You are Mumbi the Nurturer, as Ngai ordained when your mother announced your name at your birth. This scholarship is the fruit nurtured in the womb of your mind. Let it grow into a field of knowledge, my daughter. God bless you as you plan to leave us."
"Ailililililililililili!," the women did a jig around the court poet, stamping one foot on the ground and lifting the torso in a graceful wave with the energy of the earth, the shoulders responding with an affirmative heave.
Mumbi silently held her laughter after her aunt's speech. She new her immediate sister and closest sibling, Wangui, or Kui, as they affectionately called her, would re-enact their aunt's monologue when they were alone until she rolled on the floor with sinful laughter. Kui was born with the funnies. She would miss her so...
Not too long after, the village hired a van so the closest relatives could travel to Nairobi with Mumbi and bid her goodbye. At Jomo Kenyatta airport, pictures were taken, last-minute advice rendered, prayers sent up to the relevant authorities, and a first-time "I love you" whispered in Mumbi's ear by the young man who had always had a crush on her since primary school. She never responded, never remembered. Her mind was on Chicago. That was five years ago, and she had never returned.
Mumbi's scholarship had been for a Master's program in Business Administration at the University of Illinois. Half-way through, she had dropped the course, lost the partial scholarship, and enrolled for a Master's program in Fine Art on self-sponsorship. She knew she would have to work her fingers to the bones to accomplish this. She couldn't explain why she made this choice other than that she knew it was what she really wanted to do. Three years after enrolling, she was still at it, trudging on. She had decided not to tell her mother about all her changed plans. How would she explain it?
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As she lies on her bed, she consoles herself that other than family, she did not leave behind any crucial emotional attachments worth returning to. But she knows no reasoning will cure the void she feels. Lately, days and nights just pass her by meaninglessly.
It is almost Five in the morning. Mumbi gets up, moves to her computer by the window, and opens her email. There's one from Kui, asking when she was graduating. She's not in the mood for another long winded explanation that will always end with, "Soon, Kui. Tell Mother... soon." Then of course guilt would overwhelm her and send her singing her song of exile again, by the rivers of Babylon, where she serves a foreign King, and remembers Zion...
As the first rays of light hit her window, Mumbi sighs heavily, shuts down her computer, and heads for the bathroom. Another morning, another day.
In the dawn of Minneapolis, Lenana sighs heavily, and shuts down his computer. Mumbi hasn't replied. He heads for the bathroom, his wife, Shaniqua, watching him from the slit of her eye. Another morning, another day.
The tale continues... And the Rains Came
Note: All characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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