The Sound Across the Room Without A Window — Pt. 1

On the night before the elections, I could not sleep. I had no business in the outcome or in what would transpire the next day — my sister was the one voting for the first time — but my mother made sure that I understood the importance of this election and that I was lucky enough to witness it. So on my dry raffia bed, facing the window that opened a view down the quiet, drenched road, I starred and imagined how tomorrow could go. I thought about the tall, strong faced man next door who my mother said his family’s freedom depended on the tyrant losing, and how the old woman’s granddaughter who came to help my mum might also “starve and die” (in her own words) if the president lost. Then I thought about my family and me, but mostly me who won’t see my friends in school tomorrow because the demography 18 and above had to drop a stone in a box.

I was about to finally shut my eyes when I heard a weird sound coming from my neighbor’s house. At first, it sounded like Foday’s cat who enjoyed coming to our house more than staying in his. Foday was my neighbor’s son, he was a day younger than me, but I had to go four houses down the street if I ever wanted to play with kids my age. No one in that house was allowed to go out, and my mother said that they had to be protected. In actuality, I would think we were the ones who needed protection, their father was the head of the national army, he owned guns, and soldiers guarded his house. Which was good because it meant no thieves could come to our home. I tried to ignore the noise and used the wrapper that could barely keep me warm to cover my ears, then the noise got louder and did not sound like a cat, it turned into whispers. I moved to close the window then I remembered it had never been closed and they did not try to fix it, so I jumped out to find out what it was.

When my mum came to wake me up on the morning of December 1, 2016, the day of the elections, I was bathed in sweat. I was not asleep; I could not help after what had happened. Yet I had to rub my eyes and squint like I spent the past 8 hours and a half-dreaming. My mum was not a very quiet person; she only felt she was communicating if a third person could hear her; in short, she screamed a lot of the time and appeared upset. When my grandma Mbasi was still alive, and we would sit under the orange tree after the evening prayers, she would tell us how my mum was always quiet and smiling when she visited my father. It would seem that she was quiet to impress the family of the man she was sneaking out for, but my grandma Mbasi said that was the real Maa. How can anyone pretend to be angry, displeased by her children and husband as much as Maa has been in the last few years, four to be exact? Our lives were not as luxurious as Foday’s family was, often when we sat under the orange tree, we begged the fruits to fall, and when the old tree was tired of feeding a family of five, we would drink water and sleep and pray more. That was also why I did not understand why Maa was so worried about voting for people who did not care about people like us.

I got out of bed, showered and wore my best shirt, I also wanted to remember this day, and I did not want anyone to see through my eyes what was hidden in it from the night before, even though it may later turn out that my father knew, or maybe he did not, and it was all in my head. My father appeared very weird that morning, he looked at me as if he could tell that I witnessed a man getting killed a few hours ago, so I spent the whole day not looking at him. When I came out to eat, Maa said I could not go with her to the polling station anymore because the dictator had felt threatened and sent his “junglers” to hurt Foday’s dad. The dictator was known to kill, rape, and arrest people in his name, and his executioners who were only seen by families of victims when they come to pick up their loved ones could not adequately describe them. So no one knew what they looked like, but because they committed terrible crimes, we all assumed they wore black, were men, had scars, and had unshockingly ugly faces. When I peeped through the window that night, the person did not look like a jungler, he — I know he was a man because I had Foday’s dad call his name. I tried to remember the name. Then ma woke me up.

…

I always wanted to get to know my nephews, Biriam would not let that happen. Foday always wanted to go and play next door, every evening when Ousman and his friends were out playing pirimiso, he would stand at the window and cry and beg to join them. Of course, I told him he could not, just that he could not, there never was a reason to tell him that the boy outside is his cousin, or his brother depending on how you interpret it. Our mum always said that I and Biriam had nothing in common, that if he were not brothers we would never be friends. When we were in form six, Biriam had put a knife on my neck while I was sleeping, one other night he cut my wrist. I still have the scar on my left arm.

I and Biriam were only brothers at home, in school he was my next-door neighbor, at the markets he was only helping me put a price on goods because he was older. We were never friends so when our father died it seemed like he was the reason Biriam was a tadbit nice to me. When we finished secondary school, Biriam said he wanted to move out. We were struggling, but my mum did not need his 16-year-old first child to leave in search of money. He moved either way and 23 years later he came back with the same anger he left with, a bag, a child, and a woman. No money, no food, no luxury. What was most shocking was that I did not think anyone had that much energy to hate someone for 37 years. So I thought aside hatred, love, or whatever people feel grew stronger by time and not degrade at any point. Justifying how, people who stop caring do so because they want to, but because they had stopped loving or caring about those people whom they once cherished so much.

Seven years ago, before Biriam came back home, he sent a letter to my mum which to be very honest he sent to me because my mum could not read.

Dear Maa,

I hope that man is taking care of you. I don’t want to mention his name because you know why. If he had not been part of this family, things would not have ended up like this. Sorry, I have not sent you money, maybe tell your son to also try and help you. Things are hard over here.

I will write again next month. Biriam.

Biriam first blamed me for our mum and dad not liking him enough after I was born, then he blamed me for our father’s death because I was too young to know I had to carry my dad outside and not let him lay on the floor because I thought he was sleeping. When he came back home one day and saw me with Foday’s mum, he promised to kill me before he dies. When I saw him that night, I remembered that statement.