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The long arm of the law. That was my father and mum. Mother dear was the arm. Dad, of course was the law. Mum was the arm of the law. The arm that instilled discipline. She would not tell you something twice before that arm of hers extended towards you. Canes, slippers , the mwiko (cooking stick) and anything else you can think of, could be used as a weapon. My father was the law, the court of Appeal, the Supreme court on the land. His ruling was final. It was a given that you would abide by the ruling. He rarely beat us, nay, he beat us,but, in a different manner. With his words. And he had the choiciest of them. You would be standing before him, in a courtroom of a kind, like a defendant in the dock; waiting for him to fetch those words. Before I knew of football hooligans, I had heard that word from him when it was flung at me. Can you believe it, that at one time my father thought I was a hooligan? He would call you a somnambulist or somniloquist and you wouldn't know what he had said until you looked it up in the dictionary. Generally there was a delay in your emotional response.

 

My brother Ben took after my father in many ways, or so people said. Thus dad had an inclination to favour him. He was named after both my maternal and paternal grandfathers. He received preferential treatment in the family. He was a lively guy and what I loved about him was that he was quick to make an apology, quick to see his mistakes. He was popular with almost everyone. Inspite of this he had a tumultuous adolescent period.. The family had relocated to our rural home in Bungoma while I was finalizing college. I was completing my final year at nursing school and was home for Christmas. My brother continued his education at a local school in our rural home. He must have been in Junior high school when this incident occurred.

 

It was the end of the day and I was in the kitchen. In most rural areas, often the kitchen is a small, mostly mud, house detached from the main house. Inside there's a designated cooking area. At one corner there'll be some clay pots with drinking water. On another end is a pile of dry firewood stacked up in a pendulum like fashion and ready for use as fuel. For those who are ingenious, a part of the kitchen is also the chicken coop. This is where we did our cooking, on the traditional three stone hearth. I was preparing supper. The rest of the family were in the main house, each preoccupied with their own thoughts. That evening my father had just arrived home from Nairobi, where he worked, for his annual leave. Whenever mum complained about my brother, dad would brush it off. My parents had their own curfew times for us. We were supposed to communicate wherever we would be going and be home before the sun went down. Undoubtedly, they censored where we could go.

 

"Don't come in with the chicken," Would be mom's soft warning as you left. She was alluding to the fact that we should never let the chicken

come home to roost before we were back Of course we were the ones who would let the chicken in, guide them to their section of the kitchen and ensure they were not all over.

 

Incidentally, that evening dad arrives with the dusk of the day. My brother is nowhere to be seen. A little later, the legend himself swaggers in, thinking it is business as usual. He has no idea that the old man was around. As soon as he gets in, his eyes meet my father's angry ones. Obviously he cannot do a staring contest eyeball to eyeball with dad. So he drops his eyes. And then my father smells a whiff of alcohol on his breath. Mistake number one: Ben denies it! Oh lawd, come hear this! Hell hath no fury like what? Had those wahenga (sages ) ever heard about my father? He was furious. Dad gets off his seat and Ben tries to outrun him. Dad pulls him closer by his collar. Startled by the scuffle, my sister Sarah who was in our bedroom runs to the living room. We never had electricity back then. There's no light in the already darkening room. Sarah sees my brother splayed on the floor with some fluid next to him. In the darkness Sarah is not able to distinguish water from blood. Mum is pleading with dad but he gives a deaf ear. Sarah runs to the kitchen where I am. She's breathless

 

" Dad has killed Ben!"

 

I leave the food I was cooking. I stand up. My heart is running faster than Usain Bolt, my stomach is also threatening to join the sprint and my thoughts are heywire.

" No it can't be true!"

" I am the one who has seen him, believe me."

" No, dad cannot kill Ben !"

Sarah is already running back to the main house. The mwiko in my hand, I follow her into the main house. My brother is still lying down with ' blood' running across the floor. My dad, whip in hand is standing over him. Dad thinks I want to hit him with the mwiko. I kneel down to feel for a pulse,but don't feel it. I have panicked and I am already crying, mum and Sarah are wailing. I plead with dad to stop the beating. I tell him he has done enough. He stands there motionless and emotionless. In the negotiations with my father, the 'dead guy' does a Lazarus stunt, stands up and escapes from the lion's den.

The reality is that my father had given my brother a deafening hot slap, which had sent him sprawling over a basin of water that had been in the room. With some light we were able to see that the fluid was actually water and not blood. Dad had just taken out his belt and was yet to administer any justice to Ben.

 

She sat at the edge of the cliff on the outskirts of the village looking up at the moonlit sky. She watched as the nights' sky was slowly illuminated by the twinkling of little stars making the night's sky look like a sequined blouse under the candelabra. From where she sat she could hear the voices of little ones probably enjoying the extra playtime bequeathed them by the moons shine. She gave a dreamy smile as she remembered how it was in her own childhood days. How she and her brother will come out here with grandpa and he will tell them tales about their ancestors. Her grandfather could make out every constellation in the sky and name every star; at least that's the impression his stories gave. Those were the good times she thought to herself, a time when reality did not matter and the world of dreams was sovereign and supreme. A time when she could paint the sky in different shades of pink, where stones wrapped in a blanket could be a baby, when starvation was nothing but a dictionary term when there were no lines around her eyes, a time when life was fun when she could sail through all of life's troubles on her rainbow coloured paper boat. Sad as it may be, the earth has to complete its orbit though, the day must turn to night and months must turn to years and years to decades. For every present must someday become the past.

 

The far off sound of people screaming broke her from her reverie. Turning around she saw smoke swirling atop the roofs of huts and at once she knew something was inarguably wrong. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, reaching the village in less than minutes and what she saw left her with her eyes staring wide open, her mouth agape her body stood still as her legs more than agile a few minutes back seemed to have lost the will to move. Smoke made its exit from the roof of her hut as well as that of her fellow villagers moving straight towards the sky like a sweet-smelling savour from a burnt offering. The flames roared its threat to make the huts now in obeisance reducing all of its content to ash and soot flew all around to confirm It. The fire raised its head from above the rooftop spreading its arms like a motivational speaker on stage roaring with pride daring any to come forward for a duel. The fire crackled and crinkled, Hissed and sozzled as it made reality its threat to make the huts bow in obeisance reducing all of its content to soot and ash. Memories decades-old surged in her mind as the smoke erupted from grandfathers burning house reducing decades of warmth and happy memories to soot and ash.

 

She remembered the way grandpa pampered his house. How he'll stitch the leaky parts with clay from time to time patching up the roof with dry palm fronds. She and her brother were saddled with the task of acquiring the clay for this purpose. She remembered how much they'll play on their way to the river bank where they were to get the clay. She remembered how they'd walked barefooted enjoying the feel of the grass beneath the sole of their feet. She remembered the cackling and giggling as they'll jump into the cold river to have a quick swim before they embarked on their task. They were children then, and to the time was of no essence. They did not understand why the sun seemed to disappear, why the moon shone at night all they knew was that there was day and night. They did not yet understand that birthdays marked a step closer to ones grave. They did not understand that for everyone alive there was a day to die. That for every beginning ingressing is an end as for every end there is a preceding beginning. They were children, laughing about having mud on their faces, happy to have a drink of rain happy to feel the sun on their faces. They did not understand that the same sun that spread a soothing warmth could also be a scorching torment. 

 

Her face seemed to instantly wear lines of age she was yet to attain. Like the years lost in the flames was now expressing themselves through the look on her face. She stared blankly at the ills of the night wondering when the dawn will finally come.

 

It was sunrise already but Mr Sun seemed to have lost its charm. Deserted by the excitement, life, warmth and cheer that usually heralded its presence. Nature seemed to have gotten wind of the dark development as the birds did not sing their usual cheerful songs, the dogs did not chase the chickens around on this faithful morning but sat at a spot howling their despair, the cocks crowed in mournful tunes and the sun took a bow disappearing behind clouds painted grey. All was sorrowful and dull and the villagers reeked of hopelessness. The villagers including Zirachi the girl from the cliff decided to salvage the rubble for anything that could be of use. For all the eyes could see, the only thing that could be of use was the ash to serve as scouring powder. As Zirachi went through the rubble of her grandfather's hut, memories again came flooding back as she saw the burnt remains of a fishing hook. She remembered the times when her grandfather had taken them and her childhood lover Somto the son of a widowed woman in their village on many a fishing trip where he taught them the thrilling art. She remembered how her brother Akachi and her childhood lover Somto have many a time tried to outdo each other by trying to catch the bigger fish. She remembered how when they grew older Somto will gift her smoked fish which he had caught and smoked by himself a token of his love She remembered the fun time they'd all had as children. Again she remembered how they'd left to scout a land which men said flowed with milk and honey; the land which was supposed to be their new home. They had left her behind to cater for the home and she could not help but feel like she had failed in this regard.

 

Once again the sound of loud voices singing choruses and ululating brought her out of her reverie. She wondered what was giving the villagers so much joy especially after such a precarious occurrence. The music came closer and so did those it heralded. The first person she could make out of the crowd was her brother who left the crowd behind to hug her. She was surprised at how much of a man he had become. Five years apart and he seemed to have undergone a major transition. His shoulders were now as wide as a billboard, he wore a necklace of cowries on his now barrel-like chest. Despite the lines and shadows around his eyes telling the tales of the stress they must have gone through, he now bore the handsomeness that could only be birthed by transition into manhood. Her grandfather was also with them he obviously had more grey hair than he did the last time they'd met but thankfully did not look any less healthy. She held him close drinking in his scent which she was all too familiar with. The arrival of the young men with their reports from the other land gave new hope to the villagers. They moved with childlike belief to the new land, the land they've been promised flowed with milk and honey for a new start, a green beginning. The climax of the event for Zirachi was seeing her lover again after being separated for five years. Like her brother Akachi, he too had become a man with muscled thighs and barrel-like chests but most important of all was the look in his eyes. The look of admiration one she knew too well. She then understood that memories did not lie in buildings or beautiful landscapes. Memories of joy, love and warmth reside in our minds and our hearts. Although they had lost much to the flames, together they will regain it all and more. For like a Phoenix the tribe is being reborn rising anew stronger than they have ever been out of the rubble of soot and ash.