MALAIKA

The young woman stumbled along the narrow, winding path that she came upon by accident. Hope filled her heart. Just as all seemed in vain, the discovery surged in her the will to stay alive, to survive. Dressed in nothing but only a shred of loose clothing, she roamed the wild, braving endless bites and stings from bloodthirsty insects. Her skin was blotchy from accumulated dirt and her own sweat. Her hair was locked in dreads and unkempt. The once-unforgettable beauty was now a shadow, completely veiled.

In a silent plea, she offered a heart-wrenching prayer to God to give her back her dwindling energy, for she needed it to survive the cruel hands of the wild.

Lost in the middle of nowhere, she wondered the vast, empty plain of Anaka to no avail, as her chances of finding any human form of settlement diminished with every forward step she made. Hunger and thirst warned her of starvation; but even if she was that feeble, the thought of searching for food filled her with a hidden dread.

Nothing was as important as carrying on with the journey. Time went by, and every attempt at finding the right direction saw her circling hopelessly within the same area. Total panic replaced her initial rapture. She had trusted that she needed no guide to the outside world. How irrational! The bush had been her home for years, but even so, she should have known it still held her as a stranger in some ways. But there was no time for wishful thinking and regrets; she had to make it. Determined, she encouraged her beaten mind while ignoring the merciless gnarls of hunger and weariness pulling her down to doom.

Dragging every step with a painful insistence, she wobbled past various figures of dwarfed herbage interfused with a few giant trees, oblivious to the changing weather.The day that begun with a pleasant sunshine had all of a sudden turned gray, as dark weighty clouds rolled aggressively in the late afternoon sky.

Ultimately, she consented to the burden that outweighed her body. Slowly, the life in her began to fade; and she gladly submitted to the peaceful tide that beckoned her troubled self. It did not matter anymore about the winged creatures hovering above in circles, that trailed her snail- pace movement. Home was all she envisaged. She wanted to once again feel its warmth and comfort, to place her head on her mother’s warm bosom during the evening gatherings around the fire. She longed for her cozy cooking place, and for the endless squatting in front of the boiling soup while poking now and then at the fire, amidst her mother’s admonishments.

The first strike ended her pleasant reverie. The peck from the savage beak of the vulture woke her up to reality. She caught a glimpse of several in the air, their sight propelling her to a defensive stature. The ugly, ravenous creatures would not devour her when she was still alive! She staggered away from the deathly hill. The thick rain clouds that had held the heavens captive had cleared by then, chased away by the winds, leaving only a flimsy shade of clouds in the already- evening sky.

As the day grew longer, so did the threat to her life.

Careless from weariness, she did not see the tree stump jutting out in a menacing trap. She stumbled and fell clumsily. Defiant, she struggled to get up; however, the earthward forces sucked her right back to the ground. But no, she had just escaped from another form of death, from oppressive captivity. She had survived it for years; therefore, she would not relent to this threatening form without a fight. She dared the hungry forces, but the hard, flat ground horribly sucked her to it. Still no, she was not ready to die, for in her mind, she saw a future ahead for her—the dream of success.

There was a lot to do, simply so much to accomplish.

A strange boost of energy shot up through her, but not far from the place of her last fall, her foot caught a tangle, and she fell flat on her stomach.

It was an arduous, muddled-up entrance into the world of dream that she passed to. Like a spirit being, she floated from above and watched a vaguely familiar happening. They were people that she must have known from time long gone. Two children were fighting over a walking stick. She sensed a strong part of her in the older child. The younger child cried and threw herself about; she wanted the walking stick all to herself. The shy, smiling girl refused to let go. A tall, thin woman walked out of the hut and intervened in favor of the crying child; and so did the three women who just walked by. The older girl began to cry, but no one gave her comfort. Afterward, her tears having washed away the hurt, she embarked on a plan.

Losing was not part of her.

She soon sat alone in the family cassava garden, relaxed. It did not take her long to locate the best of the already- dug-up stems. With her sharp knife, she sat alone for hours and worked up the stick to a desired taste. She could not wait to display her achievement to the rest. She then marched down the road to her home with the proudest grin on her face.

The others were sitting outside as she approached, the stick in her right hand proudly tapping the ground with every step she made. It was awe at first, and then blissful roars that welcomed her. She was a clever girl, very smart; the women patted her on the back. And she welcomed their praise with contentment.

When she came out of the semiconsciousness, she found herself in the unfamiliar surroundings. And it was toward the wee hour of the morning that the man on the makeshift bed bolted up. She could see that his eyes were heavy from sleeplessness. He reached his hand to her forehead. “Does it hurt?” He asked.

She blinked and then shook her head; there was no pain, but she felt drained. It was as if her insides had been sucked out, leaving only a spongy component within.

“You feel empty.”

She nodded. He had read her right. The old man reminded her of someone. He brought out the hidden memory in a way that she could not understand yet. In his company also, she felt safe. A sensation of wanting to cry arose in her, but nothing gathered in her eyes. She was glad. She was not going to allow such weaknesses to consume her. Tears—they were not for the likes of her, the Lakwena taught them to be hard.

She was still struggling with her internal muddle when he announced he was going out to fetch more herbs that would help relieve her suffering. His words interrupted her ongoing thoughts, and she was glad for the break. She allowed her eyes to roam the enclosure of the plain but effectively clean hut. A central pole glimmering with a smoothness that must have resulted from continual polishing and maturity supported the hut. She thought she saw her own distorted reflection sparkle on the pole. The serene, congenial setting about the hut brought some peace into her.

He was back as fast as he had made his announcement, his arms laden with several roots. “These will bring you back to your feet, young woman.”

“Malaika,” she managed to speak in a low, hoarse voice. “Malaika.” He briefly pondered over the name and then said. “Mzee Nyeko is what they called me.” “You saved my life.” She struggled to sit up. “Here, let me help you.” He chuckled, flashing long, even teeth.

She felt light-headed, and her feet were heavy on the floor. However, when a strong hand guided her to the wall for support, she felt better. Malaika then watched him make the medicine, washing it first, and scrubbing off the peels, and then methodically crushing the roots into a paste.

Between brief stoppages from his work, he leisurely narrated the story of the rescue. “I was disappointed. Some predator had tampered with my traps, so I lost the day’s catch. Then I saw the birds. I ran to that direction, led by Simba’s frenzied barking. I immediately felt the scent of a graver problem. Then I saw your inert body on the ground.”

The story began to stir some strangeness in her, just like the ones in storybooks; but Nyeko was not making anything up, and that made the story even more fascinating.

As he talked, Malaika observed. Nyeko was an old man, but one unbeaten by the usual aging problems that accompanied his kind. Nyeko was strong, healthy, and with a vibrant agility about him. In her thinking stemming from what she had witnessed, old age meant frailties of both body and mind, but not for this man.

Flashing a grin, Nyeko teased. “You are feathery in weight. I have good foods. There is boo, malakwang, omolokony. I even still have the termites from the last harvest.” He stretched and drew an old plastic mug from a corner and put the crushed content into it as he continued. “When we arrived home, darkness was stealing in, chasing away the last glow of the dropping sun.”

There was silence. Then he began to talk more like to himself, to give her hope in his strong voice. “You are beautiful. But one that has gone through pain. They all have when they run away from the Lakwena. How wonderful it is that fate seems to lead them to me, to the remote simplicity of my home. To be nurtured and prepared for the other world. So stubborn they all are. You though, you are different. I see strength in you.” Then he saw her eyes on Simba, who was peacefully lying by the corner of the hut and said, “This small world of ours—I and my best friend know its every corner.” He gestured toward his dog. “My dog Simba always leads the way when we go hunting.”

She could tell Nyeko was no amateur when it came to herbal knowledge. Before she could ask further, the answer to her puzzle came forth from the host’s mouth. The art in traditional remedy, he learned from his deceased grandmother. His reputation as a medicine man had traveled everywhere. Then she talked after a brief silence. “My grandmother was good with medicine too.” There was silence; she realized Nyeko was not listening to her even if his eyes were on her.

Then he began to talk, to think aloud, and to give her hope. “You still have a chance of redeeming that serious looking face. Also, the blemishes on your body, given the right treatment, would disappear with time. That, I know from experience…”

After that, nights turned into days, days into weeks.

Diligently and eager to heal, she drank Nyeko’s medicine and was finally on her feet. They had talked little by far, concentrating only on the healing process. One day, however, in a hot, still afternoon, as she sat under the shady nook of the twin granaries, her mind began to bubble with questions. There were three attractive huts that graced the immaculately curved compound; but where were the rest, the other occupants? Did the Lakwena kill them? Strange were the surroundings as well. She cast her eyes toward the mass of thickets enclosing the compound, mentally tried to make a way through it, but came out with nothing. Where was the path that led in and out?

So Nyeko gave her the answers one evening. Nyeko was a rebellious man. The camps to him were only a place of waste, of human degradation. He had intentionally allowed the mass to thicken around his home for protection. It was better to live his kind of life. He knew that the people did not want to go. Who would want to leave one’s own place for some cattle way of living?

Looking at the surrounding from the outside, no one could imagine a home existing inside such a jungle. Nyeko had previously built inside a den of trees and shrubs that he frequently cleaned during the free days of movement, and that he now allowed to thicken in order to shield himself from outside interference.

As they began to communicate easily, Nyeko told her more. She was extraordinary; something deep within him told him so. However, he was bothered by her strange conduct. And rarely had his intuition lied to him. She would need polishing in order to make it while with the outside people. Like the way she kept imitating the barrel- clicking motion of the gun; true, there was no doubt about her “gunmanship.” However, that would only put her in further trouble with the outside world. “That will only get you into trouble.” He pointed to the motioning hands as he walked toward her. He never bucked from her reproachful stare. “You will need to blend in with the others, or else—”

“Or else what!” she snapped at him. She was in no mood for chitchat. Nyeko coughed gently to clear his chest. He ignored her. “You will suffer because you’re different. They will put you aside. They will look at you as taboo. That is why you need to try to leave behind the bush.” He then looked at her with eyes saying it was her only chance at reforming, that she needed to cooperate. Sensing his words may have fallen on deaf ears, he tried a gentler approach. “I’m telling you this to prepare you for what you will undergo. It will not be easy. It will not be a smooth path. You will need to try by yourself. You have to help yourself first.”

Nothing of the things he said made much sense to her. Malaika only felt irritation begin to eat her up inside.

“In three days to come, you will continue your journey as you so wished. Out there it’s not like harvesting vegetables.” He waited for a reaction but there was only stern silence. He now begged. “Malaika, child, you should listen to me.”

She could not postpone the fit anymore. “You think I escaped from the bush for nothing? I hate them!”

Too resolved to finish the talk, he urgently continued, “Hate solves nothing. You will need to forgive. Only then will you progress. They will fight you with hate, and you cannot. You will only lose if you propel the same at them.” Malaika gave a hard look at the unwavering old man. Nyeko was telling her the impossible. He was telling her to love the people that hurt her. How that will work, she did not know.

Three days later, after a good preparation, she was ready to continue with her journey. The elderly Nyeko showered countless blessings on her. He then bid her a sad good-bye amid strong words of caution.

The journey begins.