Okwiri Oduor besides Sir Caine bust. Photo credit: Caine Prize website |
My Father’s Head
By Okwiri Oduor
I had meant to summon my father only
long enough to see what his head looked like, but now he was here and I did not
know how to send him back.
It all
started the Thursday that Father Ignatius came from Immaculate Conception in Kitgum.
The old women wore their Sunday frocks, and the old men plucked garlands of bougainvillea
from the fence and stuck them in their breast pockets. One old man would not leave
the dormitory because he could not find his shikwarusi, and when I coaxed and badgered,
he patted his hair and said, “My God, do you want the priest from Uganda to
think that I look like this every day?”
I arranged
chairs beneath the avocado tree in the front yard, and the old people sat down
and practiced their smiles. A few people who did not live at the home came too,
like the woman who hawked candy in the Stagecoach bus to Mathari North, and the
man whose one-roomed house was a kindergarten in the daytime and a brothel in
the evening, and the woman whose illicit brew had blinded five people in
January.
Father
Ignatius came riding on the back of a bodaboda, and after everyone had dropped
a coin in his hat, he gave the bodaboda man fifty shillings and the bodaboda
man said, “Praise God,” and then rode back the way he had come.
Father
Ignatius took off his coat and sat down in the chair that was marked, “Father Ignatius
Okello, New Chaplain,” and the old people gave him the smiles they had been practicing,
smiles that melted like ghee, that oozed through the corners of their lips and dribbled
onto their laps long after the thing that was being smiled about went rancid in
the air.
Father
Ignatius said, “The Lord be with you,” and the people said, “And also with you,”
and then they prayed and they sang and they had a feast; dipping bread slices
in tea, and when the drops fell on the cuffs of their woollen sweaters, sucking
at them with their steamy, cinnamon tongues.
Father
Ignatius’ maiden sermon was about love: love your neighbour as you love yourself,
that kind of self-deprecating thing. The old people had little use for love,
and although they gave Father Ignatius an ingratiating smile, what they really
wanted to know was what type of place Kitgum was, and if it was true that the
Bagisu people were savage cannibals.
What I
wanted to know was what type of person Father Ignatius thought he was, instructing
others to distribute their love like this or like that, as though one could
measure love on weights, pack it inside glass jars and place it on shelves for
the neighbours to pick as they pleased. As though one could look at it and say,
“Now see: I have ten loves in total. Let me save three for my country and give
all the rest to my neighbours.”
It must
have been the way that Father Ignatius filled his mug – until the tea ran over the
clay rim and down the stool leg and soaked into his canvas shoe – that got me
thinking about my own father. One moment I was listening to tales of Acholi
valour, and the next, I was stringing together images of my father, making his
limbs move and his lips spew words, so that in the end, he was a marionette and
my memories of him were only scenes in a theatrical display.
Even as I
showed Father Ignatius to his chambers, cleared the table, put the chairs back
inside, took my purse, and dragged myself to Odeon to get a matatu to Uthiru, I
thought about the millet-coloured freckle in my father’s eye, and the fifty
cent coins he always forgot in his coat pockets, and the way each Saturday
morning men knocked on our front door and said things like, “Johnson, you have
to come now; the water pipe has burst and we are filling our glasses with
shit,” and, “Johnson, there is no time to put on clothes even; just come the way
you are. The maid gave birth in the night and flushed the baby down the toilet.”
Every day after work, I bought an ear
of street-roasted maize and chewed it one kernel at a time, and when I reached
the house, I wiggled out of the muslin dress and wore dungarees and drank a cup
of masala chai. Then I carried my father’s toolbox to the bathroom. I chiselled
out old broken tiles from the wall, and they fell onto my boots, and the dust
rose from them and exploded in the flaring tongues of fire lapping through
chinks in the stained glass.
This time,
as I did all those things, I thought of the day I sat at my father’s feet and
he scooped a handful of groundnuts and rubbed them between his palms, chewed
them, and then fed the mush to me. I was of a curious age then; old enough to
chew with my own teeth, yet young enough to desire that hot, masticated love,
love that did not need to be doctrinated or measured in cough syrup caps.
The
Thursday Father Ignatius came from Kitgum, I spent the entire night on my stomach
on the sitting room floor, drawing my father. In my mind I could see his face,
see the lines around his mouth, the tiny blobs of light in his irises, the
crease at the part where his ear joined his temple. I could even see the thick
line of sweat and oil on his shirt collar, the little brown veins that broke
off from the main stream of dirt and ran down on their own.
I could
see all these things, yet no matter what I did, his head refused to appear
within the borders of the paper. I started off with his feet and worked my way
up and in the end my father’s head popped out of the edges of the paper and
onto scuffed linoleum and plastic magnolias and the wet soles of bathroom
slippers.
I showed
Bwibo some of the drawings. Bwibo was the cook at the old people’s home, with
whom I had formed an easy camaraderie.
“My God!”
Bwibo muttered, flipping through them. “Simbi, this is abnormal.”
The word
‘abnormal’ came out crumbly, and it broke over the sharp edge of the table and
became clods of loam on the plastic floor covering. Bwibo rested her head on her
palm, and the bell sleeves of her cream-coloured caftan swelled as though there
were pumpkins stacked inside them.
I told her
what I had started to believe, that perhaps my father had had a face but no head
at all. And even if my father had had a head, I would not have seen it:
people’s heads were not a thing that one often saw. One looked at a person, and
what one saw was their face: a regular face-shaped face, that shrouded a
regular head-shaped head. If the face was remarkable, one looked twice. But what
was there to draw one’s eyes to the banalities of another’s head? Most times
when one looked at a person, one did not even see their head there at all.
Bwibo
stood over the waist-high jiko, poured cassava flour into a pot of bubbling water
and stirred it with a cooking oar. “Child,” she said, “how do you know that the
man in those drawings is your father? He has no head at all, no face.”
“I
recognize his clothes. The red corduroys that he always paired with yellow
shirts.”
Bwibo
shook her head. “It is only with a light basket that someone can escape the rain.”
It was
that time of day when the old people fondled their wooden beads and snorted off
to sleep in between incantations. I allowed them a brief, bashful siesta, long
enough for them to believe that they had recited the entire rosary. Then I
tugged at the ropes and the lunch bells chimed. The old people sat eight to a
table, and with their mouths filled with ugali, sour lentils and okra soup,
said things like, “Do not buy chapati from Kadima’s Kiosk—Kadima’s wife sits on
the dough and charms it with her buttocks,” or, “Did I tell you about Wambua,
the one whose cow chewed a child because the child would not stop wailing?”
In the
afternoon, I emptied the bedpans and soaked the old people’s feet in warm water
and baking soda, and when they trooped off to mass I took my purse and went
home.
The Christmas before the cane tractor
killed my father, he drank his tea from plates and fried his eggs on the lids
of coffee jars, and he retrieved his Yamaha drum-set from a shadowy, lizardy
place in the back of the house and sat on the veranda and smoked and beat the
drums until his knuckles bled.
One day he
took his stool and hand-held radio and went to the veranda, and I sat at his
feet, undid his laces and peeled off his gummy socks. He wiggled his toes
about. They smelt slightly fetid, like sour cream.
My father
smoked and listened to narrations of famine undulating deeper into the
Horn of Africa, and when the clock
chimed eight o’clock, he turned the knob and listened to the death news. It was
not long before his ears caught the name of someone he knew. He choked on the
smoke trapped in his throat.
My father
said, “Did you hear that? Sospeter has gone! Sospeter, the son of Milkah, who
taught Agriculture in Mirere Secondary. My God, I am telling you, everyone is
going. Even me, you shall hear me on the death news very soon.”
I brought
him his evening cup of tea. He smashed his cigarette against the veranda, then
he slowly brought the cup to his lips. The cup was filled just the way he liked
it, filled until the slightest trembling would have his fingers and thighs
scalded.
My father took a sip of his tea and
said, “Sospeter was like a brother to me. Why did I have to learn of his death
like this, over the radio?”
Later, my
father lay on the fold-away sofa, and I sat on the stool watching him, afraid that
if I looked away, he would go too. It was the first time I imagined his death,
the first time I mourned.
And yet it
was not my father I was mourning. I was mourning the image of myself inside the
impossible aura of my father’s death. I was imagining what it all would be
like: the death news would say that my father had drowned in a cess pit, and
people would stare at me as though I were a monitor lizard trapped inside a
manhole in the street. I imagined that I would be wearing my green dress when I
got the news – the one with red gardenias embroidered in its bodice –and people
would come and pat my shoulder and give me warm Coca Cola in plastic cups and say,
“I put my sorrow in a basket and brought it here as soon as I heard. How else
would your father’s spirit know that I am innocent of his death?”
Bwibo had an explanation as to why I
could not remember the shape of my father’s head.
She said, “Although
everyone has a head behind their face, some show theirs easily; they turn their
back on you and their head is all you can see. Your father was a good man and good
men never show you their heads; they show you their faces.”
Perhaps
she was right. Even the day my father’s people telephoned to say that a cane tractor
had flattened him on the road to Shibale, no one said a thing about having seen
his head. They described the rest of his body with a measured delicacy: how his
legs were strewn across the road, sticky and shiny with fresh tar, and how one
foot remained inside his tyre sandal, pounding the pedal of his bicycle, and
how cane juice filled his mouth and soaked the collar of his polyester shirt,
and how his face had a patient serenity, even as his eyes burst and rolled in
the rain puddles.
And
instead of weeping right away when they said all those things to me, I had wondered
if my father really had come from a long line of obawami, and if his people
would bury him seated in his grave, with a string of royal cowries round his
neck.
“In any
case,” Bwibo went on, “what more is there to think about your father, eh?
That milk spilled a long time ago, and
it has curdled on the ground.”
I spent
the day in the dormitories, stripping beds, sunning mattresses, scrubbing PVC mattress
pads. One of the old men kept me company. He told me how he came to spend his sunset
years at the home – in August of 1998 he was at the station waiting to board
the evening train back home to Mombasa. When the bomb went off at the American
Embassy, the police trawled the city and arrested every man of Arab extraction.
Because he was seventy-two and already rapidly unravelling into senility, they
dumped him at the old people’s home, and he had been there ever since.
“Did your
people not come to claim you?” I asked, bewildered.
The old
man snorted. “My people?”
“Everyone
has people that belong to them.”
The old
man laughed. “Only the food you have already eaten belongs to you.”
Later, the
old people sat in drooping clumps in the yard. Bwibo and I watched from the
back steps of the kitchen. In the grass, ants devoured a squirming caterpillar.
The dog’s nose, a translucent pink doodled with green veins, twitched. Birds
raced each other over the frangipani. One tripped over the power line and
smashed its head on the moss–covered electricity pole.
Wasps flew
low over the grass. A lizard crawled over the lichen that choked a pile of timber.
The dog licked the inside of its arm. A troupe of royal butterfly dancers
flitted over the row of lilies, their colourful gauze dancing skirts trembling
to the rumble of an inaudible drum beat. The dog lay on its side in the grass,
smothering the squirming caterpillar and the chewing ants. The dog’s nipples
were little pellets of goat shit stuck with spit onto its furry underside.
Bwibo
said, “I can help you remember the shape of your father’s head.”
I said, “Now
what type of mud is this you have started speaking?”
Bwibo
licked her index finger and held it solemnly in the air. “I swear, Bible red! I
can help you and I can help you.”
Let me tell you: one day you will
renounce your exile, and you will go back home, and your mother will take out
the finest china, and your father will slaughter a sprightly cockerel for you,
and the neighbours will bring some potluck, and your sister will wear her navy
blue PE wrapper, and your brother will eat with a spoon instead of squelching
rice and soup through the spaces between his fingers.
And you,
you will have to tell them stories about places not-here, about people that soaked
their table napkins in Jik Bleach and talked about London as though London was
a place one could reach by hopping onto an Akamba bus and driving by Nakuru and
Kisumu and Kakamega and finding themselves there.
You will
tell your people about men that did not slit melons up into slices but split them
into halves and ate each of the halves out with a spoon, about women that held
each other’s hands around street lamps in town and skipped about, showing
snippets of grey Mother’s Union bloomers as they sang:
Kijembe ni kikali, param-param
Kilikata mwalimu, param-param
You think
that your people belong to you, that they will always have a place for you in
their minds and their hearts. You think that your people will always look
forward to your return.
Maybe the
day you go back home to your people you will have to sit in a wicker chair on
the veranda and smoke alone because, although they may have wanted to have you
back, no one really meant for you to stay.
My father
was slung over the wicker chair in the veranda, just like in the old days, smoking
and watching the handheld radio. The death news rose from the radio, and it
became a mist, hovering low, clinging to the cold glass of the sitting room
window.
My
father’s shirt flapped in the wind, and tendrils of smoke snapped before his
face. He whistled to himself. At first the tune was a faceless, pitiful thing,
like an old bottle that someone found on the path and kicked all the way home.
Then the tune caught fragments of other tunes inside it, and it lost its free-spirited
falling and rising.
My father
had a head. I could see it now that I had the mind to look for it. His head was
shaped like a butternut squash. Perhaps that was the reason I had forgotten all
about it; it was a horrible, disconcerting thing to look at.
My father
had been a plumber. His fingernails were still rimmed with dregs from the drainage
pipes he tinkered about in, and his boots still squished with ugali from
nondescript kitchen sinks. Watching him, I remembered the day he found a gold
chain tangled in the fibres of someone’s excrement, and he wiped the excrement
off against his corduroys and sold the chain at Nagin Pattni, and that evening,
hoisted high upon his shoulders, he brought home the red Greatwall television.
He set it in the corner of the sitting room and said, “Just look how it shines,
as though it is not filled with shit inside.”
And every
day I plucked a bunch of carnations and snipped their stems diagonally and
stood them in a glass bowl and placed the glass bowl on top of the television
so that my father would not think of shit while he watched the evening news.
I said to
Bwibo, “We have to send him back.”
Bwibo
said, “The liver you have asked for is the one you eat.”
“But I did
not really want him back, I just wanted to see his head.”
Bwibo
said, “In the end, he came back to you and that should account for something, should
it not?”
Perhaps my
father’s return accounted for nothing but the fact that the house already smelt
like him – of burnt lentils and melting fingernails and the bark of bitter
quinine and the sourness of wet rags dabbing at broken cigarette tips.
I threw
things at my father; garlic, incense, salt, pork, and when none of that
repelled him, I asked Father Ignatius to bless the house. He brought a vial of
holy water, and he sprinkled it in every room, sprinkled it over my father.
Father Ignatius said that I would need further protection, but that I would
have to write him a cheque first.
One day I was buying roast maize in the
street corner when the vendor said to me, “Is
it true what the vegetable-sellers are
saying, that you finally found a man to love you but will not let him through
your door?”
That
evening, I invited my father inside. We sat side by side on the fold-away sofa,
and watched as a fly crawled up the dusty screen between the grill and the
window glass. It buzzed a little as it climbed. The ceiling fan creaked, and it
threw shadows across the corridor floor. The shadows leapt high and mounted
doors and peered through the air vents in the walls.
The wind
upset a cup. For a few seconds, the cup lay lopsided on the windowsill.
Then it rolled on its side and scurried
across the floor. I pulled at the latch, fastened the window shut. The wind
grazed the glass with its wet lips. It left a trail of dust and saliva, and the
saliva dribbled down slowly to the edge of the glass. The wind had a slobbery
mouth. Soon its saliva had covered the entire window, covered it until the
rosemary brushwood outside the window became blurry. The jacaranda outside stooped
low, scratched the roof. In the next room, doors and windows banged.
I looked
at my father. He was something at once strange and familiar, at once enthralling
and frightening – he was the brittle, chipped handle of a ceramic tea mug, and
he was the cold yellow stare of an owl.
My father
touched my hand ever so lightly, so gently, as though afraid that I would flinch
and pull my hand away. I did not dare lift my eyes, but he touched my chin and
tipped it upwards so that I had no choice but to look at him.
I
remembered a time when I was a little child, when I stared into my father’s
eyes in much the same way. In them I saw shapes; a drunken, talentless
conglomerate of circles and triangles and squares. I had wondered how those
shapes had got inside my father’s eyes. I had imagined that he sat down at the
table, cut out glossy figures from colouring books, slathered them with glue,
and stuck them inside his eyes so that they made rummy, haphazard collages in
his irises.
My father
said, “Would you happen to have some tea, Simbi?”
I brought
some, and he asked if his old friend Pius Obote still came by the house on Saturdays,
still brought groundnut soup and pumpkin leaves and a heap of letters that he
had picked up from the post office.
I said, “Pius
Obote has been dead for four years.”
My father
pushed his cup away. He said, “If you do not want me here drinking your tea,
just say so, instead of killing-killing people with your mouth.”
My father
was silent for a while, grieving this man Pius Obote whose name had always made
me think of knees banging against each other. Pius Obote used to blink a lot. Once,
he fished inside his pocket for a biro and instead withdrew a chicken bone,
still red and moist.
My father
said to me, “I have seen you. You have offered me tea. I will go now.”
“Where
will you go?”
“I will
find a job in a town far from here. Maybe Eldoret. I used to have people there.”
I said, “Maybe
you could stay here for a couple of days, Baba.”
Okwiri Oduor was born in
Nairobi, Kenya. Her novella The Dream Chasers was highly commended in the
Commonwealth Book Prize 2012. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in The New Inquiry, Kwani?, Saraba,
FEMRITE,
and African
Writing Online. She recently directed the inaugural Writivism
Festival in Kampala, Uganda. She teaches creative writing to young girls at her
alma mater in Nairobi, and is currently working on her first full-length novel.
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