SCARS

Have you ever had a friend you love? You love them like your mother or even just as you love yourself?  Anyone? Okay I have some. If you don’t, perhaps you should consult Leviticus 19:18. We all have something we love, if not your pet then maybe your bicycle. 

A beautiful set of scars, that carry a great deal of memories. They grow beautiful day by day. They were once ugly and seen like some sort of a curse. I guess they felt how you feel when you are rejected by your family. But for some reason now they feel at home, like you feel when you make peace with someone you love after years of bitterness. They feel like they have a home, and that home is you. Sometimes you just have to make peace with your past to save your future from becoming a constant battle. 

There was a scar, or scars mayhap. It wasn’t strange because we all get hurt when we are children. You don’t know how but you just couldn’t stop loving things that left you scars. That’s what children do best right? Most childhood scars bear in them good memories, maybe the crazy stuff you used to do. However, his case was different. He wasn’t hurt while playing or out of some sort of stupid curiosity. 

Back in 2003 a 24 year old now had barely started kindergarten.  When you were around 4years old you were taken to some nursery school in your village. Maybe one in town if your dad was a Mayor, Chief or high school principal and your mother had a business in town so she could drop and pick you. It felt better if you had a sister or a brother who could take care of you. His school was one of those that you are taught in your mother tongue but the teacher expect you to yap around in Swahili. If you didn't know how to write letter A (this a), you were in trouble.

One day he wakes up and feels like, no this is not my day. But at 4 you can’t tell your mom that this isn’t your day so you’re not going to school. Parents didn’t believe in bad days for toddlers, or maybe it’s his mom who didn’t. So he goes to school and later in the week he’s sick because there was a chicken pox outbreak in school. When you were sick your mom would go to school ask for Rusa “ruhusa” or rather permission from the teacher. 

So, the next morning your body is full of some rashes and develops watery itchy blisters. Your mum smears some pinkish gel, calamine lotion or something … on your body and you look like some clown. Only that you don’t have a big red nose and yellow pink hair. 

Its two weeks now and the rest of the children have resumed school but his chicken pox still doesn’t give any relevance to the medication administered. So his father comes home from work to see son’s guest. An intruder who unapologetically kicks your door open, enters and sits comfortably with legs crossed and there becomes your guest.

The marathon to hospitals begin because this intruder should not stay under your roof for more than two weeks, but this one did. That was a red flag. 

The medication only seemed to weaken his immune system rather than provide any help. You remember those teachers who used to come to class with a math problem fumble with it, They are trying to find X from Y and Y gives them Z instead, after they’ve failed to solve it they tell you it’s your assignment? That’s how the drugs used to handle his situation.  

It’s the third week, some of the blisters have disappeared but some have graduated to small wounds. Poor dad and madam teacher keep going to the hospital, there were barely nduthis those days, only taxis but they were expensive. So madam teacher carries her son to hospital and dad carries his dearest son on their way back. She was a teacher to be then, out of college and was tarmacking as the miracle child is right now. 

Time has passed, no change, so they step up their connection with God from praying in the morning and evening to praying almost every time. From reading one verse in the night to singing and reading two more verses. The situation is getting eerie and ugly. School was discontinued, shosho had to start visiting more frequently to check and pray for grandson. Maybe shosho’s prayers hit God differently, just maybe. 

The chicken pox wounds start oozing pus. He wakes up from a troubled sleep and his T-shirt has stuck on the wounds. Mom has to sprinkle water on him to sock the hard sticking wounds. It’s pretty painful you know… disgusting too? Yes it is.  Whenever she did this the wounds opened afresh and the pus would flow. From the chest, from the abdomen, from the back and you feel like you’re watching some movie about zombies or some aliens. 

So the wounds were red every morning. They had to deal with this so the miracle baby was not putting on tops anymore, just hanging around in the house bare chest so the clothes would not stick on the wounds. But how did he sleep at night? Still the sheets were sticking. 

The atmosphere at home changed, friends and relatives visited to see the strange visitor. Some heard the fununus and came to see for themselves if by any chance this was happening. He’s growing weak by day, the immune system is overworking and has started boycotting work like you do when you think you’re not paid well. 

The trips to hospital have reduced because, the situation is not getting any better. You ever reached to a point where you tell God to do what he wants? You’ve gone praying in the middle of your banana plantation because you think it’s a bit silent there and God would hear your words clearly?

It was like God wasn’t just interested or maybe he was rewriting another Job’s story but this time with a 4 year old. Nothing felt good anymore. Meals were boring, its Christmas but you don’t feel it, and you can’t even remember the last time you smiled. You’re tired of people’s consolations and good wishes because it’s like they worsen the situation. You want nothing other than just your baby to be okay. 

Then this night after dinner the family sang, read verses and prayed as the routine. Everyone went to sleep, then in the middle of the night your 4 year old is speaking things you can’t fathom. Chanting and kicking his legs like chicken do after you’ve chopped off their head. He says things that people say when they are dying like “adhii dalawa”. You wake up scared to death and start praying like the world is ending. Mom is shedding tears helplessly but you have to act strong because you’re the man of the house. So you just swallow your tears in your distress.  It reaches a point when you can pray and quote bible verses even if you’ve never been a friend of the holy book.

A man of God is invited for the hundredth and one time. Under a mango tree in the heart of the homestead, he takes the child and talks to God like they do when things are out of hand. I suppose he planned a different angle of attack to approach God this time. He draws God to a corner so that God doesn’t escape and reminds him how this family and the church has been faithful to Him.

He puts a very tough bura with God and ask Him why His good will allows a 4 year old to go through this hell of time. Sometimes it’s good to have yourself something that you can use to sue God in His own court. And tell him God, I did this for you but in return you gave me pain. God will listen. You see I’m here writing, 20 years later. Don’t you? You still wondering why I rarely walk around bare chested like other men. Maybe you should plan a date with Mwalimu and Madam Teacher. 

Happy valentines loves