My Jewel is gone. I wake up to find an empty lesso where she was sleeping. A chill travels up my spine. I run around frantically like a wild beast. I wake my son and daughter up. ILLUSTRATION | JOHN NYAGAH |
I receive a deluge of messages on my phone. My reply is rather dull as I simply type, “Happy new year to you too.” It is my own way of ushering in the New Year.
I begin to set resolutions for the New Year. This is what responsible people do over this period, I say to myself silently. It is New Year’s Eve and my family is waiting for the clock to strike midnight. As fireworks snowball in the sky in splendour, thoughts float like clouds in my mind. I can do this differently. Instead of a plan, I can start with an action.
“We are going for a hike,” I say suddenly, tossing my phone on the couch. “Tomorrow,” I add with a twitch of excitement. I ignore the ding-dong tunes that signal more messages.
“Where?” my son asks, his face beaming with interest.
“In the wild,” I respond in a manner that does not really answer the question.
“The destination is a secret,” I say.
“I am in,” my son says.
“I will lead the pack,” my daughter says.
“No way, you want to know who leads the trek? I do, you want to know who will find the path? I will,” my other daughter Jewel says in her usual confident and dramatic way.
She struts across the room and leans her body on my chest like a jealous woman protecting her territory. I smile at her reassuringly. I need to balance this out, this puppy love. This attention, this caring needs rationing, I tell myself.
Their mother looks at me discouragingly. She walks away, then in the hallway away from the living room, I hear her faint voice, “The weather is not conducive. I’m out.” I play it safe and say nothing. I know it is not like her to fall for such spontaneity or act impulsively.
Jewel is our lastborn. Our family’s nickname for her is “Free.” When you give her a yard, she takes a mile. Jewel scans the room. She is competitive and unrestrained. Occasionally she gets uncontainable like a river and sweeps through the others. The mother often balances it out with soft spanking or pinching to quell the bravado. I worry that I am too shy to do the same to my Jewel.
Still, I step in to play the arbiter and calm the sibling rivalry, which threatens to spoil this trip.
“Let’s all pack. Convert your school bags to journey bags,” I say to distract them and redirect their energy.
“Yes,” they all say and run off to pack.
In the morning of New Year’s Day, we begin our trek. We begin when the dew is still wet on the grass and the mist is yet to clear. We begin with a prayer, which Jewel says in a hurry.
We walk in single file like soldiers.
“This is river what?” my son asks.
“Kwekwe,” I say unconvincingly.
“No,” my elder daughter says in protest. “You do not ask like that. The correct way to ask is which river is this?”
I consider her point. It is valid, but again I do not want to take sides, I gloss over it. We walk through narrow, twisted paths. We walk into the wilderness and move into a new realm of serenity.
My Jewel is strong. She walks close to me. I feel her breathing getting heavy. Her steps get slower as we move further into the unknown. Her questions die off, she is growing tired. “It is the persistence, not the might of the water that weathers the rocks,” I say to encourage Jewel to keep walking.
I see a valley and a river. Our first stop shall be there. As I lead Jewel and the rest I keep looking back. We are soon sitting by the riverbank.
“Which river is this?” My son asks again.
“River Kiserian,” I reply this time. The river is shallow. It trickles down making sounds that soothe our tired souls. Down the river is a small eddy where it twists and turns carrying with it dead insects.
Then we unpack our lunch of yams, pumpkins, milk and water. We settle down to eat. My Jewel gets her energy back.
“Daddy, how long shall we walk. Where exactly are we going?” She asks with a concerned face. I smile and reassure her that we are going to have lots of fun in the wild. We resume the trek.
Not far ahead, we find a clearer path. It is well trodden. We follow it but it turns to a wide opening like a meadow. There is a big tree whose botanical name I cannot recall. My son thinks its a Lantana but he is wrong. The shade of the tree is cool and irresistible. We sit under it and to our delight, it is a Jobino. The fruits are ripe, succulent and tasty. We eat to our fill.
In the shade, as we recuperate, Jewel busts into song. In her class, she is the best in creative performance. She walks in front of us and creates an imaginary stage. Her rhymes have a mix of our local language and Kiswahili.
“Tukibudho tu na bodho budho Tukibudho tu na bango budho Tukinindo tu na royo budho”
The poem is catchy and we join in. My son records us using my phone. We laugh and sing the poem over and over again. We are enjoying ourselves more than we could have imagined.
Soon the children are drowsy. I stay awake briefly just to make sure we’re safe. Then sleep conquers me too. Battling heavy eyelids, I try to scan the surrounding one last time, but I soon fall into deep, sweet sleep.
I dream that there had been a sign at the entrance to this animal sanctuary. It says boldly, “Warning, this is private property. Trespassers will be prosecuted.” My son cautions me to stay out of the ranch. He even points to an imaginary electric wire fence. I ignore him and we crawl in.
Inside the ranch, we begin to pluck fruits. Then as we sit down to enjoy our fruits, armed security men appear. I am really scared. I turn violently then wake up breathing heavily and bathed in sweat.
My Jewel is gone. I wake up to find an empty lesso where she was sleeping. A chill travels up my spine. I run around frantically like a wild beast. I wake my son and daughter up.
“My Jewel is gone,” I say in desperation.
My son is calm. He says, “Jewel is playing hide and seek.”
I try to believe him but I cannot. I caution them to stay put in the same spot as I run from one shrub to the next. My Jewel is free from me. She is gone.
Then I sit down to evaluate the situation. What could have happened when we slept? I talk to myself loudly like a mad man trying to come up with all the different scenarios that could have occurred.
I run back to my son and other daughter and find them crying. I get hysterical. My Jewel is gone. I kneel down to pray, this time a more elaborate prayer unlike the one Jewel had said earlier. I pray for her.
Then I see some smoke going up. “That must be a manyatta,” I tell my son. “Yes, there is a chance Jewel must have wandered there while we slept.” We head there immediately.
“Yes it is a manyatta,” my daughter confirms as we approach. “Ndawuo,” I say.
“Eroo, suba. Karibu,” the man perhaps the head of the Manyatta says in welcome.
My Jewel bursts out of the manyatta laughing with two young friends on hearing my voice. I go down on my knees in thanksgiving.
