Page 67 - Msingi Afrika Magazine Issue 29
P. 67
Art & Culture
slogan vibration that made life hopeless and with my classmate’s friend, now a widower,
meaningless. The following night, I was in and a lunatic village drunkard. It had been a
the city, wandering, and with no help. The long time since he lost his job as a city askari
sirens and lights flashed from askari’s vans for not leaving a bottle of tips. An African el-
with alarming noises. People were running der once said that if a senior bachelor crosses
up and down in fear of being whipped or a great river to marry a wife from far away,
clobbered by askaris. “Obey the curfew he must be ready for the risk of a night jour-
order! Ghasia hii!” The short askari raised ney. My friend had divorced his first wife; his
a voice with irritation. The whips landed second wife drowned in the river, and now
on my buttocks. I fell in pretense, shaking we were attending the third wife’s burial,
my legs and torso like a lizard. “Afade!.., who died of COVID-19 infection. His first-
Hii ako Korona! ... Ida ambules!””This one born had been diagnosed with mental anx-
has corona, call the ambulance” One askari iety, and he was taken care of by his moth-
shouted as he stood aside, trembling with the er-in-law. Many gossiped that the atrocities
whips in his hand. “Ambulance!”. The other were equated to witchcraft, and curses from
askari shouted at the radio call. I was in the a late grandfather. Others attributed an evil
back of the ambulance van on my way to the spirit to an uncircumcised divorced wife. We
hospital. As the vehicle was speeding to the filled the night air of the entire village with
hospital, I planned how to get out. After a the noise of vernacular songs on COVID-19.
long drive, the van stopped at a police road- Many children never slept peacefully. During
block entering the city center at night. Police the day, we idled at a shopping center bar,
with guns in their hands and masks on their making noises about village politics. In the
faces were manning the highway to the city evening, we siphoned ‘Busaa, Chang’aa, and
center. “Afande!. Hii Gonja wa Korona!” The Eng’uli’, then proceeded to intrude on single
sharp voice emanated in front of the van. The mothers and widows at their houses sexually.
askari flashed their eyes left and right inside Oh, Sorry! This is African story fiction, an
the ambulance van. Little did they know, I observation of the resilience and challenge of
flung the door of the ambulance van and flew the COVID-19 period.
on foot like a rat running towards a hideout.
The askaris also flew out in a different direc- REFERENCE
tion as the ambulance van sped off in another DreamKona .(2021).The Art of Resillience:
direction. Kenya in Art in 2020. Trust for Indigenous
Culture and Heath (TICAH)
I stopped at the waiting truck at the petrol
station, heading in the direction of my rural
home. I pleaded with the truck driver for a
ride, and eventually, I was riding in the back
of the truck. I arrived in my village early in
the morning and immediately reconnected
ISSUE 29 | JULY 2024 67