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




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