The Writer

By Anthony Muchoki , originally published 2005.

For the last forty years he had not written anything. He was just about to celebrate his 90th birthday.

There was a time when he did not believe in miracles. But in his old age, as he neared the imminent grave, he had come to accept that there was some higher power called God or by some other name. 

He could not logically explain how he had survived the nightmares he had undergone during the last 40 years. “It’s a miracle, it’s a miracle,” he murmured to himself, as his old bones made a loud gibe. His haggard stomach quivered. He released a big fart, which made the animals he was herding run away in fright.

 The Writer was barefoot, covered in a tattered and dirty blanket like most of the other men in the village. He was herding the last of his livestock- two cows and four goats, the only tangible possession left in his hands. Many years ago, he had a wife and children. That was when he was a world class writer, trotting the globe. He had done unimaginable things in Africa in those days.

He married a Russian wife. They had some three children who were the pride of Randiera in those days. He was rich and an achiever. Sweet memories.  He laughed loudly at himself, comparing the poverty he was languishing in now, and the kingly life of the past. He laughed so hard that he fell down. He thought that though he had not been able to beat poverty, at least he had managed to cheat death, unlike most of his peers.

His emaciated cows and goats, which were rummaging through the dry grass, watched him curiously. Lying down, he continued to laugh for about ten minutes until his ribs were completely exhausted. His animals had now stopped eating. They were gazing at him. He felt euphoric. Life was so beautiful. He looked up at the azure sky, and felt immortal. He was convinced that nothing could take away his place in history.

The rough desert land of Randiera, where he was now, had not taken away the magic that made him stand out amongst the crowd from his childhood.  Penniless and having recently lost his best animals in the famine that was ravaging the country, he refused to give up on life.

 “I’ll hang on to life to the very end,” he whispered to the air.  

He stood up, and led his herd to the communal well that was almost drying up. The villagers were in perpetual fear, because unless the government or humanitarian agencies moved in to rescue them, the biting drought was going to swallow them. Only the Writer was not worried, but one would not say the same was the case with his flock.

 The herd hungrily slurped the dirty water from the man-made dam, which was the lifeline of both human and animal life in the village. The elders in his village believed that animals are often more clever than human beings. After all, they read the signs of the times more accurately than men.

The animals were now drinking the water as if there was no tomorrow. Already the land was completely dry, with no green leaves to be seen. The dying shrubs they were depending on would soon be finished.

In this part of Randiera, which was called Turki, various livestock, more than 40,000 in number, had already died in the past one-month. It was not because of the drought per se that the animals had died. A strange disease had, like a curse, also swept the land, causing the animals, which were already weak to purge themselves to their death.

 Some folks had committed suicide after all their animals had perished. Health officials had ordered people not to eat the carcasses of the dead goats and cows. Initially, villagers had ignored the instructions, only for those who ate to suffer the same fate as the animals. But the Writer, without a care in the world, went ahead eating the meat of the dead animals daily. Nothing happened to him.

Already, the chief had ordered all the people to stop watering their animals at the village dam. The remaining water was to be consumed by the villagers, not their herds. It was a matter of commonsense.  But the Writer would not obey such an order. He was above the law. When he was dispossessed of all his physical properties by Maptapta, just in the middle of his life, and condemned to village life, he had decided that in his new life, he would be his own law in the village.  He would not throw his dignity to the dogs.

He might be penniless and worth nothing but he trusted his brain and physical power too much to allow hopelessness to settle into his life, even during the lowest ebbs of his existence.  Even as his physical power got eaten up by the years, he believed his brain were getting sharper, and one day he would discover the higher secret of life. 

No one in the village ever questioned his actions, even the chief. People could talk of him in whispers, but there was no one to interfere with his actions whether detrimental or profitable. The villagers felt it was not proper for him to water his flock at the dam, but felt powerless. There was no one to stop him. In any case, three weeks after the order, the strange disease hit the animals harder. Wonder of wonders, only the Writer’s flock survived, albeit only two cows and four goats.

The Writer called their survival a miracle. A rumour grew, and spread, and no one knew who started it: He was a god in human form. “The Writer cannot die,” villagers whispered among themselves.  Has he not been eating poisonous meat, which has not affected him in any way? After all, how has he survived for 40 years in the village, although he is a highly educated man? Was this normal? Villagers asked. Others thought he was just an egoist recluse, or a madman. But all agreed that there was an unnatural force in his gaze, and nobody ever wanted to look him straight in the face.

 One day the President of Randiera State visited his village. The Writer had gone up onto the dais where he was seated with other dignitaries. He had ignored the president’s bodyguards who were frantically trying to bar him. The president ordered them not to harm him. After reaching the podium, it was said that he stared at the president for over five minutes. Villagers would swear that the president just stared downwards. The Writer did not utter a word. He left the stage. And the president never came back to his village again.  

 At one time, he had fallen sick, and did not leave his house for about a month. He lived all alone. The village woman, who used to cook for him, thought he would die unless he was taken to hospital. As he was being forcefully taken to hospital, he got better. The folks, who had carried him, as he could not walk, bowled over. He walked back home on his own two feet! That was the Writer. He could do the impossible, the unheard of.

 The Writer, as his flocks were having their fill of the forbidden water as if there was no tomorrow, saw from a distance a four-wheel drive car. He remembered a long time ago he had his three personal cars of his own while in Randiera City. His son and two daughters loved the cars so much. And there was nothing he had loved more than his wife and children, he thought.

 “Yes, I did the right thing, the best thing was to let them go,” he was talking to the air.  When the Maptapta accused him of what came to be known in Randiera as the Great Conspiracy, he did not want his family to suffer. He secretly sent his family back to Russia.

 “If I don’t join you in one month, you should know I am either dead or in jail. Never try to search for me. I don’t want you or the children to suffer for my alleged crimes,” he remembered the words he told his wife as she held him tightly, crying uncontrollably.

Only a few hours after the family had left in a small aircraft, the Maptapta came for him. That is when the nightmare of his life began. They ordered all his books in bookshops in Randiera burnt. Anyone caught reading any of the Writer’s work was arraigned. All his assets were seized.

He was told the moment he ever tried to escape out of the country, he would be shot. And they shot him in the right foot to show how serious they were. He was told to go and live in his village of birth.

One day, he was still convinced, despite his advanced age; he would reclaim what he lost. He saw the car enter one of the villager’s homesteads, which had space for a vehicle. “One day, one day” he kept on mumbling to himself, “I will come back.”

He thought how he had outlived all the Maptapta comrades who were opposed to the ideas he presented in his literature. He still believed that his theory of kariondo was what Randiera needed to develop. He felt hot anger boiling up his throat. “If only the Maptapta fools had listened to me, today things like hunger in the whole country would not be there,” he spoke to the air with passion. A strong wind started blowing up the loose soil. He felt as if the wind was vindicating him. His predictions on Randiera had come true. The country, fifty years after independence, was hungry and bankrupt.

The wind intensified and his nose started to bleed. His animals ran away in all directions. The animals knew their way home, so he was not worried about their fate. He lay down on his back, covering his face with the palms of his hands. He was not afraid of death. He truly believed death was not an alternative.  “I cannot die,” he whispered to the air as blood continued to gush out of his nose. Then, from a distance he heard: “Papa, Papa…” He could not open his eyes and felt the weight of his 90 years crumble on his heart. He felt as if he was carrying the whole world on his back.  

“Papa, Papa, mama thought you were dead. She died grieving for you twenty years ago,” it was his daughter who was telling him. The Writer had won the Writer Of the Century Award for the manuscript his wife had smuggled into Russia. It had become a perennial bestseller in more than a hundred countries.

The daughter had come with journalists and the publisher of his book titled Kariodo, to trace his roots. The villagers had directed the team to where he had gone to water his flock. The team excitedly filmed the re-union of father and daughter, after more than fifty years of separation. The wind subsided, and his nose stopped bleeding. He had never thought that he would see any of his children again. He felt his strength disappear. “My daughter, my daughter,” was all he could say. Then the daughter noticed the blood in his face.  She alerted the other members in the team.

Two days later he was in Randiera National Hospital. The whole country was so proud of him. Many local and international journalists wanted to interview him.

“He is our son,” the president announced on Randiera National TV.

Everybody feted him as a great son of Africa, a highly original writer, and philosopher, who had made the continent proud. Unfortunately, while in hospital before he could travel to Russia to pick up his 17 million U.S dollars in accumulated royalties, and book sales, and prize money, he went to join his ancestors. He was smiling as he left.