He walks as if his sugarcane legs would unhinge and fall apart. He is a human robot, screwed to joints like an old Texas harvester. His art is in his words, well crafted, identical to how he asks for payment as he rents his land. He is funny, with his deteriorating health hiding beneath his nicotine-stained teeth as he smiles. He’s the uncle who gave us stories while we were kids. We would tremble like a sumo ground as he came to the grandmother’s house at night, dunk to the core. The foul smell of liquor would faint a housefly and the loud voice as he argued with grandma trembled our feet like grain on a bass speaker.
He would eat, of course, after a wild argument with grandma as to why he came to her house late to scare the kids and set a bad example. These guys go to these joints hungry. No wonder their needle-shaped selves. Someone can break them up like spaghetti sticks. I wonder how they fight because occasionally some not-so-old man would come in the morning furious like a peed bee with a lump near his eye that he was beaten. You will wonder how this happened, maybe on another series of Tom and Jerry.
He would frequently get to the kitchen and find nothing as grandma used to hide that pot of githeri in her bedroom, you know how we mischievous grandchildren would steal the food and hide it on our old colorless t-shirts before setting for the long day trek herding the promises of that goat kid you’ll own in another life. After much exchange of words, the last born son would receive a bowl of githeri from her ‘lovely’ mum. After eating to his fill, he would ask for his son. We were as many as a litter of puppies at grandma’s during the holidays. We would squeeze out little selves like match sticks in a matchbox on the only beds available. “Kipelian!” He would call. And we would all gather in the sitting room as if answering a roll call.
The look on grandma’s eyes would scare a dog. She gave us looks that would scare a pack of wolves. Kipelian would sit on his lap as he showered him with kisses of liquor. He would then tell us of how he loved us all. He would narrate stories of how he grew up. Stories of how queer he was, how his mother used to give her a beating as he stole and ate a pot of githeri on his own and even make fun of her in which would burst in laughter. All grandma needed was to clear her throat and we all went reticent.
He would quickly switch and talk of how he would steal his father’s honey and get beaten and grandma’s endless series of gaps in her mouth would unveil as if on another series of ‘Hippos yawning on NatGeo Wild.’ To spice this, he would say of how her mother used to shield her from his father in which grandma would chip in. Grandma would talk of how reckless he used to be, how she used to give her lots of milk and how she pampered her but the last born son wouldn’t want to be seen as a mama’s boy so she would joke about her sarcastically and we would laugh.
It was time to showcase his masterly. He would talk of the number of A’s he had while in school and would now start to speak in English. We would get all ears listening to the fine British English. He would fuse words that seemed Scientific or Latin and tell us what they meant. He would tell us that we should study enough like him till we get to the signboard “No School Ahead!” Little did we know that one day we will grow up and realize that he fed us with crap. Little did we know that we would get the truth from our moms that he was a class 4 drop out. He would talk of high school, of how he was good in sports and how he was a genius. He was an inspiration. Everyone wanted to be like him as he narrated the stories. He had this way of narrating his masterly that a coward hyena would envy.
He would now switch to the bush life. He would say of how he killed a python with one hand. He would talk of how he slashed a cobra’s head with a panga, one that had constricted on his hand. He would say of how they killed a lion with friends and everyone of us would be whispering to God, “Oh Father, make me as great as my uncle!” He loved hunting and he would tag us along. He would now involve us in the stories. He would talk of how they hunted down antelopes and dik-diks with his favorite Sankale, a cousin of us. Sankale would also give a smile that would get a tortoise off its shell, the only time he felt like Stone Cold Steve Austin (whom we called ‘sitoneco stivosti wa wresoring’) walking down from the ring with bragging rights of the year. Grandma would then say that the kids needed to sleep. It was around 8.30pm and that was so late for a kid to be awake given we have to wake up at 5.00am to listen to the long and loud conversation grandma had with God.
It was Q&A session as this was the only chance we had to interact with him. We knew that if he got sober the following day, it was no crap time. He would put on an adult man’s face and we would lose the moment. We would ask questions like, “Did the cobra bite you?” “Where are the scratches you got while killing the lion?” I remember one of us asking, “Why didn’t you become a doctor or a pilot!” Grandma knew that he was putting us in sacks all along and taking us for a ride so she had to make her wrinkled face more wrinkled and send us off to sleep. We would really beg uncle to answer our questions but he would promise us of another day because we were to little to be up late.
We ended up filling in the blanks ourselves with answers that never complemented the question. We would then hear grandma telling him not to set a bad example for the kids again. She would tell her that we were children of God who needed no drunks around us. We would open our ears like umbrellas as his feet trampled the bare ground as he set off.
I learnt a lot from this. This may seem a normal course but it’s not. That uncle made my childhood. He made me think of how doctors and pilots boast around themselves because they are great people (sad thing am not one :-D). I learnt new vocabularies like, genius, medulla oblangata etc. I saw that he was a hero and all along my childhood I wanted to hunt as many antelopes as I could, though the dogs really hated me. I wanted to kill a lion and trample on a snake believing in this word from Luke 10:19
“I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you.”
I wanted to be fearless. I wanted to be invincible. I wanted to be loved as he was. I wanted to make others smile. I wanted to be as sarcastic and have authority the following morning. I wanted to inspire others as he did. Yes, I did not have the daddy-son talk, I did not have the father who gave me direction and narrate me stories of Lion King and Alladin but I had him. A drunk but at the same time would tell me, read hard and don’t be like me, be more than me. (Wait… Not be like you? I want to be everything like you) I had someone who would put that smile on my face after a day of herding and messing around with grandmas stuff, you know what that meant. I had someone who would teach us that kids sleep early so that we may have a productive day tomorrow. I had someone who gave a stern warning against drinking.
He taught us to be morally upright even in his sarcastic talks. He taught us respect and love. He would tag us along to his expeditions and nurture us. The big question is, “Where is he today?” Do I even give him a call just as he used to sacrifice part of his drinking time to some and make us happy? Though he still drinks and smokes, have I quit on him like everybody else? Have I seen him as a worthless piece just as the society sees him? Do I remember that he was everything I wanted to be before? Yes, he will call, asking for that credit voucher, asking for money for his booze hunting expeditions and I will get fed up with that. I believe everyone or most of us have got that uncle. Everyone in the society has quit on them, have you?