Tears Are Not Enough

Tears Are Not Enough

Just mine.
I kneeled closer with my left ear closest to her
face.
“I nearly almost died,” she whispered.
“Really?”
She nodded.
“So, which is it: nearly or almost?”
“Same thing, I think!”
Again, she stared at the two paramedics.
This time, as though she had something else to
add.
But whatever it was she had in mind remained
unsaid.
“Well, you didn't. And that's all that matters. Right
now, you're awake, breathing and talking to me.
Thank God for that!”
Minutes passed before I suddenly considered
thoughtfully the meaning of what my mother had
told me.
I guess the question uppermost in my mind was;
how the heck did she know she almost nearly died?
Isn't dying just like going into an overpowering
deep sleep, which couldn't be postponed even if you
wanted to?
Only that the actually demised never quite
manage to wake up with the rest of the living in the
morning after.
It made me wonder though!
Does anyone ever really know the exact moment
they finally drop off to sleep?
Or do they?

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C S Duru

It's likely you may have heard or read stories
about people who claim to have had near-death
experiences.

Some have talked about the presence of; or in
most cases a certain impulse to being drawn towards
some bright light.

You know, like moths get drawn toward a glow in
the dark, apparently.

I really can't tell.
Because, I’ve never been there.
Nor experienced anything like that.
Nonetheless, it's termed 'near-death’ experience
for a reason.
And the reason is simply as clear as daylight if you
think about it.
News that someone was nearly hit by a bus isn't
quite the same, as when a victim is crushed by the
actual impact on contact.
In the same vein, near-death experience can
never be said to be a death in the true meaning of
the word.
Mum didn't say anything about any flashing
images.
Not even a mention of paparazzi type bright
lights, yellow or dim.
Maybe she didn't go far enough.
But to where?
Maybe it’s all imagined.
Maybe it's all conjecture?
I don't know.
Just saying!

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Who knows for sure what actually happens to the
human brain in a brief state of suspected comatose.

Maybe it was just resting.
Like totally detached from anything else, peaceful.
Anyway, the paramedics’ initial assessment found
nothing wrong as far as they could tell.
Irrespective of such anomaly, they still concluded
and told me that my mother was fine.
Great news! I thought.
Excellent news, actually.
What they couldn't explain to me was why she
passed out in the first place.
Was it a sign of something else deeper?
Could it happen again?
There weren't any explainable answers.
At the moment, Mum’s cause for passing out was
an enduring enigma.
Totally inexplicable mystery.
All the same, they had to make a judgement call.
Mum would have to be taken in for an in-depth
examination.
Queen Elizabeth Hospital at Stadium road was the
closest accident and emergency department from my
resident location.
It was normal.
Precautionary procedure, they'd explained.
Just in case any other underlying issue popped up.
And so, I hopped into the back of the ambulance
with the crew, to keep Mum company.
Rabadachi Umbrusalli saddled himself in the
driver's seat.

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The engine roared back to life as he sped off onto
the road and into the night.

He was headed for the hospital with the usual
paraphernalia.

The emergency flashing blue lights and sirens all
blazing.

Since I couldn't leave Mum by herself, I spent the
entire night at the hospital enduring Cat naps but not
getting any deserving proper night sleep.

When dawn finally broke away from darkness, I
was exhausted.

I felt rough and disoriented.
Like I was on the verge of passing out myself.
But I dared not.
There was work to be done.
I don't know how I got through the day rushing
around still standing on my feet, but I did.
Eventually, later in the evening, I returned to
check-up on Mum's progress.
For once, she laid out for me a frown and a
complaint.
“These people keep touching and probing all over
me. They take my blood here and there like I am
some sort of experimental guinea pig. Don’t they
have any respect for the elderly?”
I quickly looked around the ward.
Apart from other patients with their own
individual medical problems, I couldn't actually see
who Mum was having a hump with.
This was out of character.

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Tears Are Not Enough

My mother, who wouldn't normally complain, just
did.

I actually thought: what a marvellous turn around.
Good for her!
Sometimes, you've got to voice up.
You know, moan!
You complain if you don't like what's going on
around you, don't you?
“Any chance you could bring me proper food? Half
cooked veggies may seem like what they think I
need, but my body tells me different. What they
serve here as food is too bland in my mouth. It tastes
like pap without sugar in it. And to be honest with
you, it's not making me feel any better quicker.”
“I hear you Mum,” I responded.
It was my best effort to calm her down before
asking the most important question on my mind.
“So, what did they say was wrong with you then?”
“Nothing!”
“I stared at Mum suspiciously.
She understood.
I wanted more than a laconic answer.
“Like I said: Nothing! They come in, poke a needle
in my arm, take some blood samples. They grin and
walk away. Then come back again and do the same
thing.”
Before I could respond to Mum's out of character
complaint, our conversation was summarily
interrupted.
A young woman with a stethoscope hanging
loosely around her neck walks towards her bed.

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She looked cute enough, with a fair grin to her
face.

I smiled back.
It was only natural.
Her name tag read; D Zebb.
“Hi, I'm doctor Zebb.”
She proffered her right hand.
I shot mine out so eagerly, it seemed like I was
expecting it.
We shook hands.
She looked straight into my eyes.
“You must be…!”
“Yes. Next of kin. Son!” I diligently completed.
"Nice to meet you."
"Same here."
She turned to my mother, the patient.
“How are you feeling, Amara?”
“I feel better,” said Mum with a weak smile.
What?
Only a few seconds ago, she’d claimed the food
wasn't making her any better faster.
Oh, I get it.
Mum would rather go home than be in a hospital
environment.
Dr Zebb turned back to me.
“I have reviewed your mother's notes. Her blood
test results have all come back negative. So…”
“We still have no explanation as to the primary
cause of her fainting?”
“Unfortunately, not on this occasion. She seems
absolutely fine. That being said, I can't see any

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reason to keep her here any longer than is necessary.
You're free to take Amara home.”

She turned to my mother, tapped gently on her
right leg and smiled the same old customary parting,
but comforting smile.

“Get a nice cup of tea when you get home and
relax. Okay Amara!”

Mum responded with a chin smile while the young
doctor made her exit.

Mum looked at me with weary eyes.
I said nothing.
It wasn't her fault.
Just one of those things that happens sometimes.
We accept the fact that even the medics don't
always have all the answers to what our bodies do
when something goes wrong.
“My son, I’m so sorry for all the inconvenience I’ve
caused you. You do look tired yourself. Did you ever
manage to get any sleep?”
“Remind me again. Sleep is for the dead. Who said
that? And who used to say the dead have nothing
more to do but sleep?”
She smiled.
Yes, she was right. I was tired.
Every bit of my body was practically screaming
aloud for a deserved rest.
But I wasn't complaining.
All I needed was a good night's kip in the belief
that tomorrow will be perfect again!

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“Could you now please take me home, son?”

Mum politely requested while interrupting the flow
of my own wandering thoughts.

107

4

Nothing attempted, nothing gained!
Mum was actively doing her walkabout exercises

routinely.
As for me, I couldn’t have been any prouder for

her efforts.
Between us, we’d managed to work out best

practices which she agreed worked for her too.
On the other hand, I had to insist that breakfast

must be fibre filled porridge every morning.
It should also be in association with an apple, or

any other citrus fruit available in the house.

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C S Duru

Mas! That's my lovely wife, bless her.
She practically ensured we had a good supply
from Lidl with each week’s grocery shopping.
Then, there was that Thursday afternoon I'd never
forget.
Mas called unexpectedly.
I was at work preparing to head off to an
important scheduled new business meeting.
She broke the news.
Mum had fallen again.
This time at a local bus stop.
Oh no! Not again, I'd thought.
Wait! How did she know this if she wasn't with
her?
Mas was quick to explain.
Some Good Samaritan had taken pity on the
elderly poor woman who’d fallen, and then helped
Mum back onto her feet.
I also understand that the good deed didn't just
end there.
They'd kindly arranged for a taxi.
And then asked Mum where she lived.
When the taxi arrived, they paid her fare and
instructed the driver to take her home.
Having given me the full brief of what she knew,
Mas wondered if I could come home immediately.
Of course!
I guess that's one of the benefits of being your
own boss.
You could put down tools with military precision
where absolutely necessary.

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And at very short notice too, literally.
Obviously, you may lose some business if you
make a habit of it.
How costly your loss will affect your bottom line;
will depend upon what line of business you do.
That apart, no one usually queries the boss.
Except perhaps the tax man.
Anyway, this was about an emergency situation
which could not wait.
You never hang about when your house is
seemingly on fire.
Do you?
No!
Same thing here!
My mother was reported to have had an
accidental fall.
By interpretation whichever way, it meant that
my house was in flames.
It was all symbolic.
So, without a second thought, I shut down my
office.
Thereafter, I then drove the twenty minutes
journey home in ten.
It was manic.
I raced off like an unlicensed lunatic.
The kind who was making his daring getaway from
an asylum of boneheads.
Mum was seated on her usual sofa, looking
distantly unsettled.
Her breathing was short and rapid.

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Mas held on to her left arm comfortingly, rubbing
it gently as though calming her jarred nerves.

It seemed to me as though the experience had her
traumatised and badly shaken.

I stared at my mother for a few seconds or so.
Then did what I wasn't supposed to do under any
circumstances.
I went ballistic with fury.
All Mum actually needed was sympathy and
reassurance from her son.
She probably wanted to hear me say those too
familiar words.
That everything would be alright.
I could have asked if she was hurt.
I could have felt her arms or so myself, for
possible bruises.
I could have asked how she fell.
Did she blackout?
Or caught her shoe against something and
tripped?
I could have asked any other necessary questions.
But, obviously did none of the above.
Instead, I failed my mother.
Somehow, I made it sound as though it was her
fault that she fell.
How pathetic of me.
I know I should be very ashamed of myself.
Believe me when I say, I am.
For I do regret all the things I said.
And others I may have implied.

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Tears Are Not Enough

Perhaps it was the pressure of everything else
getting on top of me.

Maybe I suddenly felt as though my life was
constantly being interrupted, dredged and restrained
by people mostly close to me.

My family.
I don't know!
I just felt this huge weight on my shoulders.
Like stacked iron bars.
Crowding over me.
Weighing me under.
It seemed like I was living every one of my family
member’s lives, but mine.
Was I trying so hard to put things right wherever I
could?
Maybe!
I remembered my once pre-booked, fully paid-up
and highly anticipated trip to visit Paris with Mas.
Guess what?
It never happened!
Why?
Something had come up last minute within the
family circle.
We cancelled the flight.
Mas accepted the discomfort of not having to go
after all the planning.
She was looking forward to it.
We both were.
But I knew she was more disappointed than I was.
We never received any money back.

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Or was it the Killepitsch samples I'd brought back
from Dusseldorf, with the intent of introducing the
sweet liquor into the local market.

That didn't work either.
My banker brother drank them all on one of his
visits.
How about the two million I had to cough up in
1996.
It was supposed to be a loan, towards helping the
banker to deal with whatever crisis he’d gotten
himself into.
Still never knew the full story.
The summarily SOS call I received at the time, was
deliberately delivered, as though it were a life or
death situation.
These were my people.
Experts at squeezing the right emotional button,
when you're far away.
I'm sure you would have already guessed it.
I never received any payback.
Don't even get me started on the other matters
I’ve now chosen to forget.
The not so little matter of cash investments.
On several occasions, I have injected vast amounts
into all manner of never-ending business
opportunities, which family members have come up
with.
On my last count, they've accumulated into
several millions in the local currency.
All assistance was executed in the spirit of
enterprise.

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That is; in the hope of turning lives around, for
their longer-term self-sustainability.

But guess what!
Those efforts quickly disappeared into the
proverbial sinkhole.
There was no encouraging news of any multiplied
success.
No refunds were forthcoming either.
Not one!
Only reports of disappointments after another.
Hence, the continued request for more financial
support.
One family member even had the effrontery to be
offended and complain, when advised that I wasn't
the community bank of brothers & sisters.
That's my payback for honesty.
No sincere gratitude!
Cheeky buggers!
There's only so much one person can do for so
long.
Everyone has a limit to breaking point before they
finally blew a fuse.
I guess I'd reached mine.
Triggered only by circumstantial events.
That said, I'm by no means faking any excuses.
None whatsoever.
Neither am I seeking any sympathy vote from
anyone.
No! Truly I'm not.
The fact of the matter is that I lost control.
Emotional control - that is.

114

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I was ablaze.
Burning from within.
Frustrated on the outside.
Mum looked up at me after I'd finally run out of
steam.
Her weary eyes were totally dispirited.
And for one split moment, I thought she was
going to cry.
Thankfully, it didn't get that far.
For that act alone, I'm sorrowfully but forever
grateful.
She was the kind who exercised great control over
her emotions most of the time.
But the look in her eyes said enough.
The thing is: I'd never witnessed such striking
stare of disappointment in her eyes, both of me or
towards anyone else ever again, after my tirade.
It was like she was looking into the face of a total
stranger.
A moronic monster!
Someone totally different from the son she
believed she knew so well.
As for my despicable outburst, I can only sincerely
hope she would find mercy within herself to be able
to forgive me.

115

5

Mum was finally doing well and looking swell.
Even the pretentious brethren at St Michaels have

noticed.
As was usual with the membership around here,

there were those who could not be bothered enough
to season their words with salt.

It actually didn't matter much to me.
I’ll accept straight talking honesty any day, over
lousy words.
Or those filled with constipated meaningless
political correctness.

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It wasn't all that bad after all, considering the
counter balancing effect, from the many well-
thought-out and encouraging statements I had
received too.

Mostly from those who acknowledged my
mother’s rapid transformation without prejudice.

Like seeds sown on fertile soil and diligently
watered, my determined efforts now seemed to
have paid off handsomely.

My beautiful mother had almost become the
exemplary symbol of what it means to be looked
after for all to see.

I couldn't help it but be proud of myself.
Only just a little bit.
Why shouldn't I?
Like a cat that purrs at the feet of its owner after
being generously fed, I lapped up every pleasant
remark being thrown my way.
Yes, it’s taken a few years, I admit.
But I’d accomplished what my father wasn't able
or didn't care enough to do, in over fifty years of
matrimony, however uneven.
Which I believe is to flipping look after his wife
properly.
It's what people usually sign up for when they
decide to get married.
Is it not?
To actively strive to care, comfort, protect and
promote each other without conditions.
More so as the years of matrimony rolls-by very
quickly.

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It’s a fact that when two people stay together for
that long, the elasticity of love may have been tried
and tested for its patience and character.

Which means that some relationships are more
likely than others to be severely stretched to
breaking point.

Then, there was that Saturday evening in
February, which I'll never forget, as long as I have my
being and the breath of life within me.

It was bitterly cold outside.
Inside was warm enough.
I sat lazily on the sofa, watching telly while sipping
tea from my tea mug.
In fact, I was chilling out, quite literally after a
hard day's work.
That's the one, which culminated in my narrowly
missing out on a super business opportunity.
Anyway, I was still licking the wound of such
disappointment when my phone rang.
It was my elder brother calling.
Whom up till now, I have previously referred to as
the banker.
His real name is Meme.
Below is what he had to tell me when I answered.
He said: “I had a long chat with Dad last weekend.
And guess what?
“I can't! You know I suck at mind reading. Not that
anybody's good at it anyway. People usually pretend
they can. But they lie. I'm just not so fazed to admit
my shortcomings,” I replied.
He laughed!

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“Well, the news is that he’s requesting the return
of his wife.”

“Who?"
"Mum!"
"Seriously? I need to see his application to that
effect.”
Meme laughed out loud, again.
I suppose he thought I was being funny.
I wasn't.
“You can't deny him his right,” he reminded me.
“Oh yeah! What right?”
“Mum’s our mother alright. She's still Dad's wife
too. I understand you may have issues. We all have
issues with him. But this isn't about what he's done
or not.”
“You must be kidding me! Right? We’re actually in
February. The second month of the year. This wasn't
the fourth, as in April fool’s day?”
“I'm merely passing on his request,” Meme
concludes.
As I let this new information sink in, my
immediate reactionary thought was to declare a FAT
CAPITAL NO!
This must be a bad joke.
It must be.
I couldn't quite believe my ears.
Such a request shouldn’t have been made by the
same negligent husband.
This was my father we were talking about here.
Not some mystery man.

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Sometimes, it felt like he was deliberately
detached from his own family.

The man always had some kind of irate look in his
eyes.

Often, an expression which seemed like he was
angry with me, my siblings and the world at large for
some inexplicable reason.

Unapproachable?
Perhaps!
This husband man, who was socially negligent
with reckless abandon, was also abusive to his
helpmate, both mentally and physically, in more
ways than one.
This is the same guy who'd traumatized his other
half throughout my youth?
No!
It couldn't possibly have been the same person
I've known all my life.
Dad regarded his wife as a piece of visual
nonentity, without apology.
This was the same guy who cared so little, in my
view, about the general welfare of the woman he'd
married so long ago. And then manipulated her with
damning cruelty.
Her modest supporting intentions were
deliberately undermined whichever way he desired.
Yes! So much so, that he totally lost sight of the
fact, that poor old Mrs Amara Kash had diabetes
eating away at her very nerves for years.

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At one point, he even had the temerity to vocalize
his intent for a potential second wife, if she
complained too much.

Unbelievable!
And now this?
Why would he?
Of course! I nearly forgot one other mention.
He’d also systematically stripped her off, layer by
layer, whatever little confidence there was, that her
generation and cultural influence allowed.
This leaves me with a burning question as to what
right if any, does one partner possess, to abuse the
other, in a relationship?
I still remember the pride and buzz of navigating
myriads of corners in an openly busy marketplace,
for a moment's stop over at Mum’s stall, before
heading home.
You see, all my other siblings attended the same
popular local primary.
Etche Road Primary was the ‘go-to’ school.
It was like a community roll call.
Every eligible child of primary school age within a
two-miles radius was there.
I wasn't.
And guess what?
Etche Road primary was merely ten minutes' walk
away from my house.
As it happens, I was the odd one out.
Wasn't I?
I couldn't even be squeezed into an appropriate
qualifying class. This was in spite of all efforts made

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by the renowned and well-respected head teacher,
Mr O'biko.

They all said there was no more placement
availability, due to my late arrival, apparently.

I heard that even Mr O'biko himself considered
having me standing without a desk in any available
classroom.

It didn't matter whether the place was
appropriate for me or not. As long as he got me into
the 'bloody' school.

It was a noble act of good intent, I willingly
acknowledge.

But also, kind of desperate attempt to have all the
Kash children pass through the same old primary
school.

Let's just say it never quite happened for me.
Who knows how that would have panned out, if I
had gained placement against all odds.
I could have grown a little bit taller, just for
standing still on ends throughout class lessons.
Or permanently developed varicose veins on both
my growing calves.
There was one thing I do know for certain though.
It cost me time.
I missed out an entire academic session for no
fault of mine.
Anyway, my new school placement was eventually
found at Tenant Road primary.
Which was located a distant three miles farther
away from everybody else's.

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Initially, it seemed like a long and lonely walk all
by myself.

Then I got used to it.
And soon discovered I enjoyed my own company.
For a skinny nine-year-old primary school boy, are
you kidding me?
It became freedom galore.
My walkability extraordinaire.
I walked the entire three-miles distance to school
and back without complaining.
Sometimes, with a detour via the local community
marketplace.
Three years it lasted.
But the experience was absolutely unforgettable.
Sometimes, my mind still wanders back in time, to
those brilliantly wonderful childhood memories.
Truly, they were filled with awesome moments of
exploratory innocence.
I loved every bit of it and more.
Whenever I close my eyes in my rare quiet
moments, I take a trip way back down memory lane,
to the place of my childhood.
I visualise.
Often, the play fields return into focus as they
were.
I see my old classroom teaming with forty or
forty-five children.
I recall names and recognise very young faces I'll
forever never know what became of them later in
life.

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Yet, even after all these years, I can still hear
echoes of a thousand voices. Both at my old Tenant
Road primary, and the noisy busy marketplace
combined.

Mum’s market neighbours were very loud, but
kind.

Fussing over me, became some sort of
competition between them whenever I showed up in
my smart-looking school uniform.

Each tried hardest to please me a little more than
the other.

Somehow, I wasn't brave enough to ask if they
had any children of their own.

Mum was nicknamed ‘mama Jamie’.
It was only natural, because they knew my name.
She addressed each one of them by their first
names.
Which made me conclude after a while that
perhaps the three women probably didn't.
Unfortunately, all that excitement was to come to
an unexpected end, for reasons I still cannot fathom.
What I do know is this; the fresh food materials
stall was abruptly shut down.
Meaning, that Mum ceased to trade.
It was this stranglehold which forced her hands
from being an independent trader to becoming
totally dependent upon my father, financially.
Dad was the alpha male in his empire home.
No one else dared compete.
It was either his rules or the highway.

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I should know, having been given marching orders
a few times for non-compliance.

Mum, on the other hand was nothing to her
husband but a human service machine, with a
restraining order not to articulate.

People only take keen interest to observe those
whom they deeply cared about.

Don't they?
Human machines get kicked about when they
don't perform to expectations.
Or worse, discarded when they've reached the
end of their functional cycle.
Or become obsolete.
What then could have been the motive for this
sudden desire to reclaim his possession?
I wondered!
It seemed likely to me, that news of his wife's fair
transformation abroad had reached his ears.
Bad news may have won the thorny crown for
making haste of travel, but the joy of good news goes
beyond the speed of light, if you ask me.
Dad must have been informed via the gossip vine
of recent returnees.
I remembered a couple who seemed very nice at
St Michaels one late summer.
I didn't make much of it then.
But did think, though, that their level of interest
alone in my mother's welfare was a bit peculiar.
They must have had to make great effort to track
us down where we lived, and invited themselves into
our home.

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It turned out they knew my parents well.
I believe on return to base; they probably must
have over exaggerated how gorgeous his wife looked
for my Dad's benefit.
On that note, I suppose my father naturally must
have felt a little left out.
Perhaps becoming unreasonably jealous.
But of what?
That Mum was going out with some foreign toy-
boy?
Don't make me laugh!
I could choke on it!
The thought of such behaviour on itself would
have been extremely repulsive to my mother’s ears.
Deceitful intentions of any kind were abhorrent in
her eyes.
Absolutely!
She wasn't the type to dishonour her marriage
vows.
Never!
So, what other reason could there be?
You must remember this: In the six years since
taking upon myself full mantle of responsibility over
Mum’s well-being, my Dad never once minded to call
to speak with his wife.
Yeah!
Never ever!
Then pause!
Let that mindful comment above register for a
moment.

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There are people who wait and watch for
something to go terribly wrong in any given
situation.

Won’t dare provide any progressive solutions.
No, not one!
But easily will speedily always point short accusing
and probably FAT fault fingers in the other direction.
If not, then they'd probably conclude that one is
too aloof for doing something so right.
I guess my father was more of the blame it on
somebody else sort, than a practical solutions guy.
My banker brother repeatedly told me he wasn't
joking after all, as I needed to be convinced.
The thing is: No matter how hard I tried to ignore
the obvious, in the end, I had to admit to myself that
Meme was absolutely right on one thing.
The fact that Mum was our father’s forever wife!
Then again, I could have deliberately acted like a
stray mule, if I wanted to.
I mean, seriously like, really badass mule with a
stubborn attitude.
I could have blatantly refused his request,
knowing too well there was absolutely nothing he
could possibly have done about it.
Deep down within me, I knew it was the right
thing to do.
Only it was not expedient.
So, against my better judgement, I caved in.
However, in the midst of all those cherished living
years Mum shared with me, I got to find out a few
shocking secrets from her side of the family.

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Secrets, like how her mother, my grandmother,
whom none of us kids never had the privilege to get
to meet alive.

She always fell pregnant and heavy with child
each time a certain mystery hunk lurked around her
homestead, apparently.

So, Mum didn't actually know for sure who her
real father was.

She said there were rumours though.
But it was a taboo subject matter, which was
never discussed.
She told a story of how as a young man, one of
her brothers - my uncle, smuggled himself into a
cargo ship headed for what was then known as East
Germany.
This was a guy who had a burning quest for
learning and self-development.
I believe he must have had both grace and luck
combined on his side for guidance.
Because, however long the journey may have
taken to get to its final destination. Or how
treacherously turbulent seas became, he was never
discovered.
One can only imagine what could possibly have
happened to him had he been caught.
Such risk could only be described as determinedly
brave, if you ask me.
She narrated how her eldest brother, bless him,
stepped up to become the man of the house.

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He took charge of her welfare at the sudden
demise of their mother, while at the same time
juggling with his own academic pursuits.

They were ambitious individuals.
All her brothers, that is, you see.
For me and our mother. The woman with a quiet
disposition, those were the best years.
We talked.
We reminisced.
We sometimes joked about things that had
transpired within the family circle.
We laughed at ourselves to the point I had tears in
my eyes.
They were tears of joy, of course.
Just Mum and me.
Nobody in-between.
It was blissful.
I'd forever treasure those moments.
What was said will remain with me for the rest of
my days however long or short they may become.
All I had to do was ask Mum a question about
something which wasn't so clear to me as a child
growing up.
She was more than happy to fill out the blanks for
me, always.
Her answers were straight to the heart of any
queries.
Brevity was her watchword.
She never wasted a moment's breath on anything
irrelevant.
I also discovered something else.

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But only through a routine blood test.
Mum was a carrier of a trait of the sickle cell gene.
Oh, my goodness!
That was another shock.
I was seriously concerned about this.
There were obvious questions like: What were the
implications?
Or do I have it too or not?
So, I decided to find out more.
I had to!
My own blood test report was 100 percent
conclusive.
Unfortunately, not exactly the result I had hoped
for.
It was positive.
The trait has been passed down the generation
gene pool onto me from my maternal side.
Charming!
It wasn't the greatest news of my life.
I guess I could only accept the fact that this was
an unfortunate luck of the draw.
I'd drawn on the contaminated straw in a
haystack, haven't I?
There was really nothing I could do about it.
That was the annoying thing.
I couldn't just easily swipe it clean.
Or merely wish it away.
Cheers Mum!
So, there I was a minute ago.
Proud in my own skin.
Basking in the glory of my youth.

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Thinking I was one heck of a cherished specimen
of sheer perfection.

Then, BANG!
Now I discover I've got hidden splinters in my
footprint!
It was a shock to note that I have this faulty gene
sitting within me.
Dormant alright!
Still, lurking inside my DNA molecules
nonetheless.
This was bloody new information to me.
Consequently thereafter, my curiosity kicked in
big-time.
It really got under my skin.
Who else was harbouring this defective gene
without knowing it?
I called on my other brother, Wilco.
Surprisingly, he confessed he'd been shafted with
a copy too.
Oh!
Here's the thing though.
He was so calm about it, I honestly thought I
misheard.
His only complaint was that he never asked for it.
Well bro! Welcome to the club.
Neither did I!
I had no knowledge of any of this before now.
How long had he known?
Why had he not shared such information with any
one of his siblings?

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This wasn't the kind of news you kept to yourself
and wished it went away.

Wilco claimed it wasn't such a big deal for him
anyway.

How?
Said he never usually dwelt much on the subject.
Why?
Because he obviously believed he was the only
one with the fringe benefit.
Besides, it wasn't really the most uplifting
announcement suitable for public broadcast.
Believe it or not, I understood his logic.
He probably may have been right, though.
For me, it felt a bit too philosophical.
We differed in opinions, sometimes.
Still, I believe he could have at least mentioned it,
even passively.
But never mind.
If there was any consolation at all for Wilco, he
now knew he wasn't the only one.
Okay, it wasn't the end of the world for little
carriers like us.
We were the lucky bunch.
Only having inherited half a copy from Mum.
Which meant we will go on to live full successful
and productive lives, without any surprises or
debilitating health problems popping out from the
woodwork.
I guess the good thing was in the knowing.

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Of course, like most people, we will sometimes
deal with the occasional seasonal discomfort of cold
and flu in Europe.

Or Malaria, if we happen to abode in very squalid
conditions in tropical sub-Saharan Africa, or South
America.

Or any other place in our beautiful earthly planet,
where one is more likely to be feasted upon by
blood-sucking Anopheles type mosquitoes.

That apart, we would have what could relatively
be described as near perfect health, going by Mum's
example.

I guess being aware of such hidden traits in one's
gene, made a huge difference.

In my case, I had to ensure that my kids got tested
too.

Anyway, here's the better news.
The part I'd prefer to refer to as my other major
milestone worthy of broadcast.
I, Mister Jamie Kash.
Citizen of the world's global economy.
Resident in an old but functional democratic
nation, finally got married to my lovely Mas.
Mum, my brothers Meme and Wilco.
My sister Janet.
My uncle Szamzi from Dusseldorf, with his
German wife Flarisa, were all physical witnesses.
Also present amongst others was Lumba Mumba.
My forever childhood best friend.
With whom I had made a pact at some lousy point
during our teenage years.

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To marry foreign wives, when we grew up.
No particular reason!
Just fancied the idea of being a bit different, I
would imagine.
We sure did grow up.
Didn't we?
He didn’t keep his pact, though.
I guess he came to make sure it was actually me
who was getting married, and not my body double.
Still my bestie for life.
Probably because we share similar common life
values.
We always stood in the camp for good
governance.
We rallied for visionary change and progress in
the homeland.
Notwithstanding, I'd officially declared him the
renegade.
I'd kept my end of the bargain regardless.
But I never forget to remind him about it with
each given opportunity.
Lumba now resides in the city of Utrecht with his
own little clan.
He dreams that someday, his boys will become
renowned brand names and well-paid professional
footballers.
Well, on that note alone, I do sincerely wish him
all the luck in the world.
I really do!
And then there was Skcuch.
My buddy and half soul mate.

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We got introduced years back by a mutual friend.
With Skcuch, it didn't take too long for me to
discover that he was one heck of a nice guy.
A little carefree with life sometimes, but a real
gentle soul.
No pretences.
No drama.
Just Skcuch!
Only one little problem here.
There were signs as time went on.
Subtle manifestations here and there to suggest
that he probably may be heading off in the wrong
direction.
Some may say, towards a possible gambling
addiction.
Like a ship sailing silently towards a rock, all
Skcuch needed was a guided steer back onto the
narrow straight.
These amazing people were unique in their own
ways.
They were all close to me.
Best of all, they bothered to take time-out to be
here gathered.
And to be witnesses to my limousine wedding, at
my local town hall in Woolwich.
For me, it was like the perfection of a glorious day.
Being in the presence of all the people I love, with
others close to me, was priceless.
They all had the privilege of being introduced
formally to my native in-laws.
There was free sunshine for all.

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Clear blue sky we didn't have to be charged for,
and then confetti.

Nothing whatsoever could have gone wrong.
Until an overzealous traffic warden showed up
uninvited.
Then threatened me with a penalty ticket.
For parking inappropriately on a pedestrian
walkway, allegedly.
Bulkily overweight.
Stone faced killjoy bastard; he was.
All I wanted to do was to lift up Mas.
Whom I must add, looked radiantly bridal,
ceremoniously in my arms and whisk away my new
wife.
I somehow did it anyway.
And guess what?
Our guests roared together with one unified
joyous cheer.
It felt absolutely brilliant!
Stone faced killjoy bastard was left pink faced as
we made our fastest getaway.
Mum remained with us to witness our second
milestone.
Because nine months thereafter, we had the good
fortune of welcoming the arrival of our first beautiful
little angel.
She was a perfect little thing.
Gorgeously tender, with large beautiful eyes.
I was there beside Mas, to witness, first hand,
something as fascinating as the miracle of childbirth.

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I even overheard proud grandma weeks later,
telling one distant relative over a telephone
conversation, how splendidly beautiful, her latest
grandchild looked.

Shortly afterwards, we were overjoyed once
again, when our second child arrived.

In all of this time, I noted her endeavour to speak
with her husband, my Dad, now and again.

Once, she was on the phone in her bedroom,
when I walked past.

I must have overheard a conversation in which
she denied the accusation of an alleged
abandonment.

I thought that was a cheap shot below the belt.
And coming from none other than the one person,
who never made any effort whatsoever to check
upon his wife.
“No one has abandoned anyone,” she responded
in her defence.
“I'm only here with my son because I deserve a
break. This time away from us is probably what I've
long needed for my sanity.”
As I came away from the bathroom afterwards, I
noted that her voice was unusually raised.
Mum never raised her voice on anyone.
Not to my knowledge.
She couldn't shout loudest even if she tried.
Her voice wasn't hostile enough.
On this rare occasion, she must have been terribly
upset about something.
I popped my head round into her bedroom.

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Our eyes met midway.
She grinned at me as though nothing was the
matter.
I popped back out again.
Never said a word.
“I believe this distance will do us both some good.
It’ll give you time to reflect on your behaviour
towards me all these years,” I heard her say.
I was in no doubt as to the many incidents she
was speaking in reference to.
Well, here’s what I believe if you wish to know.
I truly believe that my Dad most probably had
suddenly become jealous about how Mum was
allegedly doing without him.
So, he decided to feign neglect.
Hence, the sudden explanation about someone
remotely missing his significant other. And therefore,
the need to want his wife back to base.
I for one, knowing what I already knew, thought it
was a bad joke.
Utterly cobblers!
It was a terribly bad idea as far as I could throw it.
And it wasn't even April fool’s day yet.
Everyone else but Dad knew that Mum was happy
here.
Far away from his poison chalice tongue.
She was in a good place.
Being well looked after, thank you very much!
Well-spoken to and for, sometimes.

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No one in my household ever used any hurtful,
derisive, divisive, derogatory, demeaning or unkind
words to her or anybody else.

To our little ones, she's super grandma!
Her movement was still a bit lazy, and she sat
about a lot.
But there was a simple solution.
As part of our continued daily management of her
diabetic condition, I made sure she never missed her
routine stroll away from the neighbourhood.
Usually for at least thirty minutes or more if she
was up to it.
It gave her the opportunity to stretch her legs
often.
Which I believe helps to strengthen her joints and
reduce muscle wastage due to passive inactivity.
It was great to watch her go and return safely
back to the house.
On occasions where she’d dragged her feet or
didn't get on with it, I was stricter than the parade
sergeant major at close by Woolwich barracks.
Sometimes too, it was a difficult call.
Imagine you suddenly begin instructing the same
woman who practically carried, gave birth to, fed and
wiped each and every little bum of all her children,
without any help on what she ought to be doing.
Tough call!
But I'd prefer she set about her daily routine
exercises, to keep herself mobile and strong. Rather
than sit around glued to daytime gobbledegook on
TV.

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Tears Are Not Enough

On very few occasions, I did spot her sitting
comfortably, on the common bench, outside of our
local community library on Plumstead High Street.

When I approached the subject, she'd explained
that she needed a short break to catch her breath.

Only because she'd been walking for ages.
On another occasion, I felt terrible as I drove away
having seen her yet again on the same bench.
Since I was the one making her do this whole
exercise thing, I decided I'd have to ask her to pack it
in.
On a secondary thought, I didn't.
Good reasoning was always better than any
emotional hang-overs.
What I couldn't contest with was her surely
disarming defence.
And who was I anyway to suggest that my mother
was giving me the fibs.
Maybe she wasn't.
So, the next time I got a surprise call from Meme,
that's my banker brother, the message was to advise
that I pick up Dad from Heathrow airport.
What?
Without any forewarning!
Why?
Because Meme couldn’t!
He was heading straight up to Manchester to
finish his second master’s degree programme.
I will admit this though!

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The man I finally picked up; I had previously
driven past him twice, before realising he was my
father.

It was disgraceful.
And I was ashamed!
He looked in every way like a severely
malnourished skinny little old man, who’d been let
out of 1980s famine ravaged Ethiopia.
Or another, who had served his pernicious time
within the prison walls of hard knuckles, before being
finally discharged back into modern society.
He looked out of place standing there, I noted.
Not surprised, he still had that lingering bitterness
beneath his eyes.
His suit was shabbily battered.
It was old and visibly oversized.
Like it's been snatched in a hurry from its
appropriate owner.
The suitcase which sat beside his left foot, looked
like the fake replica of a patchwork from a 1940s
black and white movie.
“Dad?”
I called out as I pulled over to the kerb, hoping I
was mistaken.
He shot a sharp glance at my car, as if to say
you've done well for yourself, little wanderer.
Then he grinned.
I quickly got out and picked up the awful looking
patchwork of a suitcase.
It felt surprisingly weightless.

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Which made me wonder whether he had
deliberately not brought any clothes with him.

Anyway, I ushered him to get in the car.
I honestly believed he was going to occupy the
front passenger seat, as company for the long south
east drive home.
But oh no!
Not my Dad.
He let himself into the rear passenger seat and
slammed the car door like I was some hired
chauffeur.
Maybe I was!
I was furious, though.
Not at myself.
But at the man seated in the back of my car
staring out the window.
The man I'd pick up was a shadow of the Dad I
once knew.
My father looked like a total stranger to me.
Nothing like the image of the strong irrepressible
man I had tucked away to the back of my mind since
I left home a long time ago.
I guess age and the lack of proper care must have
taken their toll.
It's been many years since I took leave of those
shores from whence he'd arrived.
Yet, there were things which happen to any young
person growing up they never forget.
For me, it was my first proper kiss.
Sloppy, salivary wet.
But otherwise okay.

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The other was the day my father marched with
me to my high school principal’s house after teaching
hours.

He demanded answers as to why my application
to boarding was delayed.

Forthrightly, he addressed the principal formally
by his title before his last name only.

He virtually overran the shorter pot-bellied man
like a bulldozer.

By the time we came away from that meeting, I
knew for sure that my Dad's approach had finally
blown any chances I may have had to be accepted.

But I was in for a sharp surprise!
Because, at the start of year two semester, I
packed into Ziks house, a fully-fledged boarder.
I still retain some wonderful memories of life
being good when I left.
My Dad believed I was unsteady and flaky.
Sometimes, depending upon his mood, equates
my behaviour to a rolling stone.
The kind that is thought to gather no moss.
He was wrong!
Absolutely!
I just happened to be one of those people always
on the lookout for something better.
Never intended on looking backwards!
I knew I had great potential for something.
So, was a bit hungry to fulfil myself.
Some may describe my type as dream chasers.
Only I needed to figure out what my dream was,
and how to make it happen.

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Or in this case, get myself somewhere with the
best opportunity to allow me to spread my wings.

I knew I could fly.
I just wanted to soar comfortably without wings.
But that wasn't really the reason why I was
furious.
Whatever happened to all the monthly allowance
being wired to this guy’s account?
I mean, with unbroken diligence.
The physical evidence in front of me proved
otherwise.
It was obvious that our money hadn't been put to
good use.
Not particularly for the purpose we all intended
he was getting it for.
I was speechless.
What the heck had he done with all that money?
That was the question!
Wilco had worked out from the beginning, that
we were paying Dad the equivalent of twice and a
half, the average monthly wage of a newly employed
young Nigerian graduate.
There was no doubt he got paid regularly from me
and Wilco.
We didn't have to.
Neither did any one of us owe him any obligation
to do so.
Nonetheless, we made sure he had more than
enough to look after himself anyway.
Not because it was an African thing to look after
our ageing parents.

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No! Not at all.
It was just the bloody right thing to do.
So, with all that money being given, how the heck
was my father looking like the chief priest of a
starved refugee camp.
So forlorn.
So abjectly forsaken and shamefully wretched.
Was he stashing funds away under his mattress to
pass it back on as inheritance?
Was he starving himself and gifting away money
meant for his own care to someone else?
If so, to whom?
And when did he become this generous new man?
Why?
I don't know!
I just couldn't bear to imagine what else he may
have done with his monthly upkeep.
On behalf of Wilco and myself, I felt like we'd
been throwing good money away into the toilet. And
flushing them down the waste pipe for years, quite
literally.
Why?
I couldn't work it out.
I still remember how tight-fisted Dad had been
when we were in boarding school.
I don't know what Wilco did to extract his own
maintenance allowance.
As for me, I knew I had to constantly devise very
creative ways of squeezing out any money from
Dad’s Shylock pockets.

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He certainly didn't hand over any required pocket
money easily because of his liberal inclination.

No! I was his obligation, like the rest of my other
siblings.

With all these thoughts racing through my mind,
my right foot accidentally hit the throttle.

In sharp response, the car angrily thrust forward,
with screeching rear tyres.

I drove away from the airport like a man on
speed.

Somehow, I just couldn't shake off this terrible
feeling rising at the back of my mind.

It felt like we'd been collectively and deliberately
SCAMMED!

How could my father do this to us?
How dared he?
I wanted answers.
But however badly I wanted a simple sensible
explanation, I figured that chauffeuring my father
home wasn't the most appropriate time to bring up
such-like query.
For now, it will keep.
So, I didn't.

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6

It was late Saturday afternoon.
And only been a week, since l picked up my father

from the airport.
He was seated comfortably on the single sofa,

looking his usual sullen self.
Wilco, Meme the banker, who had finally arrived

from Manchester, and myself, were all sat on any
available surface in my small living room. All
reminiscing, I believe.

The atmosphere was reasonably calm.

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We were going to have a serious soul-searching
conversational meeting.

You know, get every hidden bother within our
hearts all out in the open.

Some kind of Q&A session if you will.
Whereby, questions will be asked.
Coherent answers or explanations given.
And all will be sweet again.
At least, those were my expectations.
That's how it's supposed to work.
My darling wife was out of the way upstairs,
minding the kids.
Mum was by herself, chilling in her bedroom
unperturbed.
Still, I was consumed within.
Raging with disappointment about how unkempt
Dad had looked at the airport.
Why?
I wanted justifiable answers.
Something I could relate to.
Under the circumstance, there couldn't have been
a more appropriate time than the present.
That present time was now.
I'd decided there would be no beating about the
bush.
No preambles.
No depressing discussions about who next was
planning on swimming across the English Channel.
Or weather conditions in faraway Kuala Lumpur.
Or gossips about local footballers transfer fees in
Equatorial Guinea.

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So, I dove straight into the subject matter at hand.
And then, forthrightly declared for everyone's
attention:
“Dad! Did you know I drove past you twice at the
airport?”
He shot me a flaming glance across the room.
It was supposed to mean something.
Some sort of disapproving declaration on the line
of questioning I was pursuing.
Nonetheless, he said nothing.
It wasn't his decision to make as to what I asked.
Or how I chose to frame my opening question.
When he was putting food on the family table, or
paying my boarding school fees, which was a very
long time ago before now, this same fiery glare in his
eyes would have been my cue to zip up my lip. Or get
lost.
At the time, he was both the judge, jury and
executioner combined. His words were final.
Well, not anymore!
A lot has changed since I was that little boy who
endured draconian rules under his roof.
Like the rest of us, that boy child had grown-up to
become his own man.
Still head-strong.
Still unyielding to any suspected harsh tone of
command.
But a little wiser.
This was now my domain, over which my rules did
apply.
Not his.

149