NATURE'S WRATH

By Steve Kumalonje

Ours is a long story. This place has its own rich history. Either ask us questions that count for something or forever hold your peace.

This land we till, the traditions and practices we keep, the flora and fauna you see, and the many off springs we raise make the ancestors buried in this area jive in their respective tombs. They would have done the same if they were around- balancing reality and pleasure lest mental breakdown took center stage and they became unproductive in the long run.

The rivers in this area are a source of delight. When the waters are quiet, we go fishing and make a fortune out of it. When these waters are calm, we plant different crops all year round and harvest more. And we commend the spirits of our great ancestors for securing this precious land in the first place.

These same rivers are also a fountain of unimaginable anguish. Every now and then, spirits of our great ancestors vent their anger on us for God-knows-what. Maybe it’s because of some of the traditions that have since been painted black and are now abandoned. Isn’t marrying a dead brother’s wife now renounced as a catalyst of this so-called killer disease by you the cultured men of today?

Maybe because we have consciously and unconsciously abandoned the mighty spirits of our great ancestors by making ourselves the rubbish heap of alien religions and exotic practices. Who said births in this area need to be chemically controlled? Who said all these numerous prophets and prophetesses are ordained by the one seating above? The rivers swell, the waters rage and what follows is utter Hiroshima and Nagasaki; lives are lost, houses are destroyed, crops are swept away.

But don’t they say there is always a time for sunshine and rain, a season for everything? Do we but give up this land where our great ancestors are buried and go elsewhere? Do we but give up our place of origin, the land of our ancestors, and seek elsewhere to start afresh? Do we but give up this rich land and these mysterious waters which have given us countless joys over the years? Do we but succumb to that wild temptation?
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With the moon full and white and cold, the shadows shifted and shivered. A trickle of hot fear engulfed me and when the tall and wrinkled ghost was about to twist my neck I managed to duck the tight grip like a trained Kung fu kid, only to realize it was one of those scary dreams, the ones which often imply something to the superstitious. I woke up and the rusty wall clock revealed it was an hour past midnight. Peeping through my bedroom window, I could tell it was very dark outside and experience told me it would rain snakes and lizards any moment.

It was very hot that night and the dark clouds were moving hurriedly from the West with sinister intentions. Like a dedicated fisher and farmer, my heart was filled with joy at the impending down pour. Like a committed husband, I couldn’t wait for the rains as I wiped out beads of perspiration from my face. The rains had been late that year and it was everyone’s prayer that they come down sooner than later as that could spell hard times ahead. “This is but a consequence of climate change and our failure to replace trees which fall prey to our unsympathetic pangas and axes,” the environmentalists said. I prayed silently, the whole nation knelt down and pleaded with the heavens above to open their bowels and let the drizzle down.

I went to bed again and no sooner had I fell asleep again than the rain start beating the low roof with a threatening force and clatter. The fisher and farmer in me smiled. The father and husband in me were hopeful. “Thank you Allah!” I said a brief thanksgiving prayer before falling asleep again, my mind veering off in a dozen other directions. The rain continued pounding mightily outside and the beast called sleep overpowered me instantly.

At 3 a.m. I was awoken from my sweet sleep yet again. Not with another deadly nightmare but by a very threatening sound outside as if a Mkaya bound train was rumbling past the house I was living in, the one which took me years of sweat and toil to build. The sound grew louder and louder each passing second. I was threatened. The strong and muscular man in me became anxious. Don’t they say man is a victim of emotions and fears?

As I was about to decide on what to do, I witnessed the wall of my humble abode crumble. The bricks fell within a fraction of a second as if they were not bolstered by cement. The next thing I realized was that I was plunged in water that kept me under and out, hitting stones and trees in the process. I lost consciousness only to come round again at the District Hospital where people of good will had taken me to upon finding me stuck between rocks on the other side of the valley. That is when I learnt that a hundred more people in the village and surrounding areas had died in the raging thunderstorm, that a thousand more were displaced and that valuable property ranging from cattle to goats had been stolen by Mother Nature.

That is how I and many more ended up losing everything we had labored and toiled for ages, the sweat of our hands. That is how I and my fellow flood victims found ourselves in the lifeless Camps set up by government to capably assist us psychologically, physically and materially.

I was in utter dilemma, not knowing how I could pick myself again from the wreckage. “Not my will Allah but your will be done,” I wept silently inside and I could hardly hear myself think again.