I am back at the point where it all started. Although my memory about how things started isn’t as sharp as I’d like it to be, all I can rely on are hazy recollections of the events that changed the course of my homeland. I’ve been away for about 15 years and in those times, I’ve tried my best to mute nostalgic thoughts that keep playing in my head. I’ve been able to carefully edit my memories, mastered the art of fitting them into different patterns that suit the various situations I’ve found myself in over the years.
Depending on who’s asking, I have three different stories about why and how I left home. For those who can place my accent, I tell them that, like many others who fled when the chaos started, I was never part of the problem. Let’s blame the strangers we naively allowed to live among us. They planted the seed of chaos, corrupted our people, and turned us against our traditions. If only we had known then what we know now, we would have kept our traditions impenetrable and undiluted. I’d always say this with a faux-worrying look, presenting myself as a helpless victim who’d rather be at home than running around like the proverbial hunter’s dog, destined to be permanently separated from its owner. For those who don’t know where I’m from, I can present a fantastical tale that makes me seem more exotic. I can easily weave a tale of an origin that never existed, designed to draw both pity and admiration. It works like magic.
And for the most important group, those that have the financial means, the seekers of pet projects to lavish on, my story is simple: if you empower me, I promise to go back and develop my place, capacitate my long-suffering people. It is this version that brought me back home. It was in one of those parties that attracted people with deep pockets and smooth-talking NGO operators that I spoke about my people and their plight. The head of the NGO I now work for gave me her card, requesting that I come to her office “at my earliest convenience.” I went there the next day and I was offered a job, which required me to be part of a strategic team that’d visit my hometown to “explore bottom-up strategies that are imperative for human development.” The more ambiguous the mandate, the more secure the job and flowing funds are. We had several meetings and a team was put together to go there to activate the plans.
The head of our delegation was barely two years out of the university, where he took two elective courses on African development and pro-poor policy planning in the developing world. He’d always show us pictures from the only trip he made to Africa, where he travelled across three countries. In the pictures, he was grinning and hugging locals, and would boast that he still knew all their names. In meetings, he’d remind us how “life changing those experiences were,” and how that made him conscious of the importance of “helping the downtrodden and the forgotten.” I quickly learned to indulge him when he went on and on about these stories, or when he made off-point assertions about what Africa needs. “You’ll be my native whisperer when we get there,” he’d say, half joking, half serious, pointing to me during our discussion sessions. I would respond with a forced smile and an exaggerated “Yes, sir.” I can’t afford to piss him off. I’m smart enough to understand that all it would take to lose this job would be a note from him to our boss about my inability “to grasp the technicalities of the assignment.”
I’m not sure what I expected to see when I returned home. I’ve engaged in far too many imaginative exercises, which have left me confused about how to perceive my “homeland.” The scars of the crisis that dispersed many of my fellow townsfolk are visible in the dilapidated, empty buildings across the town. Many street signs no longer exist, and the few remaining ones are barely visible under a thick haze of dust. However, I still remember some of the places and routes that defined my childhood. The only thing I was eager to see was my grandmother’s house. As prescient as ever, Grandma foresaw the crisis. She warned us about the character of the newly installed community leader at the time. “His mouth is sweeter than salt. That one will eat this town, chew all the bones and digest it,” she’d often say. My uncles teased her about not understanding modernity and the need for an educated leader who can communicate effectively. “How do you expect our community to attract major investors if we have a leader who can barely spell his name or form a coherent sentence?” my uncle would ask rhetorically. Grandma would roll her eyes and dismissively say that “only a people can decide the type of cane they want to be whipped with.” I suppose events proved Grandma right. Less than a year after her death, our town descended into unspeakable horrors. It felt like a cannibal feast, with the town consuming itself and everything within it. None of my uncles survived the crisis.
Grandma’s house was still standing. It was as if the horrors that had engulfed our town were too afraid to touch the building. Every other house around it had fallen. I was surprised to see that the only thing that had affected the building was dust. The doors were still unlocked, yet nothing had been removed from inside. I walked around all the rooms, feeling nostalgic. I went into Grandma’s room, which smelled and looked exactly as it had when she was alive. I opened the wardrobe to see if all her clothes were still there. The smell of her old clothes brought a feeling of warmth and excitement. It made me miss her more. I ran my fingers over the clothes and imagined the things they had witnessed. Her wedding gown was neatly tucked at the bottom of the wardrobe, as it always had been. So were her wedding ring, wrist chains, beads and watches.
Suddenly, my phone rang. It was the head of our team, asking where I was and reminding me of the meeting we were having later that day. We were due to meet with members of the community youth development group to “brainstorm ideas on stimulating bottom-up development in the area.” “Please start the meeting by explaining the ideas in catchy phrases in your local language, and then I’ll take over,” he reminded me. “No problem, sir,” I responded, rolling my eyes.
I looked outside of the window from grandma’s room to catch a glimpse of the once busy street. I saw a group of women and men wearing similar patterned clothes, having an animated conversation as they walked briskly towards what I assumed was a party. I couldn’t understand the language they were speaking. Perhaps they were new to the area, I wondered. A few seconds after they had passed, a group of young children in their school uniform followed. They were singing a song loudly that I imagined had been taught to them at school. One of the boys in the group was frantically trying to correct the others, stressing that they had got the lyrics wrong. The others shouted at him, telling him to join in or keep quiet. He shrugged and joined in. I wished he had been more insistent about his point. If only those who saw the wrong things in our community had resisted, we’d not be in this situation, I mused.
I looked at my watch and realised the meeting was in 30 minutes. It would take me about 15 minutes to walk there, so I left Grandma’s house. I decided to walk slowly towards the venue, hoping to see something familiar that would remind me of my time here. Even if I didn’t, I could at least find things to include in our report. About five minutes into the walk, I saw something that grabbed my attention. The group of women and men that I had seen earlier through the window appeared to have arrived at their destination. It was the sports field of the once-famous Community Grammar School, which was recognised across the province for its academic and sporting prowess. The school won debates and essay competitions across the province. It was also the successive winner of the provincial football competition for several years, and had reached the finals of the national high school football competition on two occasions.
I could see the women dancing, but there was no music playing. Their lips were moving as they danced, but no sound came out. Some of the men were air drumming with an intensity I hadn’t seen in a long time. In this animated atmosphere, all of the participants took the performance seriously yet everything was silent. At first, I thought I was dreaming or hallucinating, so I pinched myself several times. But this was reality. They were all performing in silence, broad smiles on their faces. I watched intently, but none of them paid me any serious attention. As I walked away from this strange performance, I couldn’t help but feel that maybe life was better this way: to sing and perform in silence; to quieten all that screams for attention within us, so that we can hear and feel anew.
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Image: Thomas Watson Unsplash