Hear What I See (1st Place Fiction)

My English name is I See. In Swahili, it is Kuona. I am Kuona because I see. I see what is to be. This is not the name I was given by my mother. That I was to be Kuona came to me in a dream during the ceremony of kutahiriwa, the ceremony in which I became a man.

On the night of the bright moon during the time of my fasting, I rubbed the leaves of malpitte over my body and had the dream of my second name. My eyes saw my mwamba a half day’s run from where we made our place. Carrying only my spear and the pouch that held small rocks, I left my brothers. I told them that I would go to where my mwamba waits. They knew I should go.

Simba did not see me as I ran past. I saw him and those that slept nearby. There were four. One raised her head. I was not afraid. It was not the time for me. When the time comes for me, it will be Ondilili, the jackal. I will know when the jackal is to come. I have seen the bush where I will wait.

I reached for the mwamba when I was still five lengths away. Now, it hangs from the flesh of my ear. From that time, I would be Kuona Mwamba.

Even before I was a man, my mother told me why my skin is the color of the early evening, not dark like the night of no moon. This is so because the first man who lay with her had skin as from mchana, the middle of the day. He was her first man, and she was his first woman. She was not shamed for being with a man of no color, for this brought the family two cows.

Amiri has always been the chief in our family. He is wise as was his father and his father’s father. Amiri told me that I see more than any in the family should see. He told me this after I had warned of those from Somalia who were blocking our passage. I told Amiri how to take them. He chose me to be first of the three who were sent to protect our passage within the land. On that morning, we sang to the beautiful bird that flies with no effort. “You will feast today,” we sang. “You will feast on our bodies or on those of the Others who wait below.”

We each carried our spear and our pouch. It was my first time to kill one of the Others. I killed two in this my first.

Because it was in battle, the killing was allowed to be wasteful – done so that all will see and remember that we are not Others. Others cannot block our passage. Now, we travel as before. The Others are there again, but we pass with no concern. Like Simba, we do not turn our heads or give notice of their presence.

In the time of no rain, I have killed for the family. I take the old, the weak, the alone. On those killings, I take what we need and leave what remains for the jackal.

Amiri came to me and said that I should live away. I left the family and made my place at the edge near the tree where Man was born. Man was born there before Amiri, or his father’s father’s father.

Only on the night of the bright moon do I come near to our village. One of Amiri’s wives came to me that first night of my return. I did not ask for this. It was Amiri who sent her to me. For each son, Amiri gives me a cow, and for each daughter I get a goat. Amiri was given two wives from the Maasia who live across the sakafu, across the floor of the moon’s crater. One, he sent to me before he took her.

Now, women come who are not wives of Amiri. I do not receive my brother’s wrath for this for I live alone with my animals. I am Kuona. This is why the wives come.

Twice I have been summoned since the time I left the family. It was the second year of no rain when I heard the singing of the great rock. The Mara River no longer ran with water from the top of Ol Donyo Lengai, the Mountain of God. No rain came to flush the holes of the great water beast, Kiboko. These beasts died fouling the water for Timbo and Twiga, the elephants and giraffes. The cattle of the family were dying.

Amiri sent a runner to strike the rock and call me to hear his dream. He dreamed that men should prepare to dig in the full of the sun. That is not our way. It is not our way because God gave our people and the families of our people all the cattle. All cattle – they are ours. Neither we nor our fathers have defied that gift by breaking the soil. To break the soil would be to take from our cattle the grass that is given for them.

Yet, this was Amiri’s dream. Prepare to dig in the full of the sun he was told. Then, see how the water will come. He asked me to know where to break the soil, where to see how the water will come.

I stood silently waiting for an answer. None came.

For one day, I walked toward Ol Donyo Lengai. I did not find an answer in the shadow of the Mountain of God. I fasted in the dry bush for two days more, drinking no milk and no blood. I sat uncovered in the full of the sun, waiting for an answer. It was when the bright moon rose to greet the departing sun that I knew what I must tell Amiri.

I cannot tell you where to search for water beneath the land, I told him. Go, I said. Choose a place. Have all the men cover their bodies with nyeupe vumbi, with white dust. Then, let them prepare to break the soil. Only then will we see how the water will come.

Twice Amiri chose a place, twice the men covered their bodies with vumbi, and twice I told them to stop. After the second time, water ran from our bodies, streaming across our shoulders and back and loins. I called to them and told them they should not break the soil. I saw this.

They sat waiting for what I would say. I knew that the water would come. It would come from the above, but it would not be mvua, not the rain. The sun moved from midday until before the setting. It was then that we heard the shaking of the air like the running of the gnu. We did not move when the Others came over where we waited. Dust flew around us as they hovered. A large drum of water was let down. Another drum brought us grain.

We did not drink the water or eat the grain. Our food is milk and blood, and the meat of goat in celebration. We mixed the grain with the water for our cattle. That night, the cattle gave freely. The blood we got with a small, hollow cane inserted into the bulging path in the neck of the cow. The family killed a goat in celebration. I did not stay to eat the meat. Milk and blood was what I took. I watched and waited on the ridge above the village. Not until the morning sun did I run to my place by the tree where man was born.

Some think it a gift to see tomorrow. I say it is a curse. The curse woke me before the sun rose in days past less than the fingers of one hand. I knew the sound of the rock would come on that day. I bathed in the urine of two goats and waited, facing toward the rock from which I knew the call would come. I was running toward the village soon after the sounding of the rock. Amiri met me three lengths from the village and told me what I knew.

The Others had blocked the passage to the village where the Other-healers do their work. Only ndge, the flying machine, goes to that village. It was not wise for the man from Nairobi to come on that road. The driver knew, but the two Others with no color did not.

The Somalian turned the driver away, but pulled the Others with-no-color from the magari. They beat them, took all they had, and brought them to the village, but not as a gift. In exchange, Amiri gave the Somalian a young girl and a woman who makes fire.

Amiri said I should see the two and hear them. These Others troubled the village, even my ancient mother. Some wanted to give the older one to the jackals on the night they were taken. It was my own mother who stopped them. She said that she had a dream. In her dream, she was a young girl again and the older Other was with her. The elders in my family searched their memory and did not like what they found.

Amiri told me this before we went into the village.

I knew that the younger would be first. He was made ready for kukatwa kwa ajili ya damu, the cutting for blood. The older Other watched me look at him. This one was sitting on the ground; his hands were bound behind the pole. I shook my head and looked away. Why had I not known what I would see?

The younger Other said much, but it was with tremble. The family did not answer him. In time, he cried, “English. Does anyone speak English?”

“I am Kuona Mwamba,” I said to him. “My English name is I See.”

“Thank, God.” He looked toward the older, “This one speaks English!”

He did not know.

“Please help us,” he said. “We were going to the camp in Amboseli. There are doctors there … physicians … healers. Do you understand? My mother is with them.”

I nodded. We beheld each other. Never had I seen an Other who was so nyeupe, so white. He was brighter than the desert sand when the sun is high. “Njia ya damu inaonyesha,” Amiri said to me. It was true. The path of the blood was dark beneath the white skin. It would not be hard.

The older Other shouted to the younger. “Talk to him, Tommy. Tell him there will be no trouble if they let us go.”

“Tommy.” I said his name, “Tommy. I saw that this is your name.”

“Yes. I am Tommy,” he said. “Like your name is I See, I am Tommy.” His lip was trembling. “How can I persuade you? Please.” He wanted to hide his fear. “How do you know English?”

Tommy would bleed fast because of his fear. Being naked was not his way. His spread legs made him dread what he did not know.

“You are not my brother,” I told him.

“What did he say?” the older one called.

Tommy frowned, trying to understand. It made me know. “You do not see what is to be,” I said to him.

His head shook like a leaf in the wind. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I see fine. I see you’re going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble if you don’t let us go. People will come. You will be punished.”

“You do not see what is to be.” I said it again. “What is to be, you cannot change, because you do not see.” He was filled with fear. I saw that. I pointed behind me. “He is not your father.”

Tommy pulled at his bonds “Damn you! What do you know?” He paused. Finally, he spoke to me. “No. He’s not. What has that got to do with shit?” He paused and looked down at his nakedness. “… with this?” he cried.

He would say more, but Amiri’s wife came. “Mimi kupata maziwa,” she said

I nodded and turned to Tommy. “She will bring the milk.”

“My God, man! I don’t want milk! I want you to let us go! What’s wrong with you people? You can’t keep us here.”

“You do not see.”

“You keep saying that!”

“Where is your brother?”

“Brother? What are you talking about? This is crazy!” He strained to look around me again. “Dad, he asked if you are my father. Now, he’s asking about Robert.”

I knew the one he called Dad was frowning. “Don’t tell him anything unless he promises to let us go.”

The one who was to cut knelt before Tommy. He reached and found the blood paths at the top of each leg. Tommy pulled at his bonds and called down the wrath of his god. We watched as the tube was jabbed under the skin. At first, a single drop fell. Then, the tube was twisted and pushed. Tommy screamed. The blood pulsed and spilled into the gourds already half filled with milk.

I turned to the older Other. He looked like one who is about to be taken by a jackal. “God help us,” he whispered.

“Hear me,” I said. He did not. I bent down and took his face in my hands. “Hear me! I see what is to be. My second name is Mwamba. Mwamba in English is Stone. Do you hear? It is the name you gave to me. Your name.”

He shook his head. “No,” he shouted. “You can’t know that!”

“I do,” I replied. “Your name is Stone. You told my mother. I know that you remember. You were young.” I nodded. “I tell you what will be. Tonight, the family will drink Tommy’s blood with the milk, but not all. I will drink yours, but not all. In two days, I will take you to the mother of Tommy. Do not be afraid, for I see. I know I am your son.”

He was shaking his head. He was beginning to remember, to know.

Tommy’s tears were spilling into the gourd, mixing with the milk and the blood. The family was singing. Tonight, they will celebrate. Tonight, I will be with my father. I will be with my father and the one who calls him Dad. I will tell them my story.

“My African name is Kuona Mwamba.”

The story came as a result of our trip to Africa in October 2010. It won First Place in Fiction at the Alabama Writers Conclave, July 2011.