Monday, 28 July 2014

Mwana webenzi haana zororo (A mad man's child has no rest)


One of the most telling verses in the Bible today, at least in as far as the political circus in most African countries is concerned is Proverbs 17 verses 21 and 25.
For the sake of this article, I am turning the verses around to: ‘He who is sired by a fool gets himself sorrow, and the child of a fool has no joy’ or 'A foolish father is a grief to his child and bitterness to them whom he bore.’ 
If you are a mad man’s child, you have no rest because while he runs amok around the whole village; while the mad man causes senseless destruction to the neighbours’ properties; while he gleefully crisscrosses the village paths butt naked; while he howls meaningless songs in the middle of the night; it’s his child who suffers most.
It’s the mad man’s son who has to run after him and take him back home; it’s the son who has to apologise to the neighbours for the wanton destruction of their property; it’s the son who gathers the discarded torn clothes from the ground and force him to cover his nakedness; it’s the son who consoles him in the dead of the night so that he stops disturbing the neighbourhood.
And in the morning, it’s the son who cannot face the day and join other children for they whisper among themselves, ‘There he comes one who came from the loins of a mad man.’
It’s the madman’s daughter whose heart is gnawed by anguish; his daughter who feels the nakedness on her back; his daughter who carries the curse; his daughter who cannot walk down to the river to fetch water with other girls for they too whisper behind her back: ‘There comes the daughter of the madman.’
There are times when the mad man dances to the songs in his head. Elated, the children clap their hands and then sing real songs for him. But the mad man takes off towards the hills leaving the children heartbroken.
Even when sleep and exhaustion subdue him, quietening his madness; even at those rare moments when hunger calms him; even when for some other reason the madness cools off; his children are always alert for they know that when it returns, it’s like a tsunami.
Somebody in the family has to keep an eye on the axe, the box of matches, the open fire, the family gun, the spear and anything dangerous lest the mad man gets hold of it and holds the family hostage.
Even the ladder too has to be hidden far away from the mad son because who knows once he gets it whether he will not climb on top of the house, tears his clothes off and does his madness antics.
Sometimes these antics divide the family. Some members will advise the children to tie him up to the tree so that at least they can have rest and time to do some chores. They will say so because he shames the family.
There will be others who will tell the children to whip his bare bum so that at least he will be scared of acting up. They will say because of his madness, they cannot walk the village with their heads high. They claim that the whole village whispers behind them: ‘There goes the mad man’s children. The one who tears his clothes or dances to the songs in his head.’
Yet there will be others who think that being cruel to the mad man does not make sense. They argue that the ancestors will not be happy. He is, after all, their blood. ‘God gave him to us. All what we can do is put up with him,’ they will say.
Although the mad man’s children listen, deep in their hearts the pain grows thick. 
If the mad man's mother is alive, it’s even worse for the mother whose womb turns in anguish and despair for it was here the madman was formed. It was here where the madman fed on her juices and breathed his first. It is here where the madman first thrust his restless feet and swung his small arms in defiance of reason. It is here where the madman first tossed and turned with so much energy.
Yes, the madman’s mother suffers most. She suffers in silence. But she tells herself, ‘He is just a different child.’ That ‘Every child is a blessing; must be accepted as they are; and for what they are.’
Even when the madman wakes up one morning throwing about all cooking utensils; defecating in the water pot and urinating in the fire, it’s the mother who will talk to him so that he stops.
But the madman does not stop. He even looks for an axe to chop up the cooking utensils. Still the mother just looks trying to make him see reason.
As it is Africa is like that mad man’s child. She agonises over what the fathers are doing destroying the future.
The price of having a madman for a father is the pain of losing sleep over him; the agony of knowing that he will never do anything; the disheartening of a life so wasted; it’s the soul-consuming realisation that the future generation is being slowly destroyed. (First published in 2013)

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