*WATOTO WANGU WEEE!!!*
If you were born in my era, then you’d know. That as kids, the songs we sang on such occasions defined what we once were. What, as time could have it, was lost along the highway to maturity. “Kids” we once were. As a kid I wasn’t the type to be looked up to. I played the villain in my childhood fantasies, wherein reality my nature dictated otherwise. I was the lamb in a pack of wolves but even then I heeded no protection, ’cause I was the type not to be messed with. We enjoyed fruits of nature, basked in thy labours of the old. Nakedly we danced in the rain, at the time, nothing stole our innocence even as we stared blatantly at the forbidden fruit. Saw the world in black and white. We played mom and dad, yet in all those years I never became dad. Nor the loving uncle. Not even the mysterious big brother. I was always the kid. Loved. Adored.
So we sang…….
“Watoto wangu weee (weeee)!……
Mimi mama yenu, (weeee )! …….
Simba ni mkali, ( weeee )! …….
Aliua mama, (weeee )! …….
Akaua baba, (weeee )! …..
Sasa torokeni, (yeeeeeeiy)!
And we could run. We rushed towards our mother trying to elude the grip of the villain. We were like hatchlings trapped by the eagle who stood between us and our mother. The hen stood on the other side desperately praying, hoping for few of her kids, if not all, to elude the claws. If you were caught you were eaten, or you became the child of the villain. To hunt your own. It wouldn’t be betrayal for in your villain state you would not remember your own. And I was always slow. Always reluctant to run. I always wanted to be caught. To know how it felt like to be feared. To bear claws and hunt. I always wanted to taste death. The feel of claws delving in thy flesh. Lay maimed and watch blood ooze out of thy veins. To stare at thy villain suck it all. It was my fantasy. But I was always that kid; protected. I guess I never broke out of thy shell.
As we sat in the living room, all five of us, with served potato soup. We stared at it, with no appetite squashing our mouth. There was an empty seat that mocked us. The loud music was no more in the compound. Chattering of drunk men and women wasn’t just indistinct, they were all gone. Relatives and friends who came to show their support had travelled back. Momma sat on the couch knitting, trying to wis away time. Trying to fight off the tears that dangled in her heart; but that alone couldn’t wash away the grief that hung on the roof above us. Momma knew we missed Papa; and nothing would make us eat. She put aside her knits, then she sung.
“Watoto wangu weee, ( weeee )! ….
Mimi Mama yenu, ( weeee )! …
Simba ni mkali, ( weeee )! ….
Aliua baba, ( weeee )! ….
……
I never let her finish the song. My villain fantasies abandoned me. I wanted neither claws nor taste of death. I broke free from my seat and rushed towards Momma. She held me warmly, I hugged her tightly; I think I was breaking her ribs. Others followed. We sobbed together in our Momma’s embrace. Till we fell asleep in her warm embrace, all the five of us. In her embrace all the emptiness had vanquished.
God! How can I forget about that night?. Her warmth never left me till her flesh turn cold. As she was laid down, nothing else mattered. Moist soil were scooped to cover her brown wooden casket. And as pebbles fell with gravity on the wood, with each pound it brought memories of her.
Somewhere along the memories I wanted to be that kid once more. To be loved. Adored. Protected. I wanted to hear that song for the last time and be the first to elude the villain. I wanted to feel the warmth of Momma for the last time and never let her go.
So I sang the song to myself. ..
“Mama wangu weee, (weeee)! ….
Mimi mtoto wako, (weeee)! ….
Simba ni mkali , (weeee)!….
Aliua baba, (weeee)!….
Akaua mama, (weee)!…
Now I miss you two! (Silence)!
As the sun set, darkness engulfed the dome shape of her resting place, leaving the wooden cross standing erect like cactus in a desert. Holding hands, we had to say goodbye but not forever.
Sometimes we all go through motions that make us wish to be that kid once again. But if we can’t go back, how about we make kids of our own, to never leave their sides? To Love. Adore. Protect and give them warmth.
Momma now that you’re gone, I understand.
The song was a metaphor.
Heart_Art_Poetics
Phill Ibsen
( Master Of Descriptions )
2017
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