A fool will not even find water in the Nile!

24 The Niles
“His
unsteady
legs
struggled
with
his meagre
frame.”
approached the village shielding his face from the
painful raindrops with his left open palm. He was wet
through and through – his pants dripped as if he had
urinated on himself. He trudged like a drunk, a spook.
It was bad to be caught up in such bad weather. He
shivered as if he had fever, maybe he was hungry.
It would have been worse if he was drunk. He would
have fallen in the gutter and maybe drowned.
The lone man stopped to scan the village with
difficulty. In spite of himself, he instinctively branched
off the main road. His unsteady legs struggled with
his meagre frame as if he had lost his sense of direction,
an indication that he was from another village. In his
right hand he carried some small luggage in a gunny
sack. The gunny sack looked like a stone because it
was drenched in rain water. The man obviously looked
disturbed and perhaps confused in his search for
shelter from the storm.
He branched off to the nearest hut, with smoke
slowly spiralling from the roof. It must be warm inside
there, the man presumed, for he badly needed some
warmth whether artificial or natural. He cleared his
throat and clapped his hands loudly, to announce
the presence of a stranger. There was no answer. He
clapped again and a man with a torn, white vest stood
at the door of the hut. He squinted at the new arrival
to his house.
“Come in, come in brother. Come and take shelter.
The rain is heavy,” said the man with the torn vest.
“Come in, you must be very cold. Maybe even
hungry. Sit down at the corner there, and feel at home.”
The stranger sat on a low bamboo stool at the corner
of the hut, as the owner of the hut retired into the
second partition. The hut was semi dark and the
traveler had no access to the hearth in the next room.
He shivered like a man suffering from a serious
case of malaria. The hut was quiet when he arrived.
It seemed the man with the torn vest lived alone.
It was quiet except for the rain outside.
Now the rain poured gently, continuously.
Soon crickets started chirping, prompting the frogs
to croak in their ugly and dull tones.
“My host be a
brute, eh? How can
you beat your wife
at this time?”
A moment later, the owner of the hut emerged from
the next partition with a dry gunny sack which he
handed to his guest. “Use this for keeping you warm,
we don’t have a spare blanket. We rarely receive
visitors,” said the owner of the hut who turned his
back to the stranger and returned to the next partition
which served as his bedroom.
It was still raining, but gently. It was serene inside
the hut, but the man had not fully recovered from
the cold. His wet clothes were plastered to his body.
The wet clothes smelled of sweat and body dirt. He
wished he were in the comfort of his own home, his
wife would have made for him some warm porridge
to chase away the cold.
The man was absorbed in his own private thoughts
when he heard some funny noises in the next room,
where the owner of the hut had entered. Somebody
breathed heavily, as if in agony. Sweet agony? The
man became curious as he cocked his ears. Curiosity
made him forget about the cold in his chest. He forced
a cough as if to say ‘hello!’. Now the heavy breathing
became rapid. There was struggling, panting, moaning,
cursing. The man could tell the voice was that of
a woman.
Eh eh! What battle goes on inside there? Are
husband and wife fighting in this bad weather when
they are supposed to huddle close to each other, to feel
warm and happy? Strange people, these ones! The
stranger wondered, shaking his head from left to right.
But the moaning, panting, struggling went on
unabated. The funny noises came from the woman
of the house.
She sobbed.
Whaaat! It is really a woman’s voice! The stranger
became more interested. He hoped the rain did not
stop abruptly before he knew what agony went on
in the next room. The struggling resumed again, and
then it seemed the woman was slapping the man
repeatedly and crying ‘mama, mama, I’m dying…’.
Ah! The traveler mumbled to himself. He engaged
in a monologue to keep himself company:
My host must be a brute, eh? How can you beat
your wife at this time? Hmn, You must be crazy. Crazy
man indeed. A wife beater indeed. An idiot indeed.
(He spat against the wall.) Or is it the woman who
is causing all the trouble? I don’t know how she looks,
this man’s wife. Maybe she has pout lips of a trouble
maker. Maybe she has sparse hair of a rascal. What
could they be fighting about in this cold weather,
anyway? I think she is mean. Maybe she is denying
him the sugarcane? But what sort of rude woman
is she who has no feelings when some of us are dying
from cold?
Outside the hut the rain poured gently and the
chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs increased.
The man was silent but his mind was in the next
room. From the cracks on the partitioning wall the
stranger could hear the woman of the house moaning
as if in some sweet but inevitable pain.
The man swallowed hard and continued in his
wild thoughts: She might have given in. The man
might have pinched her backside hard. Maybe they
are making love now or what? But the man in this
house must be very wicked and inpatient indeed. For
how could he make love to a woman in the presence
of a stranger? But do they know me anyway? Let them
enjoy themselves.
As these thoughts raced through his mind, the
stranger began to think about his wife at home. He
felt some longing for his wife and was immediately
overwhelmed with some strange warmth. A stupid
smile lit his face. And he felt good. He left like
running home.
Before he could pronounce his wife’s name –
Denya - he heard the woman of the house shout loudly
as her husband tried to console her with inaudible
words. The woman hissed and breathed heavily.
The woman’s noise-making was followed by a brief
silence when the stranger heard the piecing shrill of
a baby’s cry.
Wow! So they are blessed with a newborn! God
bless you, good people.
The rain stopped. The man stood, stretched himself
and yawned. He dusted the seat of his wet trousers
and felt like peeing.
What name will the couple give to such a baby
born on rainy day? It must be Jokudu or Lukudu. The
man asked himself as he stared into the distant world
of his imagination. He thought about his wife and six
children all living under the roof of one hut.
I hope that roof is not leaking again. He thought.
If it leaks my children must be on their feet dodging
the cold rain drops. My wife must be cold too, poor
woman. Suppose the rain blew off the roof of my hut?
Supposed rain water forced their way through the
weak mud wall of the hut?
The man looked miserable and felt like crying
when these negative thoughts swept through his
mind. He had a few kilometres to journey through
the muddy road to reach his homestead. He was
a bit unhappy. But when the newly born baby’s cry
reminded him where he was he smiled a bit.
When he thought about the new born baby’s cry
he remembered his six children. He remembered
them as babies. How does this new baby look like?
Like father? Like mother? Is it a she or he?
He badly wanted to pee.
The rain was over and the cold evening was being
swallowed by darkness. Fireflies were flying.
“I didn’t know I brought blessings to this house.
God bless you abundantly, good people,” he announced
loudly for the couple in the partition to
hear as he collected his gunny sack, threw it over his
shoulder and stepped out of the hut.
“I leave you in peace.”
The man’s bare feet sloshed the rain water as he hit
the muddy road.
A village
in the
memory
of water
Osman Shinger | Khartoum
“The
rain was
over,
fireflies
were
flying.”
theniles6_20151123.indd 24
2015/11/23 2:13 PM