Kenya, Will You Marry Me?

18. He put a song in my breast!

169 18 He put a song in my breast! A ng’ and Savaiva, do you know what song that resists can do for us? It can re-make us. It can do more things. I am searching. I know we need more than song. Just let us start somewhere. Maybe like the 33 miners of Chile we need to go deep and then hold on to a continent’s life. Standing on the brow of a hill De Gado pointed at where the famous old village singer lived. “Down, down there!” De Gado told me as if his own voice was flowing down the path. “Dooown, dowwwwn, ooooooo hau!” he spoke as if his voice would peep like eyes and lengthening itself meander down the long walk. I looked down the steep path. Cold stones soaked in a tapering rain stared back at me. Small drops of rain hit my forehead and nose. Red soft soil moved in little rivulets and tried to hug the grayish stones but running water pushed it down the slope. I had to walk down. I slid on my flat rubber shoes, which I kept in the boot of my little wheelbarrow-make car. While leaning on it, I shut the doors well and stuck out my right foot like a feeler. I felt the hard stones through the soles of my shoes pushing my toes. I saw dashes of red mud and water mark my skirt. It looked like a deliberate pattern near the hem. I held up my umbrella skirt. It was time to turn things upside down and inside out. The boy ahead of me pulled up his brown trousers so that he looked as if he was being hanged with unseen ropes his little behind flattened against his brown dirty trouser bottom. The fresh smell of rain pierced through my nose. I took a deep breath. This was no path, it was a really a ditch between two green plant fences. Many Mukinduri leaves had fallen fresh but others were 170 Kenya, will you marry me? rotting. The smell of rain hitting soil after a long time, was different from the one that hit rotting leaves. Both smells merged into one strong one. It was the smell of the earth in interaction with rain water. Now that a little sun was shining, I could see the water turn into vapor and rise again. I saw a tiny black snail wiggle into the soil between the knee high plants, which I had to grab from time to time to prevent myself from skidding and falling. I could not turn back. My heart beat fast. I felt joy hover around my lips as if caressing me. I had to hear this man sing to me. His song in my heart had become bigger than it was in its themes. The question for me was why he sang on and never stopped. Yes, he sang of wonderful beauties of his land. But somewhere in my soul, the songs touched my strength to love my nation. He sang words but I heard more than words. I got more messages about myself, standing and making things happen. He sang me to fare on knowing that one must beat a new path with those who see, blow by blow, verse by verse. “Oh my traveler there is no path, the path is made by walking.” But a path could only be made by many walking over the same land repeatedly. I wore Afrika in the soles of my feet, the whole world did, but perhaps it did not know. We had to find her still. And yes, this was the secret of the village singer. I was looking for the song of the village. The fresh rain fragrance hit me more strongly. Sometimes my flat shoes would just skid on the surface of a place where there were no stones. It was really my own feet that held me down. De Gado seemed to round off edges and sail on smoothly, only looking to see if I had fallen down but telling me all the time, especially when I had to stick my hips out to retain balance, that I would not fall. No doubt the rain invigorated me right into my lungs. Its smell, I thought, fought to assert itself; as if to remind the world that in the beginning the world was all clean and healthy. The rain was delicious and yet inedible. I was...