The Women who Ate Python and Other Stories

3. Up From a Slum

34 3 Up From a Slum sat in the large auditorium, watching the endless ushering in of graduating students and their guests. We the young medical graduates had been lucky to be ushered in first. I sat down honourably on a seat that held the label bearing my name. I started wondering what the world would have in store for me after that day. I was going to take the Hippocratic Oath. As the wait prolonged, my inner self took pleasure in taking a walk down a long lane of distant memory. Molrai is the name I grew up with, but I understand that when mother gave birth to me, father decided to call me Esong-Eri-Mmek. This name when translated from my mother tongue means “the suffering on this earth.” It did appear to my father that I was, from many indications, a symbol of the suffering on this earth. I have no reason to doubt him especially because generally, children are endowed with the fortune to grow up in the warmth, nurture and admonition of their parents, but I, on the contrary, have never known even the warm, sincere smile of a parent. I understand mama breathed her last the same minute I cried my first. What a way to embrace the earth! Papa could not wait to start calling me Esong-Eri-Mmek, after that. Twelve months later, on my first birthday, he too passed to the great beyond. My parental misfortune on this earth was therefore consummated, and on what day? My I 35 first birthday. The next name I heard people call me was Molrai, which stuck on me like a black stain on an immaculate surface, giving me a conspicuous identity. The name, in the language of my people means an orphan. Uncle Tuka-Tete, my papa’s only brother, who had gone to settle in a foreign land called Kalushasha heard about the death and came home to pay his last respects to his lone brother. After all the funeral rites had been performed and the accompanying celebrations had ended, Uncle had to return to Kalushasha. It was only natural that he took me along – his brother’s only seed. At the baby age of a little above one, I started my life at Uncle Tuka-Tete’s house. He lived in a posh area of Lushasha, the capital city of Kalushasha. The area was called Mokolila. It had been carefully mapped out for people who mattered in the city. The parks, playgrounds, lawns and pavements had been fashioned by a really astute town planner. The houses spoke of architecture at-its-best. My uncle’s villa stood imposingly in the middle of a well-kept garden that measured a little over a hectare. A solid fence surrounded the garden having an outlet only at the giant gate that stood enticingly at the side of the main road that led to adjoining villas. The grass lawns stayed eternally level like a mower’s playground. The fruit trees and flowers were pruned to satisfy the taste of any aestheticconscious mind. The flora was complemented by a collection of fauna. This confirmed my uncle’s taste for the good things of life. There were herds 36 of rabbits and hares just for the pleasure of having them. There was a caged owl and other caged birds. A tamed parrot was part of the collection of birds. It had its liberty to move anywhere in the yard. A giant tortoise was also kept in the garden. Its habitat was a pit in which were pebbles and an artificial spring. Assorted fishes were also a great delight as they boisterously busied themselves in a well-kept pond. The villa had two floors – the ground and first floor. The ground floor housed the kitchen and a giant living room which was partitioned into three sections. Each section had a set of settees each structured in its own peculiar way to suit the class of guests who were received there. The most honoured guests were usually received in the plushest section. Two giant aquaria stood at each end of the living room. At one other corner stood a giant television set with a video deck attached. Every bedroom had its own set. A state-of-the-art “Akai” musical stereo set also stood by to spill out music just for the asking. So that if anyone...