Drum Bits of Terror: Drum Bits of Terror

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1 Part One There were no drum bits of joy to mark his birth. The sky was cloudless and a clear blue, But the sun was bitter in its rising, red, hot, sizzling. In the house, filled with whispers of discomfiture, There was no jubilation when he took his first breath, Just hushed murmurs of: ‘It’s a boy!’ That was all, nothing more, nothing less. Whispers of disappointment raved the air: If only it had been a girl, if only it had been a girl, That would have made all the difference, For she comes with no inheritance imposition! As for the boy, a taboo child at best, Carrying baggage of dishonour, who will offer him land? He, a mere transient visitor at his motherland! 2 3 1 ho is my father?” Sam asked the Old Man one afternoon as they sat under the canopy of the gum tree. His tone was very abrasive. The Old Man who was sitting in an old wicker chair shifted his weight to the left, but remained soundless Gawking at the Old Man and assuming he had not heard him, Sam repeated his question, ignoring proper decorum of speaking to an elderly man. Not just any old man, but his grandfather. Any young man or woman would know how to address the elderly among Logooli people with respect. “Guga1 , I said,” he bellowed and then paused as though he had recognized his mistake; he had not. “Who is my father? I want to know right now!” His abrasive tone was unchanged. Pained, the Old Man simply stared at him. When he opened his lips to speak, he only mumbled, “I am afraid son, but I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to?” His tone was calm and collected. “Why not?” Sam queried angrily. The pitch of his tone was raised one notch higher than before. Startled, the Old Man regarded the young chap in silence, brushing his balding cranium with the palm of his left hand. When he finally spoke again, his voice was not only raspy, but also trembled, “Son . . . I didn’t know his name . . . I didn’t know his name.” His statement carried with it the weight of defeat. Sam did not believe him, and that was the genesis of their lifelong disagreements . . . From the day he was born in a small pristine Mung’oma village, Sam was destined to lead a bad life. Not just a bad life, but a terribly bad life. Nothing was physically wrong with him, save for having been born out of wedlock. Coupled with that truth was the unsettling news he received the day the Old Man, now his guardian, dropped in his lap a light blue envelope edged with red and blue decorative 1 Grandfather “W 4 rectangular boxes. As usual, he was sitting on an old wicker chair under the canopy of the towering gum tree. It was there where he sat to find peace of mind or sought refuge from the sweltering heat of the sun. With his eyes closed, and mute in his silence, he rested his head on the back of the chair. He was oblivious to the passage of time, be it hour by hour, minute by minute, or second by second, even if he knew time never stayed still for any mortal. Such was the day when the Old Man dropped the envelope in his lap, several weeks after he had accosted him. There was no name on the envelope other than a small inscription in red, which read: “The Verdict.” He squint his eyes in disbelief, hoping the envelope finally held the key to the mystery of his paternity. He was quiet momentarily—his soul yearning for a clearness of heart. Then, fear settled in like lead and nearly paralyzed him. Unable to open the envelope, he watched it in silence. The Old Man watched. This went on for some time. Soon, after mustering courage, he thrust his index fingers in one of the corners of the envelope. Forcefully, he ripped it open. Inside, his eyes fell on a piece of paper. He pulled it out. The paper was greyish white, perhaps from years of exposure to smoke from a kerosene lamp. No care whatsoever seemed to have been taken to preserve the note; the importance of its content diminished by its mere physical appearance. With wobbly hands, Sam opened it. The...