Drum Bits of Terror: Drum Bits of Terror

31

199 31 rom the moment they set foot at the police station, Wanja, and many other displaced people in Kakamega town, knew it was going to be their temporary home for a very long time. They were cut from everyone and everything that mattered in their lives—from simple material things to the pure comfort of a home, clean, safe and secure and most of all, food. There was not too much to do. Every day, when they rose-up at dawn or when dusk fell, and night time emerged, they had nothing to do. They sat and brooded about their loss. In the morning, when the desire for a stroll entered into their psyche, the displaced aborted it with the swiftness and speediness of lightning, as though the idea never crossed their minds. Walking and strolling anywhere was a cancerous cyst of their everyday life. They could not leave the compound for they had become prisoners in their own country. When the sun went down and the eeriness and creepiness of darkness emerged, the rampant threatening whispers, the nightly cooing sounds of the owl, or the irritating crickets, made their hearts cringe in fear—if only it was dawn, if only it was dawn. Though when dawn came, nothing changed. At night, when they slept under the open sky exposed to the elements of nature, they could barely see beyond their nose. When the nightly draft swept over their exposed skin, their bodies shuddered in its nippiness. They had no blankets. They had no mattresses. They had nothing. No basic needs. For sustenance, they lived on maize and beans and water and nothing more. They had no privacy. They had no bathroom. They defecated in the same place where they lived and slept. They used ‘flying paper’ as a toilet, which they threw over the fence. These discomforts simply reminded them of the value of life, that which they had lost in a twinkling. Inwardly, they consoled themselves: It could have been worse. So days came and passed, but the unrest remained. Weeks came and passed, but nothing changed. Months came, and they, too, passed, but nothing changed. F 200 When he rains came, the Red Cross brought Wanja and other displaced people tents, beans and peas. Then diseases broke . . . Children became sick with malaria. Older people caught cholera. Those with weakened immune system, too, contracted malaria or cholera. They could not go to the hospitals for obvious reasons. There were no doctors to attend to their sick. When the Red Cross doctors later intervened, it was too late for some of the patients. The weak ones already succumbed to their illness. Those who beat their sickness remained weakened by their experience. Nothing changed beyond that. Another month came and passed. Nothing changed. There was talk about the displaced people going back to their homes after the coalition government was formed. “What homes?” some wondered. Nothing changed. They were still displaced. Then, one day, a Man of the Law came and told them: “You are going to be compensated for your loss.” That was in April of 2008. Wanja’s face perked. Faces of the displaced perked-up with delight. “There was one condition,” the man said. “You have to return home.” “What home?” someone mumbled. Fear returned. They had no homes. Their neighbourhoods were destroyed. Their neighbours did not want them . . . That had not changed. The coalition government did not do anything to make life better. That was a fact. They had nothing! That was a fact. Money could not fix what they had lost. That was a fact. Money could not mend wounded hearts! That, too, was a fact. When time for compensation came, the Man of the Law returned. He was not alone. He was accompanied by a tall well-built stern looking thirty-seven-year-old policeman. He was dressed in a well-pressed starched police uniform with his pistol securely resting on his left side. To complete his official look, he had on a hat with its insignia and inscription—’Utumishi wa Wote: Kenya Police.’ The man’s name was Okongolo, whom people quickly nick-named ‘The Guard.’ He was of the service to ‘all.’ The Man of the Law did not go into any chit-chats with the displaced. He had a purpose for his visit: To deliver a message to camp-dwellers before the day’s end. It was compensation for their loses: Ten thousand shillings, maize and [18.191.189.85...