COCK, COCK, MI LAY OH! Part 1

                              COCK, COCK, MI LAY OH!  

                                                By HENZINGA HENZINGA

Part 1
Young Princess Hen Peck wants to lay.  It’s her first time. She is locked in the hen house with the other birds. She does not want to lay her egg here with all the other birds watching. Moreover, with their constant movements, she could not guarantee the safety of her product. 

The master of the farmhouse and his wife had travelled abroad and left their lazy son Fred Drinkmoore in charge. A man who liked his drink and sleeping late, he left the chickens in the hen coop until ten o’clock some mornings. They had heard his car drive in in the early hours of dawn, just before the first cockcrow, so they did not expect an early release.

“From the time I heard that lazybones Drinkmoore drive in here so late, I knew what to expect, a late breakfast, or should I say brunch?” Baroness Hen Noble said with pecking sarcasm. She and the other birds had no use for the inconsiderate Fred Drinkmoore. At seven o’clock, Fred was still asleep and Princess Hen Peck was in trouble. 

She kept moaning, “What am I going to do?” As she squeezed up her anal sphincter muscles to hold in her egg, she sobbed, “I’m even afraid to pray to God to deliver me, lest he takes me literally and delivers me in this inconvenient place. Blast that alcoholic, brewery-breath stink mouth Fred Drinkmoore,” she swore under her breath.

“Hold it in, Princess Hen Peck. Don’t push. Don’t sneeze even if you’re dying to. Hold it in, chick,” Mrs. Hen Doctrine, who was standing beside her, advised from her many years of experience. She demonstrated the Lamaze breathing technique used in ante-natal birth programmes among females of the human race, and pretty soon Princess Hen Peck had ‘mistressed’ it and was holding her own.

About an hour later, she cackled loud and clear for even the delinquent Fred to hear, “It’s going to come. Oh God, it’s going to come. I can’t hold it in any longer, Mrs. Hen Doctrine, Lamaze technique or no Lamaze technique, I tell you it’s going to come. I gotta go.”

As if by a miracle, Fred appeared and flung the coop door open with a sheepish smile, his breath smelling like a distillery, and apologized. “Sorry, chicks. I overslept again. The work, you know. Too much on mi plate.”

Princess Hen Peck did not wait to listen to Fred’s feeble apology or to allow any other bird, regardless of rank or age, to precede her, but was out like a bolt of lightning. She landed on the ground, made it in one flash to the boxes where the hens lay their eggs. Unfortunately for her, the boxes were all closed against preying night prowlers. Princess Hen Peck stood there in agony, squeezing up her sphincter muscle and Lamazing with all her Lamaze know-how.

At last she cried loud enough to wake the dead, “I can’t hold it in any longer. I simply can’t. Qué será será. What will be will be.” And so saying, she went down on her slender legs, way down, until they could no longer be seen, then raising her lovely tail, her sexual drawing card, sighed. “Aah, ahh, aah!”

After a brief moment, up she jumps, looks at her big, brown, warm egg, saw that it was normal, ovoid and intact, and flapping her dainty wings, proudly proclaimed not only for the whole barnyard to hear, but moreso for a particular male bird to rejoice with her and praise her, “Cock, cock, mi lay, oh!”

Old Queen Mother Henderson, who had laid umpteen eggs umpteen times and was mother both to Princess Hen Peck and to the cock that had served or rather serviced her, remarked to the proud young layer in her driest tone of voice, “As if he cares, my dear. As if he cares. Look over yonder. There is your cock. See if he cares.”

True enough, there was the tall, reddish black and handsome sire of Princess Hen Peck’s first egg, soon-to-be chick, making some pretty staggerlee moves around a beautiful white-plumed virgin pullet, scratching up dirt, stretching his feathery neck and tossing his magnificent red comb, the focus and emblem of his sexuality, and before Princess Hen Peck could peal out again her song of achievement and deliverance, “Cock, cock, mi lay, oh!” he had overpowered the young poulet and finished his business in plain sight of all the members of the barnyard. 

The pullet made a swift and noisy retreat while her macho cock wiped his beak on the earth and strode away with a macho swagger and without as much as a glance in the direction of the startled, jealous and displaced Princess Hen Peck.

“Cock, cock, mi lay, oh!” she sang in melodies pure and sweet to his shiny elegant back, quiet desperation almost rendering her blind.

“Cock, cock, mi lay, oh!” she chirped in her most sexy and melodious tones, flashing her luscious tail which he had professed to find so irresistible.

She couldn’t believe that cock was giving her the cold wing after having courted her so ardently.

“Cock, cock, mi lay, oh!” she appealed in her silvery treble one more time, willing him to take notice of her and thus lessen the shame which was eating away at her heart, the heart he had so lovingly captured from her and promised to treat like china. 

“Turn around, Cock. Turn around and look at me with affection for even one brief second and I will walk out of your life treasuring that moment, that look of caring, and make it last a lifetime. Turn around just once. God of the barnyard, please, let him turn around for me. Turn around, Prince Cock of the Walk. Turn around for your little Peckyweckychoopsiewoopsiedee.”

Cock turned, such a beautiful movement of a beautiful body, and piercing her with a look of scorn which turned her blood to ice and which was not lost on the others, sang in his most mellifluous baritone:

                   “If it wasn’t fah me

Yu couldn’t lay doh

Me, Cockadoodle

Me Cock-a-di-walk

          Me done it, oh!”

And executing another majestic swing, Cockadoodle kept on walking, not at all in her direction.

Princess Hen Peck stood stock still, speechless, stunned, deflated, her mind in turmoil, her pretty little royal beak trembling.

“He’ll be back but not until you are in season again. And you will have him. Mark my cackle, he’ll be back. Sweetheart, he’s only doing his job.” Mrs. Hen Ceforth told her with a bitter twist to her aging beak. She spoke from experience and would have liked to tell Princess Hen Peck that if she paid more attention to what was happening around her rather than spend so much time with her eyes glued to books, she would learn a few facts of life which would better equip her for an event such as this in her life. However, Mrs. Hen Ceforth thought that that was not the appropriate time and kept her thoughts to herself, vowing to express them to the little princess at a more opportune moment.

However much Princess Hen Peck wanted to stop preening and to cease from announcing Cock’s sexual prowess to the barnyard, she couldn’t. Like the egg forcing its way out of her womb as soon as it was ready and she being powerless to stop its emergence, so were the words forcing themselves out of her without her being able to restrain their utterance. Like Leontyne Price, Shirley Bassey, Whitney Houston or Celine Dion, she heard her voice being lifted up out of her very being, wafted on high and ringing out with great avian feminine pride: “Cock, cock, mi lay, oh! Cock, cock, mi lay, oh!”

A feeling of the fiercest outrage and rebellion welled up inside her and she wanted not to want to keep making this silly announcement or to crave her vain cock’s attention, but there was no stopping the ardent desire or the surge of excitement that accompanied her anger. She looked bewildered, and in trying to force herself to stop, she heard herself stuttering to her utter embarrassment: “Cocococock, cocococock, mimi lalalay, ohoh! Oh-o-ooo!”

Old Queen Mother Hen Derson looked more with annoyance than with tolerance at the retreating figure of her son, Prince Cock of the Walk, the most resplendent and cocksure ever of all her descendants, perfect in form, haughty in demeanour, elegant in gait with his long finely spurred legs, well-proportioned wings, brilliant eyes, enchanting voice, lofty aristocratic gaze, a comb that stopped traffic in its magnificence and a well-feathered body with soft silky down sweeping his breast like the finest filigree necklace of pure gold. 

Then she shifted her troubled gaze to take in her puzzled hen child who had laid her first egg and who felt so abandoned by her handsome incestuous brother who had made her so many promises a short time before, and said with a sigh of resignation: “Hen Peck, mi dear, you can’t stop it no matter how hard you try. It comes with the territory, chick. It’s a hen’s nature to announce the delivery of her egg. It’s as compulsive as the very act of laying the egg. You can no more keep quiet about it than you can stop wanting cock once you have started.”

The Queen Mother turned to her mature middle-aged daughter, the Princess Royal, and said, ”Hen Vee, tell your little sister some facts of life for me because certain vital things she’s not going to find in all those books she’s filling up her head with night and day. Tell her the truth for me, Hen Vee, because she is not going to listen to me. Maybe you might be able to penetrate through to her since you are nearer to her in age than I am. Wise her up, I beg you.”

Princess Royal Hen Vee approached her little intellectual sister who had just been initiated into the rites of mating, and shaking her beautiful variegated head that had won for her many cocks, including her brother, the cock of interest, the Don Juan Prince Cock of the Walk, cackled with all the resignation and expertise of hen matronhood that she could muster: “Learn this, little sister. All that is happening to you this morning is an occupational hazard of henhood. You can’t avoid it, chick. You can’t sidestep it. You can’t even choose your own cock. I have had to submit to all kinds of cocks with no one to defend me, to our father, our brothers, to our uncles, to our male cousins and even to old grampa cock with one drumstick in the pot! Relax, Pecky. Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is but to lay and tell.”

But young Princess Hen Peck could no more relax than if she had worms in her ears. She was blubbering and threatening to assault Prince Cock of the Walk one moment and take him to Fowl Family Court the next. It was then that their mother-in-common, the Queen Mother Hen Derson whispered to the Princess Royal to get a message to Capt. Hen Semble to call a Hen Party Summit immediately.

  
To be continued.

All the images were taken from the Internet and I claim no copyright. 

MAA TIN TIN Part 2

This short story is written in Jamaican patois (patwa).

                            MAA TINTIN 

                           By Nzinga Nzinga

When I heard, my belly trembled; my lips quivered at the voice: rottenness entered into my bones, and I trembled in myself, that I might rest in the day of trouble…

Habakkuk 3v16.

Part 2 

“Come, Maa Tintin, come wid mi.” Cudjoe kept urging.

“Yes, Ranny. Yu was always a loving an carin chile, Maas Ran. Ah will come wid yu now, Ranny.”

“Maa Tintin, is mi, mi Cudjoe.”

“Ranny, wat a way yu can tek serious ting mek joke. Cudjoe ded.”

“Maa Tintin, doan sey dat. Mi no ded.”

She hugs him tight. “Ranny, it goin to bi hard wid Cudjoe gone. Dat bwoy cudda do di wuk of two big man even doh im was juss your age. How ole? Nine years? Im die young. There was no wuk im cudden manage. No wuk was too much fi im. Im was like a beese of burden. Im really bad lucky to die at such a tender age. Im draw bad card. May his soul rest in peace.”

The boy tries to pull away from the old lady’s tight embrace.

“Maa Tintin, is Ranny ded. Is mi Cudjoe was holdin yu han an is mi Cujoe yu queezin so tight.”

In a stern voice she admonishes him. “Wat yu seyin , Ranny? Tap talking foolishness, chile. Afta Cudjoe an mi was nebber on dose terms. Im wudden dare come hole mi han much less fi mi fi hug im up. Di bwoy was like servant. Missis an servant doan fratanize. Doan pull wey from mi. Eben doh im was mi granson, im fadda was a wutliss bwoy from dung a bridge while yu, even doh born out a wedlock, is the son of Mr. Templeton from over bridge. Ah doan countenance dat kine a low class behaviour eben in mi own daatah.”

“Ranny ded, Maa Tin Tin. Is Ranny ded.”

“Why yu keep seyin dat, Ranny? How yu to be ded an yu is here wid mi? Yu know someting, Ranny? Wi haffi get anadda bwoy fi tek Cudjoe place. Maybe wan neddah wan a Becky bayfoot, natty hed bwoy dem. Wan a Cudjoe hungry-belly bredda dem. As soon as ebriting si to dis side, wi can go dung a country an tek wan. Is so much a dem dung deh, nobaddy gwine miss one. Doan walk so fass, Ranny, mi feeling tyad bad. It gwine tek some time fi train di new bwoy like how mi did train Cudjoe. Tap trying to pull wey, Ranny. Ah tyad. Mi hed a hat mi bad like seh sumaddy a tek hamma an beat mi eena it. Yes, mi did train Cudjoe well excep in wan ting. Cudden get im to call yu Maas Ran, at all. Always a raw-up raw-up yu name like yu an im was any companion.”

“Wi was cousin,” the boy retorted.

“Dat maybe so but wi have to draw di line somewhere, sometime, somehow. Why yu walkin so faas like you tryin to get wey from mi? Slow down, Ranny. Mi heart beating faas, yu si, an mi hed feel light. Mussen because mi lef di house dis maanin before cock crow an ah doan eat a bite since den.. Den di sun it so hat. Wen di new bwoy come, mek sure seh im call yu Maas Ran. Doan pull wey from mi. Wi haffi stick togedder now. Why yu start bawling again, chile?”

“Mi sorry im ded. Im was mi fren.”

“Fren nutten. Ranny, how the two a yu to be fren an him sleep pon board eena kitchen an yu sleep pon bed eena di house?”

She holds tightly unto him, preventing his escape, muttering chant-like:

“A who sey Maas Ran ded? How Maas Ran fi ded? A who sey Maas Ran ded up a yard? How pretty, pretty Maas Ran fi ded?”

Then in a voice like an elocutionist reciting to an audience:

“In the midst of life dere is det an di Lawd giveth an di Lawd taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lawd for doh I walk tru the valley of the shadow of det I will fear no evil for dow art wid me an dye rod an dye staff dey comfort me.”

She stares at the boy with a cunning scheming look on her face. She smiles in a strange hypnotic fashion. It’s frightening to a nine year old. He struggles to pull away. He can’t. She smiles in a contented way as if satisfied at what she sees in Cudjoe’s face.

“Ranny,” she says, “Ranny, ah gwine sey somting dat nat gwine soun charitible but mi haffi sey it. Ranny, mi glad seh is Cudjoe silver cord cut an nat your own. It not hard fi

fine anadda bwoy fi put eena Cudjoe place, but Ranny, Maas Ran, if it was yu now, if Massa Gawd did see it fit to call yu home at this tender age, ah wudda muss go mad!”

PREQUEL TO MAA TINTIN or what should have been the introduction……………

The tiny old lady urges the donkey through the thicket towards the river bank. She carries on a conversation either with herself or with the ass.

“Soon reach home. Only half mile lef now. Ah bone tyad. Is long time since me deh pon di road. From before daylite. Mi bone dem gettin ole now but dere is no ress in site fi mi for a long time to come. Di bwoy dem too young fi manage dat big place. Turty acres. Maas Ran have a nice piece a legacy comin to im. Anyway, at his age, di piece a cake mi carryin fi im is of more intress an value to im now dan all that lan." 

She continues with a tired sigh, "Di place need some bushing doh. Cudjoe can come out tomarrow an do wat im can. What a brute can wuk! Maas Ran to go baaba tomarrow go cut im hair. The chile hair so saaf an pretty ah hate to cut it but what to do. If im is to grow up to be a gentleman im wi juss a fi do wat gentleman pickney dem do. Ah glad ah could buy dis nice school shoes fi im. Funny ting how im not fussy bout new tings. Im contented to run barefoot bout di place in di hat hat sun like dat big foot Cudjoe if ah would let im dweet."

“Wey yu si Mister Templeton bwoy dem going bout di place barefoot?’’ ah seys to im. Im doan like to hear dat kine a talk. Sey im prefer to be like Cudjoe more dan dem sissy Templeton children. But ah will mek im into a gentleman if is di lass ting a do. My handsome Ranny with im skin light like the Templeton boy dem. Boy bright like a new penny. Teacher sey dat im good enough to win up all di scholarship dem dat come is way. Dat is good news for the Templeton children dem head tough. Dunce like bat. Cudjoe im, fi im head so tough im lucky if im eben larn fi read im name much less write it. Teacher sey mi fi try send im a school more often but teacher a joke. Who gwine do di wuk when di bwoy gone a school ebry day? Teacher musbe coming to do it fi Cudjoe. Teacher can gwoan talk. Im ave yard boy. Still nutten no wrong if Cudjoe miss out on reading an writing. Mi nebber larn any of dose tings an mi nebber tun cruff. It might even confuse Cudjoe head.”

She stops the donkey by the water’s edge and leads him to drink while she continues musing, “Ah glad ah buy dis nice school shoes for Maas Ran. Cudjoe can get the ole wan dem. Maas Ran can well spare im dat one for im have tree pare an Cudjoe have only wan an it need new bottom but mi caan afford fi fix it now. If mi eber sey dat mek Ranny hear im gwine ask why me never tek di money mi use fi buy shoes fi im fix Cudjoe own. Still, is mi wan supporting dem an mi doing mi bess. Bwoy, ah really tiyad.”

She stoops down and using her hands as a cup, drinks copiously of the clear, sweet spring water. She gets up, yawns.

“Ah wonder why ah feel so tiyad. Mi lef eye a jump from maaning like mi gwine hear bad news. Ah hope is not mi sugar gone up why ah so tiyad. Ah muss go to Clinic tomarrow an beg Miss Maud check mi urine fi mi.”

She throws the rope over the donkey’s head. He follows obediently. “Mi caan badda mount yu now. Mi wi sen back wan a de bwoy dem fi yu.” She hitches him to a tree. He is contented to stay there and graze in the lush grass. She walks a few chains and sees a figure running towards her.

“Dat look like Cudjoe. Yes. Is Cudjoe.”

He’s within hailing distance. He is close up to her now.

“Cudjoe, wha happen? Bwoy, look how yu a sweat an wat a way yu a blow hard. It waan look like is you travel over six miles to Calabash Bay and not mi.”

“Maa Tintin!, Maa Tintin! Ranny ded!”

THE END

All the images were taken from the Internet and I claim no copyright. 

TAATA & ME Part 2

TAATA & ME 

By Nzinga Nzinga

For Taata & my darling little Sister, Norma Evadne 1940-2003  

 
Part 2
Because I was Taata’s only relative there, the spectators, who watched this minor drama unfold, had no idea of the close bond which existed between the old man and me. None of them knew that he was going back to our house where he wouldn’t have me, his little nana to tease and to love and to do the little odd jobs for him. They could not know that at dinnertime he gave me all his fish heads and the bones from his chicken. Who would pass him his pipe without his asking for it? Who would listen to stories of his sojourn in Panama, Cuba and Costa Rica? To whom would he address certain affectionate phrases in Spanish? Of course there were two other grandchildren in the household but only I had that special relationship with him.

I couldn’t bear the imminent parting and no delaying tactics were acceptable because he had to leave before dark set in. I just stood there watching. I watched him drain his glass, put out his pipe, say a cheery goodbye to everyone—obviously his heart was not breaking like mine or maybe his many years of experience had taught him how to mask his feelings-- and then, “Come on, Nana, what’s the matter? Aren’t you coming around to say adios to your Taata?” Yes, it was goodbye time for me. I stood there behind the counter, frozen, willing him to stay there and not to do the thing he was about to do; willing him to come around the counter, scoop me up and ride away with me on Maggie as he often did at home. 

Yes, I stood there like a statue, willing time to stand still and for Saturday, that particular Saturday, to stand still for ever between us. For me, there was no one else in that shop besides Taata and me. We occupied the whole space—the dry goods section, the bar, the grocery section, the kerosene area and even the front and back patios. As a matter of fact we were the whole Universe. It never occurred to me that Taata might not have been feeling the way that I felt. That he was not drowning in pain. Oft, when in deep distress over another, one expects that he or she also shares ones pain.

What was he thinking? Could he really believe that I wanted to stay there with them and not go home with him and Maggie? Home for me was only one place. His house. My father’s house was fine for them because they belonged to it and it to them. Not so for me. I belonged to my grandparents’ house and it to me. Of a truth, it was not as posh as my father’s, but it was familiarly ‘home sweet home’. My grandparents were peasant farmers and my father a successful businessman. Did my grandfather think that I would rather stay with people who were more like strangers to me in comparison to the warm kinship with him and the others at home? Their lifestyle was very different from ours and I preferred ours.

My grandfather was standing there in front of me, the counter between us and it was only then I realized that his hands with those long slender fingers were covering mine, which I had placed on the counter to steady myself. The teardrops, mine, were falling on his hands but he made no effort to wipe them away. 
“Don’t cry, mi ninita. You’ll soon be back. Only a week more and your Aunty will come for you. See how last week went fast?” He consoled me.

Only another week? Couldn’t he see I was going to die from homesickness? No, he couldn’t see that because I didn’t get the chance to tell him, what with my father or sister there with us all the time. Moreover, if I told him, it would be like betraying these paternal folks who were actually quite nice to me. What he didn’t know was that they were not the affectionate and cosy type. How could he know that everyday that it started to get dark dreadful feelings of pain and alienation, a deep sense of loss and bewilderment would descend on me from I-knew-not-where and totally possess and overwhelm me and that I would have to seek out a place where I could hide and be alone to weep for those at home, especially for him? 

Could he really believe that I was happy? Of course I was alright from dawn to that devastating time around dusk when I would forget the happy moments with my younger sister, a nice person, who was very glad for my company. I forgot those pleasant times now. I didn’t turn my eyes to my sister or my father. At that moment they were not in the equation. They were the ones who were keeping me in exile from my real people and my ‘home sweet home’.

Taata stood there helpless. I felt that he wanted to scoop me up on his thin shoulders as he used to do at home, but the present occasion called for the dignified action and wise decision of a big grown man. In a sense the counter no longer separated us. I was leaning over it with my tear-washed face in his trembling hands. Not a word passed between us. The others were busy in the shop or outside. All, except my father, a very handsome man, another wise grown-up who sat behind the counter near me with a half empty glass in front of him and not a word on his lips. He was a mere spectator. I looked at him pleadingly and surprised what I took to be an understanding light in his eyes—a moistness which was not a reflection of my tearstained eyes.

Taata looked very sad. His eyes too were wet and yet those two grown-up men could do nothing to alleviate my distress. The women, my grandmother and my aunt who mothered me, had made this school vacation arrangement with my stepmother and the two men were helpless in the face of it. The objective behind this was for me to get to know my father and his family. This was to be the first of future holiday visits to my father’s house. Of course nobody bothered to ask for my opinion or my approval.

I knew it was hopeless to expect to go with Taata but I joined him on the other side of the counter, received his hug with a tight one of mine and then sobbing as if my heart would break, walked with him to the place where Maggie was tethered. Taata looked so thin with his merino, clean and white, set quite decidedly above the open neck of his check shirt. He always wore a merino under his shirt because he was plagued with a bronchial disorder. For the first time I thought of him as an old man and I caught a fleeting glimpse of his mortality. Could this be the last time I would see him alive? The realization frightened me. 

I stood by, still weeping, and watched him mount his mule. I caressed Maggie. He bent down and gave my shoulder a last squeeze. The inevitable had come to pass. Taata was riding away on Maggie, clippety cloppety clop on the asphalted road, away from me to the familiar places, familiar faces, meals, fruits, flowers, games, Anancy stories and little Spanish endearments from time to time, things with which I was totally at ease, while I, a victim of circumstances, could not accompany him the two and a half miles.

He had gone beyond the bend in the road which made it impossible to see him any longer. My stomach was churning. My head was down. My heart was feeling low. I kept my eyes tightly clenched. Suddenly, someone flung his long arm around my shoulders and another took my right hand in hers. “Come, sweetheart. Let’s lock up and go home.” I didn’t have to open my eyes to recognize the rich baritone voice of Papa or to identify the hand in mine as that of my younger sister, Vadne. I moved away with these two people. The love I was unfolding there would be a different kind of loving but nonetheless, it was love. The home to which they were leading me was a different kind of home, but it was nonetheless a good home. 

I didn’t stop crying altogether, but I started to get feelings of belonging as these two people with whom I shared paternal genes, comforted me. There was tenderness there. Even though my heart still yearned for Taata and my maternal environs, I decided then and there to give their kind of loving a chance. Yes, I would love them and be loved by them. 

THE END

 All the images were taken from the Internet and I claim no copyright.  

TAATA & ME Part 1

TAATA & ME

by Nzinga Nzinga

Pt 1 

For Taata & my darling little sister, Norma Evadne, 1940-2003 

Only my maternal grandfather, Taata could or would be able to understand, appreciate, feel happy and rejoice about my decision to repatriate to Africa. He always spoke of Africa as the home of the black man and how much he would like to live there. He believed in Marcus Garvey and his opinions. Taata had even invested in the Black Star Line Shipping Company. His shares were kept in an old battered trunk which had travelled with the family through their sojourn in Panama, Costa Rica and Cuba and eventually back to Jamaica.

Taata wouldn’t ask, like my friend, Christina, who lives in Canada, “Repatriate where? To America, Canada or England?” 

Or a young relative, Michelle, who is studying in Atlanta: “What you going to Africa to do? Did your parents spend all that money to educate you for you to go and throw away your talent on those heathens?”

Or a family friend, an elder politician, who exclaimed, “They going to nyam you! You too fool-fool. Why do you believe they are going to welcome you back to Africa, you, a descendant of someone they sold as a slave? What’s wrong with staying here in Jamaica or going to America, Canada, U.K or other parts of Europe, for that matter? You’ve studied, lived or visited there. I’m telling you that they are going to eat you.”   

Or my cousin, Basil the computer genius who lives in England,
“How can you repatriate to a country that is not yours? ‘Re’ means ‘back’ and ‘patriate’ is from the Latin word ‘patria’ meaning fatherland or Motherland if you prefer that. In plain English, ‘to return to the land of your fathers’. But I don’t need to tell you that. You are the Latin brains in this family. Anyway, to return to the issue in hand, you no more belong to Africa than you do to USA, Canada, Russia or the UK. In fact if you are foolish enough to follow this senseless dream of yours, you are surely going to regret it. It is going to turn into a nightmare. I could better understand if you said you were coming here to England. After all, that’s our Mother Country, isn’t it?"

I couldn't believe he said that. Could he still regard England as his Mother Country?

He wore a troubled expression as he continued, "Actually I am quite worried about my niece and nephew going off into the wilds of Africa with no kith or kin to call on if necessary. If you change your mind and decide to come to England, I will pay your fare, yours and the children’s, and have accommodation for one year waiting for you. Think about it seriously. You won’t get a better offer. I told you before that it will not be difficult for you to get a job here. If push comes to shove, you can join my firm.”

Those were the sort of negative sentiments that bombarded me whenever the matter of my desire to repatriate to Africa came up and it came up frequently.

“Too frequently, if you ask me,” I told my godmother, Aunt Joney whose only objection was that I was going so far away. When I told Aunt Joney that England was not near, she replied, “You’re right, child. You see, I’ve lived in England for forty long years and I have a good idea of what you will encounter there, but as for Africa, I don’t know ‘dee nor doh’ about it  and I don’t know anyone who has ever had any good thing to say about it.”

“What about Marcus Garvey?”

"That man never set foot on African soil so how come he can talk so much ‘bout Africa? He reminds me of your grandfather, Taata. Always talking about this Africa. How it is a fine place and that it’s the homeland for all black people. I can’t say they are wrong and I can’t say they are right being as I never ever been there myself. To tell you the truth, I never ever got that desire to go there. Not like you and Taata.”

“There are people you know who have been to Africa and back safe and sound—like Newsy Waps, Eddie Burke.”

“That’s a different kettle of fish. They were missionaries. Maybe, just maybe you could give some consideration to Basil’s advice. Sometimes an outsider sees more than the insider who is too close up to distinguish the woods from the trees. England is not such a bad place you know.”

“I have never said it is a bad place, only that it is not my place.”

“Is not what you say but how you react to the suggestion that you might see it as an option.”

At those times I wished Taata were still alive to support my decision to repatriate to Africa. As always, thoughts of him came into my mind.

I still feel teary at the memory of a time, a brief moment in my life and in Taata’s when his leaving to go somewhere else away from me seemed so painful. 

I have always had great difficulty in saying goodbye in parting with anyone whom I love and I have always loved many people. It was even harder saying farewell to Taata. I felt so much at ease with him. There was not a minute that I felt that I was not an extra special person for him, a treasured, beloved, cherished and adored grandchild.

This time of which I speak was the afternoon of a Saturday market day when the usual market day crowd -- buyers, sellers and other commuters were dispersing in different directions. I stood in one of my father’s shops—he had two, one in Thornton beside the house, and the other at Appleton near the railway station. You could stay there and call to the passengers on the train. We used to rush to buy Mills & Boon romances, comics and pocket books off the train when it grounded to a stop. As I  watched a train gearing up to pull out of the station, a feeling of acute melancholy and sadness engulfed me. It was the same indescribable sadness that usually overwhelmed me when I watched a passenger train pull out of a station. I didn’t have to know anyone on it. I think it was the inevitability of it, the inability to say goodbye without breaking up or down. 

As the train gave its final hoot and slowly dragged away, out of sight, my sister came to call me to the front.

“Your grandfather is ready to leave”, she said. We did not share a maternal grandpa. I had known all along that he would be leaving for home but that did not make coming to terms with it any easier. I couldn’t bear it anymore than I could bear the thought of mouthing the goodbye words. He was leaving me. 

All the folks from our village had already left, bar one, the nephew of my stepmother. He was always the last to leave. And there he was, unlocking his bicycle to make his homeward journey. A shiver ran through my body, leaving goose pimples. All hope was gone. Everybody was leaving me alone, a vulnerable little girl in the company of a side of her family with which she was not at home. This was my first time away from the comfortable and familiar bosom of my loving maternal family.

Soon my tear-sodden eyes would follow him atop our mule, Maggie, as far as the bend in the road which would unfeelingly take him away from me. I felt an unreasonable resentment for the road which would, in the twinkling of an eye, rob me of his beloved presence. I was petrified with fear that I may be left there forever, forgotten by those I held most dear for whatever reason.

Never mind the kind faces of my father, my sister, the two shop assistants and the three unfamiliar customers. They knew what was going on but none of them could fathom the depth of profundity of my feelings of despair. Taata, my Taata, was leaving me. 

To be continued.

All the images were taken from the Internet and I claim no copyright.