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.