In Memoriam (One-Man-Act, An Excerpt)

Now he comes into the bedroom. He is clad in completely different attire – t-shirt and shorts. He throws himself onto the bed and lies there with his face buried for some time. Then without changing his position he extends his arm to switch on the radio:

Good morning. This is a news flash. In another family murder, an off-duty policeman has gunned down four people and then turned the gun on himself in the Cape Flats. Among those confirmed dead are the man, his wife of ten years and their three children. The reason for the killings is not yet established, but similar crimes, which have been on the rise among police personnel lately, have been blamed on work-related stress. More on this report in later bulletins.

He moves to another station where a sad horn is wailing plaintively. When the song eventually fades out he rises up, in a reminiscing mood:

Laikas…Laikas was one of those heroic characters that you find in tragedies. A being selfless to a fault. The son of a builder, his physique bore testimony to a childhood spent in apprentice to the father. Statuesque in built, some of us said of him in jest, his sinewy body resembled the male figure upon the orgasmic moment. He possessed, over and above, the boundless energy of ten African drummers put together. He could go on foot for mile upon mile, without in the least hinting at any fatigue – all in the baking heat of the tropics. Fit as a madman, some likened him to the ancient American Fargo - symbol of indefatigable endurance.

And yet he at the same time was gifted with an almost peasant-like humility, flashing a sheepishly friendly grin to all he encountered. Certainly, the wajirani liked him most among us. He learnt their luga quicker than all; observing the ritual salama without fail; always stopping for a small chat and even picking up their little watoto for a little teasing. The kids definitely liked him more – blurting out his adopted name upon sight. Malaika, he was indeed an angel.

I first met him at a camp around the time when I was completely burnt out. Propaganda work and its sloganeering had totally lost sting for me; and I was seeking to carve out a new meaning for life. We had long lost the initiative and dream of victory a la Mozambique and Angola was no longer in question. Talks had become inevitable. I was rediscovering my inner voice after a long time, and seeking conduit for it.

He was introduced to me as a poet and I was greatly excited; for I too was already one, though still of a closet nature. I soon discovered that in actual fact he was an actor, rather. He was passionate about the written word, quoting long passages without a wince. Hearing with his soul, he was capable of regurgitating verbatim any tract that had as much as touched his heart. I daresay, his memory was of the magnitude of genius. All day long he went about as if in delirium – throwing about lines by the likes of Don Mattera. It was as if in this way he was communing with the very Gods. He really could tickle my fascination with anecdotes from the world of the writer inside the country – the world whose byways I so yearned to walk.

Soon we were close and at his insistence, he began to read my work at political events around Dar.