The last run with my father
The phone call
I had somehow known that one of these phone calls that I really dread would finally just bear bad news. To preserve my eight hours of sleep, I have always made it a tradition not to touch the phone from ten in the night, until seven the next day. Everybody close to me knows this. My reasoning is that I need my undisturbed sleep, usually. Occasionally, when I spend those late nights in a party, I still need the late night to enjoy, not to answer phone calls.
The phone vibrated at about four-thirty in the morning. This particular one disturbed my sleep and I awakened. By the time I got to the phone on the bedside table, it was already off. The caller ID confirmed that it was my elder brother. He knows that I do not receive late night calls – he had never called me this early ever. My mind was already in a spin. I kind of knew what awaited me when the day breaks.
I thought of calling back, but coincidentally did not have credit. I therefore decided to wait until six, when I would get out of the house and visit the early-riser shopkeepers to buy airtime. I could not sleep though, so I switched on the telly and watched the early morning news on CNN then flipped to AlJazeera on another channel. Another flip landed me on BBC world. None of our local stations was back. They were still on break during which they feed into these international channels.
I dragged myself out of the house a few minutes to six and made my way to the shops, just across the main street. It takes about a minute from my house to the shops, since I see the main street while seated on my verandah. The morning was still cold and a bit dark. However, the matatus on the road were already making their characteristic loud beeps and deafening music. The touts were already shouting each other down, beckoning passengers to their vehicles.
Back to the house, just before I could load the airtime, the phone rang once more, messing up my progression of keying in the 14-digit recharge PIN.
“Yes,” I started
“Barack, is that Barack? Is that you my brother, this is Pauline,” the caller was low and a bit breathless.
“Yes, it’s me”
“Dad is gone. I said Dad is gone”
I just sat there, not sure whether I even disconnected the phone or she did. I just sat by the reading table, the recharge scratch card on my left, the phone on the right…. and did nothing. I do not know what went through my mind. Come to think of it, I probably blacked out. I came back to reality at about 6.30am, when the news sank in and I walked to the bathroom sink to wash my face.
Find it out
There is no proper signage at Kakamega’s PGH, though they are trying to do a facelift. Together with three siblings, we were at the hospital to clear medical bills and finalize preparations for the send-off. From the main hospital, we were directed to go ‘down there, after the gate’.
We kept going, managed to get through the hospital’s back gate and were then faced with two compounds - one whose gate was closed, the other whose gate was partially open. There was no sign of life on either. With one of my bros having been left behind at the main hospital, instinct directed the three of us to turn left into the compound with the partially open gate, just across a dilapidated once-tarmac road.
We walked into the compound not knowing what to expect. There was an L-shaped block, with the open room on our left empty, some five meters away, while the nearer block had its windows facing us. While wondering where to go next, or even where we were, we heard some sound like the movement of wheels on the ground coming from our backs. This was coming from the direction of the gate that we came in through. We all looked back, almost in rhythm, only to see two people pushing a trolley towards the compound. Without a doubt, there was a still body on the trolley, partly covered, with the head part partially visible, being wheeled towards the empty room to our left. The two did not seem to notice us, since they just passed by us continuing their small talk.
“This is it!,” we said almost in unison.
We proceeded to the block on our right and went through a door, to face a long empty corridor with doors on both sides. There was no one, no sound nor any signs on the doors. From afar, we could make out the voices of the two gents and their trolley on the left of our earshot.
“Now, where do we go?,” asked Pam
“Kwani hi hosi ya gava haina watu?,” retorted my bro.
“Let us find out,” I said.
The search
And therefore, methodically, we started trying out doors on either side of the corridor, one at a time, each of us targeting a separate door. We would knock, try the handle and then try to open. The first four doors on our entrance side were all locked. The fifth one gave way, beckoning us to all convene at the particular door. However, there was nobody in the room, though it was evidently an office, with two chairs and an old worn out table. On the table was a black book, which was evidently old and in need of replacement. We stood partly in the room, partly out, for about five minutes, but no one came by. The place remained quiet, almost eerie.
We all matched out and decided to wait for someone to come over. However, my sis’s patience ran out soon after, as she disappeared hardly two minutes later, back to the block to look for someone - anyone.
“Wemukuja, twende,” she summoned us five minutes later.
We went to the office we had already identified, to find a guy in white overall, a cap and gloved hands. He extended his hand in our direction, in a manner of greeting.
“Jambo,” we answered from afar, ignoring his outstretched hand.
“Mwatakaje?”
“Tumekuja kuona Mzee”
“Anaitwaje?”
“David... David Wanjawa”
He fingered the wornout book, “Alikuja lini?”
“Eh, ilikuwa, eh….,” we started almost in unison, as we searched out mental diaries…
“Ilikuwa Thursday morning, tarehe tano. Julai tarehe tano”
He continued using his right finger as a guide as he did the permutation of date and name, until finally, “Oh, ndio huyu,” he pointed at some hand written entry.
“Ndio huyo,” we responded, in confirmation, after gazing through the entry.
He then picked a small piece of paper, out of the many such sized papers that had previously been some pre-printed stationery, now cut into small pieces, with only one side usable. He scribbled some things, did some loud arithmetic, then pointed the paper in our direction, “Pay this bill, then come back.”
This directive forced us back to the main hospital. After paying the bill, getting some paperwork and a notification certificate, we went back to the morgue with the receipts, only for the attendant to say that, “there is no viewing on Thursdays”. As we retreated in anger, he added, “and better be here tomorrow in good time, since we also close early, by two”
Fight it out
Even good plans can go bad, and that is how our perfectly planned Friday started out. We travelled to KK early, in my brothers salon car, reaching there by nine – favoured mainly by the weather which enabled us make the 60km journey in just under an hour. Had it rained, we would not have left our home before mid-day, so there is no need to even try talking about a ‘what if’, as far as the rains are concerned. In fact, we wasted a lot of driving time on the Sabatia-Butere stretch of the earth road, which is still under construction - and the rains had pounded this part the previous night.
“Yani hi barabara itajengwa miaka ngapi? This is the third year and it is still being dug out!”
It is on this stretch that we also met with the hired matatu, that was to have left home with us, one hour prior. The timing of the day was starting out on the wrong timing.
At KK, we went straight to the place where we had hired the hearse, only to be told that ‘it is not available until later’. How can a ten o’clock appointment be ‘later’? We tried the contact number provided by the person who had taken the 8k deposit the previous day, but he was unreachable. With tempers almost flaring, we were provided with the number of the manager to the company, who promised to come to KK in person and sort the mess. During the phone conversation, he had said that he was even unaware that we had hired one of his vehicles, nor paid a deposit. When he finally arrived, one hour later, the manager, with lots of apology, informed us that the ‘young man’ had booked the vehicle to two parties on the same day, hoping for double profit - some for his own keeping. He concluded by promising us another hearse at two o’clock.
We just hanged around the vicinity of the depressing morgue, watching one sad party after another come in vehicles, mourn briefly, then depart with caskets. In the midst of the depression, my attention was drawn to some commotion at the morgue gate, “Huwesi chukua mtoto wangu. Si ulimufukusa? Si muliachana miaka saba imepita? Huwesi kabisa.”
A story was developing, where two different parties came to claim the body of a deceased woman. The mother of the deceased and the children of the deceased on one side and the estranged husband, whom they had separated, on the other side.
In my depression I forgot to notice the hearse with the husband's party speed off, with the mother of the deceased and her lot in hot pursuit – but you cannot chase after a running vehicle on bare foot, can you? Before our very eyes we witnessed a body being stolen – but what to do!
A Dream
My dad was interred on Sunday, July 15, 2012 in a ceremony attended by a huge multitude - one that I had never ever seen in such an event. I however remained in a state of denial, since I was unable to come to terms with the going ons. It was like a dream…..
I sat with the elders on Tuesday, and they told me what to write. They made sure that I wrote what they had said, as affirmed by my reading back to them what I had written:
“Life history,” I started, as the elders and my brothers sat listening attentively,
“Kuzaliwa:
Mzee David Wanjawa Wamkaya alizaliwa mwaka wa 1926. Babake alikuwa marehemu Wamkaya Nyajeri na mamake aliitwa Shisia Wamkaya. Shisia aliaga dunia pindi Mzee Wanjawa alipozaliwa. Alilelewa na mama mwenza. Ndugu zake wengine, watoto wa Wamkaya ni marehemu Daniel Otiende, Abucheri, marehemu Achayo, Pitalis Nyajeri, Amos Nyajeri, Jekonia Amkaya, Martin Okoth na Gershom Dianga.
Masomo:
Alisomea shule ya msingi ya Luanda Primary School kuanzia mwaka wa 1936. Baadaye akaenda Magadi kwa mda mfupi, kisha akarudi shule ya Maliera Primary School kufanya mtihani wa Intermediate.
Kazi:
Baada ya shule, alienda Nairobi kutafuta kazi. mwaka wa 1945 january, alianza kazi katika shirika la Reli. Aliacha kazi hiyo ya Reli na kupata kazi nyingine kwenye kiwanda cha Magadi Soda kwanzia mwaka wa 1948 hadi 1949 Desemba.
Alirudi Nairobi mwaka wa 1950 na kujiunga na Shirika la Reli kwa mda mfupi kisha akajiunga na kikosi cha Kenya Prisons kama askari huko Industrial Area. Alifanya kazi katika kikosi cha Kenya Prisons katika miji tofauti kama vile Nairobi, Manyani, Kajiado, Kodiaga, Kibos, Kiambu, Langata, Kamiti, Naivasha na Kapsabet. Alistaafu kutoka Kenya Prisons mwaka wa 1983 na kurudi nyumbani kwake Kisa. Alipostaafu, alikuwa mkulima hodari ambaye alitambuliwa katika taarafa kwa uhodari wake. Alihusika na miradi mbali mbali ya wizara ya kilimo kama vile ufuguji wa samaki katika vikundi vya humu mashinani.
Baada ya kustaafu, Mzee Wanjawa alishiriki kwenye siasa za mashinani kama mwakilishi wa vyama mbalimbali kama vile KANU, NARC, LDP na mwishowe ODM katika tarafa ya Khwisero
Familia:
Mzee Wanjawa alikuwa na wake watatu. Alimwoa Dorca Olwal Wanjawa mwaka wa 1948. Walibarikiwa na watoto saba – Pauline, marehemu Christopher, marehemu Ruth, Sylvia, Caleb, Pamela na Lucy. Mke wake wa pili ni Teresa aliyeolewa mwaka wa 1961. Walipata watoto watano, nao ni Moses, Dauglas, Daniel, Peris na Damaris. Mke wake wa tatu ni marehemu Leocadia Atieno, aliyemwoa mwaka wa 1965. Alipata watoto wawili, wakiwa ni William na Barack
Mzee Wanjawa amewaacha watoto kumi na wawili (12) – wasichana sita and wavulana sita. Pia alikuwa na wajukuu 54 and vitukuu 30.
Ugonjwa:
Mzee alianza kulalamikia maumivu and kufura kwa miguu na kuanza kupata matibabu. Baadaye, akalalamikia maumivu ya kifua na tumbo. Alipelekwa hospitali tofauti, ikiwemo St. Marys Mumias, New Nyanza PGH (Russia), Aga Khan Kisumu, Yala Hospital na Kakamega PGH. Alitibiwa na kupata madawa aliyokuwa akitumia kwa muda. Ugonjwa ulimzidi mwezi wa sita mwaka huu wa 2012, ambapo alilalamikia maumivu ya mwili. Alipojaribu kula alikuwa akitapika. Hali hii iliifanya familia kumpeleka Kakamega PGH tarehe 27-Juni-2012 ambapo aliaga dunia Ijumaa tarehe 6-Julai-2012.”
“That is it. That is the end,” I reported.
“Can you re-read paragraph 1, there is something wrong with that paragraph,” one of my father’s brothers retorted.
So I read it, “Mzee was born in 1926,” I started.
“Stop right there,” he responded, “That is what I wanted to get right. According to me, my brother was born in 1924”
“No, my brother,” another interrupted, “I have known it to be 1926 and I stand corrected”
“Am older than you, so how can you be sure of the year? I tell you, it is 1924”
“I shall not be part of the proceedings, if the date is not 1926,” another stated
“But how do you people even know which year it was? Did you even have calendars those day,” my elder brother asked the five elders.
They looked at each other and…
Sunshine in the Rain
The grandchildren of Mzee David did not want to hear anything on the age debate, they went ahead and printed black T-shirts that read, “Wanjawa 88”
One day after the burial, amidst heavy rains and, coincidentally, bright sunshine, my Mzee confirmed to us that he was surely gone – leaving us with tears that flow like the rain but a bright future like the shinning sun.
The phone call
I had somehow known that one of these phone calls that I really dread would finally just bear bad news. To preserve my eight hours of sleep, I have always made it a tradition not to touch the phone from ten in the night, until seven the next day. Everybody close to me knows this. My reasoning is that I need my undisturbed sleep, usually. Occasionally, when I spend those late nights in a party, I still need the late night to enjoy, not to answer phone calls.
The phone vibrated at about four-thirty in the morning. This particular one disturbed my sleep and I awakened. By the time I got to the phone on the bedside table, it was already off. The caller ID confirmed that it was my elder brother. He knows that I do not receive late night calls – he had never called me this early ever. My mind was already in a spin. I kind of knew what awaited me when the day breaks.
I thought of calling back, but coincidentally did not have credit. I therefore decided to wait until six, when I would get out of the house and visit the early-riser shopkeepers to buy airtime. I could not sleep though, so I switched on the telly and watched the early morning news on CNN then flipped to AlJazeera on another channel. Another flip landed me on BBC world. None of our local stations was back. They were still on break during which they feed into these international channels.
I dragged myself out of the house a few minutes to six and made my way to the shops, just across the main street. It takes about a minute from my house to the shops, since I see the main street while seated on my verandah. The morning was still cold and a bit dark. However, the matatus on the road were already making their characteristic loud beeps and deafening music. The touts were already shouting each other down, beckoning passengers to their vehicles.
Back to the house, just before I could load the airtime, the phone rang once more, messing up my progression of keying in the 14-digit recharge PIN.
“Yes,” I started
“Barack, is that Barack? Is that you my brother, this is Pauline,” the caller was low and a bit breathless.
“Yes, it’s me”
“Dad is gone. I said Dad is gone”
I just sat there, not sure whether I even disconnected the phone or she did. I just sat by the reading table, the recharge scratch card on my left, the phone on the right…. and did nothing. I do not know what went through my mind. Come to think of it, I probably blacked out. I came back to reality at about 6.30am, when the news sank in and I walked to the bathroom sink to wash my face.
Find it out
There is no proper signage at Kakamega’s PGH, though they are trying to do a facelift. Together with three siblings, we were at the hospital to clear medical bills and finalize preparations for the send-off. From the main hospital, we were directed to go ‘down there, after the gate’.
We kept going, managed to get through the hospital’s back gate and were then faced with two compounds - one whose gate was closed, the other whose gate was partially open. There was no sign of life on either. With one of my bros having been left behind at the main hospital, instinct directed the three of us to turn left into the compound with the partially open gate, just across a dilapidated once-tarmac road.
We walked into the compound not knowing what to expect. There was an L-shaped block, with the open room on our left empty, some five meters away, while the nearer block had its windows facing us. While wondering where to go next, or even where we were, we heard some sound like the movement of wheels on the ground coming from our backs. This was coming from the direction of the gate that we came in through. We all looked back, almost in rhythm, only to see two people pushing a trolley towards the compound. Without a doubt, there was a still body on the trolley, partly covered, with the head part partially visible, being wheeled towards the empty room to our left. The two did not seem to notice us, since they just passed by us continuing their small talk.
“This is it!,” we said almost in unison.
We proceeded to the block on our right and went through a door, to face a long empty corridor with doors on both sides. There was no one, no sound nor any signs on the doors. From afar, we could make out the voices of the two gents and their trolley on the left of our earshot.
“Now, where do we go?,” asked Pam
“Kwani hi hosi ya gava haina watu?,” retorted my bro.
“Let us find out,” I said.
The search
And therefore, methodically, we started trying out doors on either side of the corridor, one at a time, each of us targeting a separate door. We would knock, try the handle and then try to open. The first four doors on our entrance side were all locked. The fifth one gave way, beckoning us to all convene at the particular door. However, there was nobody in the room, though it was evidently an office, with two chairs and an old worn out table. On the table was a black book, which was evidently old and in need of replacement. We stood partly in the room, partly out, for about five minutes, but no one came by. The place remained quiet, almost eerie.
We all matched out and decided to wait for someone to come over. However, my sis’s patience ran out soon after, as she disappeared hardly two minutes later, back to the block to look for someone - anyone.
“Wemukuja, twende,” she summoned us five minutes later.
We went to the office we had already identified, to find a guy in white overall, a cap and gloved hands. He extended his hand in our direction, in a manner of greeting.
“Jambo,” we answered from afar, ignoring his outstretched hand.
“Mwatakaje?”
“Tumekuja kuona Mzee”
“Anaitwaje?”
“David... David Wanjawa”
He fingered the wornout book, “Alikuja lini?”
“Eh, ilikuwa, eh….,” we started almost in unison, as we searched out mental diaries…
“Ilikuwa Thursday morning, tarehe tano. Julai tarehe tano”
He continued using his right finger as a guide as he did the permutation of date and name, until finally, “Oh, ndio huyu,” he pointed at some hand written entry.
“Ndio huyo,” we responded, in confirmation, after gazing through the entry.
He then picked a small piece of paper, out of the many such sized papers that had previously been some pre-printed stationery, now cut into small pieces, with only one side usable. He scribbled some things, did some loud arithmetic, then pointed the paper in our direction, “Pay this bill, then come back.”
This directive forced us back to the main hospital. After paying the bill, getting some paperwork and a notification certificate, we went back to the morgue with the receipts, only for the attendant to say that, “there is no viewing on Thursdays”. As we retreated in anger, he added, “and better be here tomorrow in good time, since we also close early, by two”
Fight it out
Even good plans can go bad, and that is how our perfectly planned Friday started out. We travelled to KK early, in my brothers salon car, reaching there by nine – favoured mainly by the weather which enabled us make the 60km journey in just under an hour. Had it rained, we would not have left our home before mid-day, so there is no need to even try talking about a ‘what if’, as far as the rains are concerned. In fact, we wasted a lot of driving time on the Sabatia-Butere stretch of the earth road, which is still under construction - and the rains had pounded this part the previous night.
“Yani hi barabara itajengwa miaka ngapi? This is the third year and it is still being dug out!”
It is on this stretch that we also met with the hired matatu, that was to have left home with us, one hour prior. The timing of the day was starting out on the wrong timing.
At KK, we went straight to the place where we had hired the hearse, only to be told that ‘it is not available until later’. How can a ten o’clock appointment be ‘later’? We tried the contact number provided by the person who had taken the 8k deposit the previous day, but he was unreachable. With tempers almost flaring, we were provided with the number of the manager to the company, who promised to come to KK in person and sort the mess. During the phone conversation, he had said that he was even unaware that we had hired one of his vehicles, nor paid a deposit. When he finally arrived, one hour later, the manager, with lots of apology, informed us that the ‘young man’ had booked the vehicle to two parties on the same day, hoping for double profit - some for his own keeping. He concluded by promising us another hearse at two o’clock.
We just hanged around the vicinity of the depressing morgue, watching one sad party after another come in vehicles, mourn briefly, then depart with caskets. In the midst of the depression, my attention was drawn to some commotion at the morgue gate, “Huwesi chukua mtoto wangu. Si ulimufukusa? Si muliachana miaka saba imepita? Huwesi kabisa.”
A story was developing, where two different parties came to claim the body of a deceased woman. The mother of the deceased and the children of the deceased on one side and the estranged husband, whom they had separated, on the other side.
In my depression I forgot to notice the hearse with the husband's party speed off, with the mother of the deceased and her lot in hot pursuit – but you cannot chase after a running vehicle on bare foot, can you? Before our very eyes we witnessed a body being stolen – but what to do!
A Dream
My dad was interred on Sunday, July 15, 2012 in a ceremony attended by a huge multitude - one that I had never ever seen in such an event. I however remained in a state of denial, since I was unable to come to terms with the going ons. It was like a dream…..
I sat with the elders on Tuesday, and they told me what to write. They made sure that I wrote what they had said, as affirmed by my reading back to them what I had written:
“Life history,” I started, as the elders and my brothers sat listening attentively,
“Kuzaliwa:
Mzee David Wanjawa Wamkaya alizaliwa mwaka wa 1926. Babake alikuwa marehemu Wamkaya Nyajeri na mamake aliitwa Shisia Wamkaya. Shisia aliaga dunia pindi Mzee Wanjawa alipozaliwa. Alilelewa na mama mwenza. Ndugu zake wengine, watoto wa Wamkaya ni marehemu Daniel Otiende, Abucheri, marehemu Achayo, Pitalis Nyajeri, Amos Nyajeri, Jekonia Amkaya, Martin Okoth na Gershom Dianga.
Masomo:
Alisomea shule ya msingi ya Luanda Primary School kuanzia mwaka wa 1936. Baadaye akaenda Magadi kwa mda mfupi, kisha akarudi shule ya Maliera Primary School kufanya mtihani wa Intermediate.
Kazi:
Baada ya shule, alienda Nairobi kutafuta kazi. mwaka wa 1945 january, alianza kazi katika shirika la Reli. Aliacha kazi hiyo ya Reli na kupata kazi nyingine kwenye kiwanda cha Magadi Soda kwanzia mwaka wa 1948 hadi 1949 Desemba.
Alirudi Nairobi mwaka wa 1950 na kujiunga na Shirika la Reli kwa mda mfupi kisha akajiunga na kikosi cha Kenya Prisons kama askari huko Industrial Area. Alifanya kazi katika kikosi cha Kenya Prisons katika miji tofauti kama vile Nairobi, Manyani, Kajiado, Kodiaga, Kibos, Kiambu, Langata, Kamiti, Naivasha na Kapsabet. Alistaafu kutoka Kenya Prisons mwaka wa 1983 na kurudi nyumbani kwake Kisa. Alipostaafu, alikuwa mkulima hodari ambaye alitambuliwa katika taarafa kwa uhodari wake. Alihusika na miradi mbali mbali ya wizara ya kilimo kama vile ufuguji wa samaki katika vikundi vya humu mashinani.
Baada ya kustaafu, Mzee Wanjawa alishiriki kwenye siasa za mashinani kama mwakilishi wa vyama mbalimbali kama vile KANU, NARC, LDP na mwishowe ODM katika tarafa ya Khwisero
Familia:
Mzee Wanjawa alikuwa na wake watatu. Alimwoa Dorca Olwal Wanjawa mwaka wa 1948. Walibarikiwa na watoto saba – Pauline, marehemu Christopher, marehemu Ruth, Sylvia, Caleb, Pamela na Lucy. Mke wake wa pili ni Teresa aliyeolewa mwaka wa 1961. Walipata watoto watano, nao ni Moses, Dauglas, Daniel, Peris na Damaris. Mke wake wa tatu ni marehemu Leocadia Atieno, aliyemwoa mwaka wa 1965. Alipata watoto wawili, wakiwa ni William na Barack
Mzee Wanjawa amewaacha watoto kumi na wawili (12) – wasichana sita and wavulana sita. Pia alikuwa na wajukuu 54 and vitukuu 30.
Ugonjwa:
Mzee alianza kulalamikia maumivu and kufura kwa miguu na kuanza kupata matibabu. Baadaye, akalalamikia maumivu ya kifua na tumbo. Alipelekwa hospitali tofauti, ikiwemo St. Marys Mumias, New Nyanza PGH (Russia), Aga Khan Kisumu, Yala Hospital na Kakamega PGH. Alitibiwa na kupata madawa aliyokuwa akitumia kwa muda. Ugonjwa ulimzidi mwezi wa sita mwaka huu wa 2012, ambapo alilalamikia maumivu ya mwili. Alipojaribu kula alikuwa akitapika. Hali hii iliifanya familia kumpeleka Kakamega PGH tarehe 27-Juni-2012 ambapo aliaga dunia Ijumaa tarehe 6-Julai-2012.”
“That is it. That is the end,” I reported.
“Can you re-read paragraph 1, there is something wrong with that paragraph,” one of my father’s brothers retorted.
So I read it, “Mzee was born in 1926,” I started.
“Stop right there,” he responded, “That is what I wanted to get right. According to me, my brother was born in 1924”
“No, my brother,” another interrupted, “I have known it to be 1926 and I stand corrected”
“Am older than you, so how can you be sure of the year? I tell you, it is 1924”
“I shall not be part of the proceedings, if the date is not 1926,” another stated
“But how do you people even know which year it was? Did you even have calendars those day,” my elder brother asked the five elders.
They looked at each other and…
Sunshine in the Rain
The grandchildren of Mzee David did not want to hear anything on the age debate, they went ahead and printed black T-shirts that read, “Wanjawa 88”
One day after the burial, amidst heavy rains and, coincidentally, bright sunshine, my Mzee confirmed to us that he was surely gone – leaving us with tears that flow like the rain but a bright future like the shinning sun.
