Pieces of Dala (An Introduction To)

It’s been exactly 3 years and 2 days since I wrote my first post on this blog. It was entitled “Day 1: Get The Eff Out of Bed, Depression is Not at all Sexy” and was meant to be the first day of a 30 Day Program, which, as you might guess, was what the name of the blog was back then. I had just broken up with a girlfriend, you see and the blog was to serve as a chronicle of the purging of my system of the girl who had so mercilessly ripped my heart out and taken a hot, stinky dump on it (that’s not what really happened but it sure felt that way. I’m happy to say that her and I are now actually friends).
The blog, however, has evolved quite a number of times since then. Taking on different roles, trying on different clothes to best serve what I needed it for at any particular time. Much like myself. And today I decided it was time for it to don a different robe. Today it goes from “Til’ I Overdose”, a hat and ethos and way of life that I have worn for the last year but not until recently realized that I no longer believe in, to “Pieces of Dala” which represents not only a new phase in my writing but also in my life.
“Dala” is a Kenyan-Luo word meaning or referring to “home”. As humans we are oft to tether our identity to the ideal or some sort of vision of “home” is. A place that you can call your own. A place where you feel you belong. I moved around a lot as a child and never really had that. Every new place meant wearing a new face. Because as the saying goes, “When in Rome…” And that meant that every old place meant leaving a piece of me, fake or otherwise, behind. I lived a fragmented life, never having a proper sense of what home was and therefore never had a proper sense of who I was. Even once I was back in Uganda I never lived in one place or neighborhood for more than a year, maybe a little more and my visits to the village and “ancestral home” were so infrequent and often extremely short that even though this was truly home, it was never really home.
All of this resulted into a restlessness, an itching of the heels whenever things became too stable. I was drifter. Never keeping friends, never really caring, never valuing family for what they truly are- an anchor. And so recognizing this and not only recognizing it but also acknowledging it and wanting to change this, “Pieces of Dala” is my exploration into the nature of “home”. What it means to me, what it means to us and maybe, just maybe finally finding it…

Welcome to “Pieces of Dala”.

For You I Will Move This Mountain: The Summoning

That night Mundu dreamt of darkness. Of an absence of light that swallowed entire suns. That raped women, devoured souls and feasted on the wandering feet of the young. A darkness that stopped the heart, froze the bone and snapped it like a twig. And it was up out of this impenetrable darkness that a face appeared; dark and smeared with some sort of white paste. Eyes castrated of sight twitched and danced within their sockets. Fat black lips moved, rapidly, spittle forming at the points where they met.
And then, a voice. At once high pitched, at the same time a rumble of torrential proportions. Muttering, screaming, whispering, chanting words in a language that Mundu could not comprehend but still somehow understood. They were a command. One that Mundu knew he would have to obey because as far fetched as it seemed, his very existence and that of everyone that he knew and loved depended on it. And so fuelled by the question of existence, Mundu pulled himself out of the darkness even as its hands tried to hold him down and pried open his eyes.

***

One foot in front of the other, shadows of Mundu’s dream followed him into the night. Nipping at his heels, pulling at his hair, running hard calloused fingers across his naked chest, arms and back. He wore nothing but a cloth that covered his midsection and carried nothing but a small sharpened blade that served as his only defense against glowing eyes, hungry howls and imagined foot falls.
Leaving the village behind him Mundu found himself at the edge of a wood. One full of large, old trees that did not stand tall and straight but were hunched over as if in pain and were believed to have been there for so long that they had even born witness to Masaba’s nativity.
Mundu had heard stories of this wood. Of the creatures that inhabited it. Of the terrible things that happened to men who entered it and had no respect for it or the spirits that it harbored. Stories that were told to him and his friends when they were children to scare them into obedience.
Now, with heavy breath and rivulets of sweat trickling slowly down the small of his back, the ghosts of these tales tread the thick forest of his mind with knives drawn and spears poised for action. Every muscle taught, Mundu’s breath came and went in heavy tides; every sound, every sign of movement a potential death.
One foot in front of the other.
Mundu on kept repeating to himself.
One foot in front of the other and you will soon be there.
Like the forest, Mundu had only ever heard stories of the Umulosi. The man who lived alone in the woods and communed with the spirits. For many the Umulosi was no more than a myth, a mother’s tale, like the menacing woods, to keep the children in line. If you did something wrong, “The Umolosi will come for you.” was the common phrase. And now, Mundu was looking for him. No, more than that, Mundu had been summoned by him. And because Mundu had been summoned he was not looking, he knew exactly where to find the sorcerer.
Mundu arrived at a clearing in the wood and in this clearing sat a hut. A round, mud plastered, thatch roofed hut. Outside of the hut sat a stool and on the stool sat a man. The man was naked but for a white paste that covered continents of skin. He was not just thin but a skeleton shrink wrapped in this skin. As Mundu approached the hut and the man on the stool outside the hut he heard from behind him,
“I have been waiting for you.”
Before Mundu could turn and see where the voice had come from, he felt a sting on the back of his neck, his body go numb and his world went black.

For You I Will Move This Mountain: The Umwami

The ground was parched and the grass was brown and insatiable drifts of dust dirtied everything. Finding quarters in the most inconvenient of places; underneath finger nails, in between toes and most annoyingly, right in the face, clogging tear ducts and reddening eyes. The Sky, in what the people believed a fit of anger, had withheld its water for more than fourteen months now. Fourteen months in which Mundu had worked hard to prove himself a worthy man. In hunting and in protecting the village and in other such things and he wore his fresh scars with pride. For when one ceased attaining scars from childish play and instead from exploits considered manly, in his village, this was something to be proud of. Whether they were worthy of Sera’s hand however, was still yet to be seen.
It was no secret that Sera’s father was an extremely hard man to please. And because he never took a second or third wife, after the death of his beloved, Sera became his most prized and he made it resoundingly clear that he would only allow the best to take her away from him. Seven times Mundu had asked for her hand and seven times he had been refused. Sera herself had tried to soften her father’s resolve, pronouncing her love for Mundu clearly and passionately but her father would have none of it.
“You are the daughter of the Umwami We Sikuka.” would be his answer every single time. “The man who you take as your husband will be my successor.” he would inadvertently add. “He must be worthy of it.”
“And you don’t think Mundu a worthy successor?” Sera would always ask. Though it was always more of a statement than a question.
“No.” He would answer. “Not yet.”
Now Mundu stood at the entrance of The Umwami’s hut, the head and coat of a lion under one arm (the proof of his latest exploit) and a calabash of hard sought for coffee beans in the hand of the other. He had been told to wait until the sun was at its highest point before he would be permitted to enter. That had been two hours prior.
The merciless sun beat down on him and his arms ached and he felt faint but he did not move. He waited. He was determined. And then finally…finally…finally the sun reached the crest of its journey and Sera came hurrying out of her father’s hut towards him. She saw the strain on Mundu’s face and the twitch of his muscles as he struggled to maintain a stoic poise. Her heart went out to him. She wanted to hug him, she wanted to kiss his cracking lips, she wanted to smooth away the crease in his brow with a cool and dripping cloth but she could do none of these things. Her father was sure to be watching from his perch inside the hut a few meters away. And so instead she took the calabash of coffee beans from him and issued a hoarse,
“Come.”
With that single syllabled instruction Sera quickly turned and headed back towards the hut, Mundu stiffly in toe.
The inside of the hut was dim and cool, a welcome respite from the brightness and heat from which Mundu had just come. It took a few moments for Mundu’s eyes to adjust but once they had he noticed The Umwami sitting at the far end of the hut, directly opposite the entrance. Taking the coat of the lion from under his arm he took it in both hands and walking towards The Chief, knelt and laid the lion skin at his feet.
“For You.” he said, head bowed.
Without acknowledging it, Sera’s father stood and stepping over the skin walked towards the entrance.
“Follow me.” he said gruffly and disappeared into the sun.
Mundu searched for Sera with his eyes.
“Go.” she said. “And hurry.”
Quickly getting to his feet Mundu did so and found The Umwami behind the hut, hands clasped behind him, staring off into the distance where Masaba stood still and silent.
“I heard the stories but I did not believe them.”
The Umwami said without turning.
“I am pleased that they are true but I have no use for the skin. It is your trophy and you are to keep it.”
The Umwami turned, Mundu bowed his head.
“Yes sir.”
“You slay lions and yet you still fear to look upon my face.” The Chief observed.
“You are the Umwami.” Mundu answered. “It is custom.”
What followed was a thoughtful silence and then,
“But it is also custom to look upon the face of the father of the woman you intend to marry, is it not?”
“It is sir.”
“Then do so.”
And so Mundu did.
Sera’s father’s face was like granite. Just like the rest of him. Hard and craggy and plucked and marked with scars from many battles and many journeys and many exploits…he was Umwami.
“You have proved yourself a man of strength and of valor.” The Umwami began. “But you have yet to prove yourself a husband to my daughter and a leader of this village. I have one more task to ask of you.”
Mundu squared his shoulders.
“Yes sir.”
The Umwami once again turned his back on Mundu.
“Masaba and I were once very close. He would ask of me what he would and I would do it and in turn, if I asked of him something, he would reciprocate.
“It has been long since we have talked, him and I. Long since I have spoken and he has answered. Long since he has spoken at all. I fear that he no longer acknowledges me as Umwami.”
At this he turned to look at Mundu.
“But he may acknowledge you.”
Sera’s father let this sink in.
“What do you need me to do?” Mundu asked.
“We have been without rain for a very long time. We can not go without rain for much longer. It is simple,” The Umwami We Sikuka said,
“Move Masaba to action, and make it rain.”