Chemo Brain: Chapter One

An Aside: I owe the embankment of this journey to two individuals; Jason Ntaro & John Gatins. One a close friend, a brother and one of the most talented writers I’ve ever had the privilege to come into contact with. The other; also a writer. Also talented but unfortunately not one I’ve had the privilege to meet...Yet. It is because of these two individuals that I was able to write my first one thousand words of the year. Enjoy.

1
Kampala
January, 2013

We find ourselves, you and I, in a house that may have, once upon a year, been a home. Its worn carpets and stained sofa set and dusty picture frames housing faded photographs of forced smiles and strained poses, as well as the sagging cupboards full of chipped plates, mugs and glasses give a lengthy testimony to this. Now, however, there is a certain staleness and acridity about the place. Like either no one lives here and hasn’t for a long time or like someone does and just doesn’t care and as we look around and take notice of the empty packs of Dunhill Menthols, crumpled sachets of Royal Vodka, overturned and sometimes chip mouthed bottles of Nile Special, Club beer and Tusker Lager, not to mention the country of cigarette butts carpeting every available flat surface and the many, many tin foil takeaway containers crusted with and stinking of rotting left over food it becomes quite apparent that it is most certainly the latter. The real question now, is “Who?”

As I ponder this I hear a quiet sputtering of breath, regular and irregular simultaneously, (snoring maybe?) that sounds as if it is coming from somewhere around the house. A cursory inspection however, reveals that the most logical places, the bedrooms, are empty. A couch in the sitting room maybe? I stick a head stuck through a doorway- nope. Kitchen, dining room, bathrooms? Nein, nada, nope…but wait; there’s this last bathroom, the one opposite the “boy’s room”, let’s get a closer look.

Yup, there’s someone here and that someone appears to be quite unconscious. A man, this human paper weight seems to be; spread eagled on his stomach in a pool of his own vomit. Who is he? Well to be honest it’s kind of hard to tell from here but luckily for us I would recognize those scuffed and dirty red Tommy Hilfiger loafers anywhere…it’s Conrad.

Conrad, who amongst other things ( a poet, a priest and co-author of an unknown, unseen albeit quite often felt revolution that I am more than certain will one day reveal itself to be of great importance) both hates and loves his father in equal measure. Loves because, well, that is what a son is supposed to do isn’t it? Love his father. Hates, however, because ever since Conrad was in khaki shorts, knee high socks and black Bata shoes, his father; the kind and oh so gracious Honorable Kataga with his expertly hurled bottles, professionally placed insults and prodigiously vomit splattered carpets, tiles and hard wood floors has quite earned the fiery feelings of bile inducing revulsion that ignites the pit of Conrad’s stomach every time the man’s name is mentioned.

Now, we may wish to reach out and shake Conrad awake (Or at least try to because who knows how deep of a stupor he is in?) but we cannot because unfortunately for us we are no more than specters; no limbs, just senses; mere observers, denied participation in the events transpiring or about to transpire before us and so we have no choice but to watch and wait. And wait…and wait some more…and it feels like days have passed when it’s more like minutes when there is a long and continuous hoot at the gate.

I wish nothing more than that one of us could go and open it because I know as well as you do that our friend Conrad over here isn’t going anywhere any time soon but sadly we also know that there’s no opening that gate.

A few moments pass and then there’s another long hoot quickly followed by another shorter one and then finally the sound of someone outside of the gate opening it. Let’s go see who it is.

Black heels, black dress and black blazer. A visitor? She’s tall…or maybe it’s just the heels…but no, she’s tall…and pretty…and bears a striking resemblance to Conrad. She holds open one side of the gate and a maroon Rav-4 rolls through it. She doesn’t bother closing the gate and quickly click clacks her way towards the front door which is oddly already open.

Parked, the driver side door of the Rav-4 opens and a pair of black shoes, a black suit and a black tie climb out. Not so tall, not so handsome and although not such an obvious resemblance it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine one. Slamming the car door behind him he follows his younger sister through the front door, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the space of neck just above the collar of his shirt and right below the beginning of his hairline.

“Conrad!”

But Conrad, of course, doesn’t answer. As he looks around the house he grew up in, Older Brother lets a string of expletives tumble out of his mouth.

“How can he live here like this?”

He scoffs and shakes his head.

“The place is a fucking dump.”

Younger Sister let’s her gaze roam the room. She can’t dispute him on that but the truth is they don't have time for all of that. They are late and right now that is all that is on her mind.

“The service starts in half an hour,” Is all Younger Sister says in response. “Let’s find him and get going. Rad!”

She makes a move for the kitchen.

“Fine. I’ll check the bedrooms. You check the kitchen, bathroom, whatever.”

A few minutes later Younger Sister finds her twin brother.

“Jacob!”

“What?”

“I’ve found him! In the boys’ bathroom! Hurry!”

And Jacob does, finding Younger Sister kneeling, trying to shake Conrad awake.

“Move.” He commands and gently leads his sister out of the way. He takes off his coat and hands it to his worried looking sister who takes it wordlessly.

He hurriedly rolls up his sleeves and glances at his watch to see how much time they had before their father’s funeral begins: 17 minutes and counting. Grunting, Jacob bends and lifts Conrad up off the ground.