Story Of A Life

He was ordinary, a regular guy, a nice guy even. You would have no trouble inviting him over for lunch if you knew him, or for dinner, or asking him for advice if you needed some. There was an easy collectedness about him, some calm that almost made him seem cold and detached. When he talked he drew you in and wrapped you inside the web of his yarn but there was something odd about him. Fear was always close by him, somewhere. It stalked him like a villain. Fear of the unknown. He was always looking over his shoulder because he figured something from his past was ever chasing; something faceless, brutish and nasty. And so when that last thread of hope that he had held onto twelve years was severed, he took a long leap. He’s been running since.

He didn’t carry much to be proud of from his childhood, and he hardly ever talked about the little that he carried. There wasn’t much, by way of fun, to talk about anyway. There was mostly soreness back there. This informed how he lived his life even as a grown man – the friends he had, how late he stayed out, the air he chose to breathe (hehehe he sure had that choice). As a child he did not partake in that ritual of playing with toys that all his friends did, or in the stories that they told at the playing field. He couldn’t pitch in as his friends told stories of how their fathers had taken them to the park, or when they argued about whose father was the strongest, each kid making a case in turn and attempting to justify it by recounting how they swing on their father’s arms. He never joined that charade. He would never. He only listened and watched in quiet. His own father was weak!!! There was nothing proud to say of him. What worth was a father who left his own son out in the cold, all by himself, exposed to the bile elements of nature, to feel his own way? What worth was a man who staggers home in the dead of night, having been gone all day, while his wife wastes away with a bad heart? Lameck may not have been scarred on the outside but deep down, a piece of him had died. He became afraid of the future. He was scared he’d grow up to be the man his father was, or worse. So he planned to always stay one step ahead of fate, to trick fate. He would take a look at his father, closely, watch him, in his mind; everything he did – the friends he kept, the little habits he had, the stories he told  – and do exactly unlike him. He would not be weak. Never ever!!! Indeed, his father’s shadow always loomed large in his imagination, and steered his life, like a sailor steers a steamer.

His mother, a most religious woman, wasted away in denial of her husband’s ill deportment. She seemed convinced that her fate had a higher purpose to it. That she would, in time, surmount her misfortunes like Job of the Bible and in the end, “testify to the glory of God”, as she put it. She came an inch short of saying she deserved what she got but no; she never said that. Every morning Lameck took her beddings and spread them under the shade cast by the huge mango tree that stood behind their house. There she would lie all day. He read the Bible with her and nursed her.  She continued to love and hope and pray and wait, the cancer eating her heart away all the while till death came calling one dark, stormy night and she was gone.

While she lived, little Lameck had been all she had and she loved him more than a moth loves light -to small bits. Even in her frailty, she hugged him so tight (and long) till her energy seemed to fizzle. She held his head in her frail hands sometimes and looked at his handsome face, tears freely rolling down her cheeks. Maybe she saw in those young eyes a future she wasn’t going to be a part of. Maybe she saw fear in them; a son’s fear of losing a mother…and that scared her herself and she grabbed him even tighter and embraced him some more, like a mother bear embracing her kitten, protecting her from the cruel world that she would soon be a part of. Her love was deep. She succumbed, finally, one night.

That was many years ago, the darkest and scariest night of Lameck’s young life.  He cried so bitterly, so hauntingly, so horrifyingly painfully that he seemed to lose his breath (and his sanity). His heart twitched and broke, like cheap porcelain. He was now alone, a young boy besieged by death, stalked by a dewy future. A future inhabited by a father that he wasn’t proud of- one that had never as much as cared to ask how his day was.  

The walls in his life had come tumbling down with such weight it paralyzed him. He did not cry during the funeral. He had cried enough already, been through so much pain already that the tears just refused to come. For the first time in his life he saw his father sober. Their eyes locked a few times and it felt like he was locking eyes with a stranger. It was awkward. His old man was a stranger…a STRANGER. By some will of mind he had managed to block him from his world completely. He could not recognize him. He had built a fortress and conceived a future that had no place for him. He would live in that future and own it.

That evening as he sat on the veranda, alone and avoiding the many mourners that had come to comfort them, his heart still heavy with loss, he felt a nudge on his shoulder and looked up to see who it was. His father. He was standing there, an odd figure in a grey suit. He had never seen his father in a suit before, much less a grey one. “Son, mummy has rested now, she is peaceful…” he was saying. For Lameck the words seemed to come from a distant place, like an echo from a deep well, or the lapping of a wave – rushing forward momentarily then hesitating a bit before surging forward again, as if to say that was a teaser; now here’s the real deal . It felt like a voice in a dream. “Give your old man a few minutes and we’ll go drink this thing away, okay?” He said then left in a hurry.  It sounded like he was glad she was gone, like this was going to be a celebratory drink…a victory chug, perhaps. Lameck’s spirit was taking a bigger beating than he deserved, than any 12 year old deserved.

He knew his father didn’t deserve to be happy. Not after what he had done to them, and yet he didn’t know what to do. Something had to give, but what? Just then he saw his mother’s pair of scissors lying in the grass, a few meters from where he was seated and his mind drifted to it.

He was woken up early morning by loud sounds of a woman’s wailing coming from what seemed like some part of their expansive compound. It sounded so close. He quickly put on his khaki shorts and rushed out to see what it was. People were already milling about. A small crowd had already formed near the gate and as he walked towards them, bare-feet on the dewy morning grass, in a pair of khaki shorts and bare chest, he knew something was wrong. Eyes were on him as he approached. People stepped aside to make way. His uncle Joel was already there, face frozen in shock. He was sweating even though the morning air was cold. The story was, his father in a state of drunken remorse had evaluated his life and figured that without his wife in it, it simply wasn’t worth living. He’d died of an overdose.

Everybody felt sorry for Lameck. Two losses in one sweep wasn’t fair but somehow the twelve year old didn’t seem moved. He had cried when his mother died – long and deep. Now there was a certain calm at his father’s that seemed odd. He was cold, like a witch’s tits (no pun intended there). The whole time he did not seem to care. He showed no emotion.

A few weeks after, his uncle had dumped him in a seminary. He was gone a long time. It is within those sacred walls that he became a man; that he steered the shipwreck that was his life from the angry seas it had sailed all along to a harbor of peace and quiet, safe and sheltered from the winds. Here he grew and discovered himself but that fear that he felt that night his mother passed on never left. Life outside the high walls of the seminary, to him, represented oppression and anguish that he now felt cushioned from. His recollections of it were those he had as a boy; he had never lived “out there” since he was brought in save for the few weekend visits that Sister Rosalina allowed him to his uncle, Joel’s.

It was his uncle (and his family) that paid most visits. These lasted a few hours at a time. They were always glad to see him, to watch him grow into a God-fearing man. He was reserved in speech but you could tell from the glow in his eyes that he loved seeing them come. They always looked forward to these visits and when it came time to leave someone in their company usually broke into tears. Lameck hated this. He hated weakness! He never said goodbye to people because those words always dragged moments of parting, made it an elaborate affair. Goodbyes would often lead to hugs and cradles and actions of that kind, and that whole scheme always brought tears close. He just walked away… just like that. That is how he walked away from the seminary ultimately.

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Now Uncle Joel sat in that little room, waiting, a pass written “visitor” clipped on his left breast pocket. He had aged quite a bit now; his hair had stated to grey and in that face that once harbored a constant smile now sat signs of wrinkles taking form. They gave the impression of one who understood life thoroughly. He was looking at that closed door.  It will be yanked open any time now and in will walk his nephew Lameck. Time seemed to drag; he seemed to wait forever. He looked around the room to ease the anxiety of the wait. There was an old clock hanging on the wall facing him. It had long ceased to function; its hands were still. All it seemed to do now was gather dust (and cobwebs), and eavesdrop on conversations that go on everyday in this room. The paint on the walls was coming undone too. Nobody gives a damn here, he thought to himself. He took a deep breath and felt his lungs ache. He did not know what to expect. He hadn’t seen his nephew since his days at the seminary. Lameck had called him twice or thrice in the intervening years. The first time he had called, he said he was a truck driver for a freighting company owned by some Indian who chews Kuber all day and spits endlessly. The call was brief; he didn’t divulge much; he never does. He had then hung up in his usual fashion – without warning. His uncle had quickly dialed the number back. The phone rang a long time before it was picked by an angry, breathy voice on the other end - a woman’s voice. She was yelling (or was it screaming) inaudibly on the mouth-piece, breathing her whole weight into it, panting like a horse. Her voice hit Joel hard and threw him off-balance somewhat. He could almost feel the veins in her neck stretch taut with vexation. He quickly figured it was a public telephone and she was one of them women that vend their wares on the sides of the street. Her stall must have been right next to the telephone booth and the incessant ringing of that phone must have got up her nose. If you know those women you also know that they can really put an end to something. She sure did put an end to that ringing. He apologized and hung up. He cannot remember the second call. Then came the call that informed him that he was behind bars, a guest of the state. It sunk him so low, sapped all energy off him. It made him age faster.

Suddenly the door yanks open. There he is, in prison uniform - black pants and shirt with white stripes - and bathroom sandals. He’s been shaven clean, about a few millimeters from his skull. His pants are oversize. He has no belt on so he has one hand inside his pocket to prevent his pants from falling down. He is flanked by two imposing prison guards. He locks eyes with his uncle momentarily and attempts a faint smile, an embarrassed smile, then his eyes drop to the floor, shyly. The two guards ease him into the room and stand back, watching him make the few steps to the empty chair sitting opposite from his uncle. He walks hesitantly, like a man stripped of his dignity. He is limping slightly. His uncle opens his arms and attempts to go meet him halfway but one of the guards barks, “Hey mister, stay where you are! None of that is allowed here.” That stops him dead on his tracks and he retreats back to his seat, defeated.

Lameck sits on the empty chair opposite his uncle. There’s a table between them. The two guards remain standing at the door; they will stand there the whole time and it sure feels suffocating. His uncle stretches out his hand and he grabs it in a handshake. He holds on to it a while then lets go. They haven’t said a word yet. The air is thick with expectation. You can almost mould the tension in the room into a ball. Several seconds pass in silence. His uncle adjusts his weight on the chair then leans forward, hands clasped, both elbows on the table as if to anchor his frame against the heftiness of what he is about to say.

“How are you doing, son?” he manages to say, finally. He always called him son. He says it slowly, in a smoky voice that doesn’t sound like his and that scares him a little; it’s awkward. He is looking straight into his nephew’s eyes.

“Am doing well, Uncle! How’s family?” he replies softly. His uncle leans even further forward to hear him so he says it again, louder this time. His voice hasn’t changed much. It has acquired some depth alright but it has retained its earlier sharpness, like his mother’s.

“Everyone is fine” the uncle replies. He is surprised that he asks about family. “Do they treat you well here?” he continues. It’s almost a whisper. Lameck turns to look at the two guards standing at the door before he can answer that. They are looking at him. He looks back at his uncle, afraid to speak, then to his hands that now rest on the table then back to his uncle. His lips begin to form as if he’s about to say something but the words don’t come. He is a besieged man. Uneasy silence follows. There’s a gasp. Tears are rolling down his cheeks. It’s a weird sight and now he leans his head against the table and cries, a full grown-ass cry. He cries like a baby, tears pouring, dropping on the surface of the table untamed. His uncle lets him. He rubs him on the back in consolation.

The system has broken him, subdued him, defeated him. He is a man living on his knees. He that considered crying weakness, that lived his life taunting it, avoiding it in all its forms now cries like a helpless baby.

The next hour goes fast. He tells how they nabbed him and put chains on him; the fight and all, the whole thing. “It was a trap, uncle,” he says. Uncle Joel listens more, talks less. “…and it happened so fast I could not think properly.” He stops and takes a deep breath then he continues, slowly, as if summoning back the memories, “The next thing I know, the guy is lying on the floor, bleeding.”

“You pursued the guy, didn’t you?”

“Well I did but…”

“Time is up!” yells one of the guards at the door, stopping him mid sentence. They look at each other, perplexed but helpless. He has to go now. Things are not the same anymore. The state now decides how long they can talk, how often, what they can or cannot do whenever they meet and part. The two guards make for him. He wishes he could get a hug from his uncle but times have changed.

The guards grab him and they leave. Just before the door closes behind them, he turns and says, “Come back Uncle, if you can, please!” It’s a needy plea. Before he can answer, the door closes and he can hear the sounds of their retreating footsteps on the hallway. He is going away... to pay his debt to society.