"Where is she?"
"Who? The widow? She is inside. Locked up in her room with her sisters."
"The widow. The widow! That is me. I am a widow." Mama Kungu turned her head, whispering softly to herself, and tried to lean on her shoulder. The name did not register. Widow seemed like such a heavy ugly word. It didn't feel right. A few days ago, she was Mrs Kungu, Mama Junior. Now she was Namwandu, The widow.
She wondered when it would all end. For days on end, the media people, the government people, the neighbours...had hounded her, walked about her house like they belonged. All these men and women from everywhere who acted as though they were closer to her husband than Junior. They took the front seats at the funeral service, and when Kungu was placed in thr grave, they stood at the front, heads bowed, then threw their flowers and soil in slowly, stealing glances at the cameras to make sure they caught them in motion. They wanted to be seen grieving.
Mama Junior did not get to watch as they covered Kungu's grave. The rain. It must have been raining, because she couldn't see a thing. But when she told people later that it rained the day of the funeral, they shook their heads sadly, looked at her, a woman to be pitied, and told her, there had been no rain. But she remembers there was rain. It blurred her vision. It covered her face and she couldnt see. There had to have been rain.
"No Mama Junior. It was not rain. It was the bucket of tears you shed as they lowered Kungu into the grave. You cried until we thought you would faint. We feared for the baby."
"The baby! Oh my goodness, the baby." Mama Juniors hand quickly goes to her stomach. What happened to the baby?
"She doesn't remember her baby? Namwndu tajukira nti yalilubuto?"
"What kind of woman is that?"
"She is a widow. Excuse her. She just lost her husband."
"Omwana ali ne mama Kungu."
"When did the baby come out?"
"You gave birth the day after the funeral, Mama Junior. Your mother in law came for the child after two days."
"Why did she take my child? What is his name? Did i see him? Him? Is it a boy? Did i have a boy?"
The tears threatened to pour as i read the last line. I could see them holding their hankies and crying for the sad story i had been reading to them. They would leave here and for a few minutes, remember that sad story. But i would live with the reality of it for the rest of my life.
One day changed everything. One minute, Kungu was here and the next, he was gone. They say the minute your loved one dies, you feel it. In your gut, in your heart. You feel it somewhere. You instinctively know that something is wrong. I remember a sharp pain in my stomach that morning. I was outside putting out the fire from the charcoal stove. I leaned back against the wall of the compound and held my breath. Then i slowly made my way to a chair in the house and rested. I was 8months pregnant.
I do not remember much else. I remember a police car, i remember a funeral, i remember Junior tagging endlessly at my skirt. And then, nothing more.
I am told it was a week. I was asking for Kungu and they cried each time i asked.
"After the funeral, they took you to the hospital. The baby was born the next day. You could not feed the baby. You wouldn't even look at the baby. For two days in the hospital, you stared at the wall and said nothing. Your mother in law came and took the baby away." She says it accusingly, as though i intentionally shut the world out. Maybe i did.
I went to pick my baby today.
Kungu's child.
I did not know what to expect.
I had been told that Mama Kungu might not let me take him, and so i had asked my family to go with me.
She opened her door, and opened her arms wide.
Her tears flowed freely.
"Namwandu!" she said it over and over as she held me to her heavy bosom. Then she held me at arms length and asked if i would manage. I nodded.
I held my baby for the first time. I shall call the baby Kungu. But is it a boy or a girl?
"It is a girl Mama Junior."
I shall call her Kungu.
