Haunted

A DEAFENING SHRILL PIERCED THE CALM OF THE NIGHT like a sword through the ears. I fumbled from my deep sleep and successfully battled to turn on the lightshade beside my bed. A couple more female wails fluttered the entire air so loudly that they could rouse the dead. I had not enough time to even squint; terrific emergencies have a way of zeroing the average time it takes to adjust human vision against abrupt light.

The turmoil seemed to have created a branch within me – I was confused. The next instant, I was standing outside the door to my parent’s upcountry cottage trying to get hold of what had caused the melee. Barefooted, I stood still and a second didn’t pass before I caught glimpse of what was happening.

A hundred metres away, atop the hilly village of Milimani which overlooked the entire expanse of the area, emanated the hullabaloo and fracas. From the poorly lit background, I could spot a number of feminine silhouettes screaming, cringing and clasping to their heads in panic, casting appalling looks down the slope. I traced their sight and was met with utter shock and disbelief.

Mzee Mumunye’s distinctively blue pick-up truck descended the steep two-hundred-metre grade in a series of head-tail flip-flops, like a rolling dice. A familiar shriek rose above the screams as his mid-fifties wife wailed agonizingly, “My son! Somebody help! My son is in the vehicle, please heeeelp...”. I gasped. It was Kamuzu.

I didn’t know whether to catch my breath or join the fuss. The energy in my knees drained. I slid my back against the door in desperation and cowered in a squat. Kamuzu was my best friend and I couldn’t withstand the imagination of losing him. I shrieked in horror as lines of tears dripped down my chin involuntarily.

From the look of things, crying would be of no essence. Whatever was happening was beyond human rescue. I stood there, perplexed and petrified, as the truck summersaulted several times in the moonlit night and slammed into a huge acacia tree at the end of the hill. A jarring bang that could be heard from here to Karamojong blasted, as if it really intended to supersede the women’s screams as a response.

A brief moment of eerie silence ensued and the smell of death perforated the atmosphere…

Continuous, fervent chanting of Catholic dirges finally loomed to culmination. The tiny group of mourners collected near a priest and earnestly recited the Lord’s Prayer. In the centre of the small circle lay Kamuzu’s morose grave. His excruciatingly damaged, lifeless body was buried a few feet beneath. Pale faces looked in anguish as a mound of earth above the tomb formed a dome of sadness in the hearts of the bereaved.

Besides the typically black funeral garments, the grievers wore solemn faces. The vicar's message of hope seemed to make matters worse. Even the surrounding felt sombre.

It was not a surprise that more people had failed to attend Kamuzu’s final send-off. Individuals who committed suicide deserved no respect, they said.

Forget about wildfire; rumours that Mzee Mumunye’s son had committed suicide had spread from here to Timbuktu. Citing their reasons to illogical things, they claimed Kamuzu had unsuccessfully battled depression since the day his father declined his request to be bought a car. Knowing him like a knight recognizes a sword, Kamuzu couldn’t have opted for suicide without me discerning, let alone demanding a car. I could never buy into the gossip.

I dropped a tear as I planted a rose flower above his tomb.

Before the unanimous chorusing of the Lord’s prayer in my dream was over, I awoke. I flinched my eyes, too scared to sit up.

I was sweating bountifully and my pillow was soaked in outright dampness. What a horrendous dream it was! Wait, was that really a nightmare?

…As I pulled my blanket tighter towards my skin as if to protect me from demons that seemed to roam the darkness in my room, I could still hear a low intonation of the Lord’s Prayer sounding in my ears. I pinched my skin to ascertain my consciousness; I was awake! Were my ears playing games with me? Evidently, not...

‘Lead us not into temptations…’ The chant went on.

‘Petrified’ would not be enough to describe how I felt in that sudden moment.

I was too horrified and scared to reach out to the switch, yet I couldn’t tolerate the darkness anymore. The most valid conviction I could come up with was that I was being haunted by demonic spirits. Or else, where could my doubt be wrong?

My ears intently overworked amidst the bewilderment and confusion. Then, slowly, I became aware of my surrounding. My next-door neighbour, a reserved Catholic devotee, was listening to a rosary service from the parish radio program, most probably tagging along in prayer. I mustered the courage to get up and switched the lights on. I turned on my radio to listen and pray the rosary too – you would have, too.