Caroline, Adam, Kishindo, Musa, Fatu, Morris and Dama Were names of students before me who were interested in improving their creative non-fiction writing. They frequent my blog and had requested just an hour a day of my time for one week. And I felt honoured to grant their request because it would be giving back something to my community. They were all pursuing different courses in different universities and colleges in Mombasa city.
After a brief introduction, I asked them each to write something short. Not even a complete story. Just one short paragraph. And Morris wrote…
The weather was hot. But we were being fanned while seated on the plastic chairs, on the right side gazebo extension of the Swahilipot hub. Further right, the low tide of the Indian Ocean had begun sending waves that beat on the beach rocks for its journey to high tide.
Kishindo wrote…
The main reason that I chose a remote Health centre to do my internship, was the fair workload. But also, the surrounding is serene and before bedtime, the trees and birds entertain you with heavenly melodies. But lately, some people intentionally start their percussion rituals when it’s my time to go to bed. They usually come to the back of the health centre where staff quarters are situated then proceed south where their sounds go faint.
After they all read their pieces, I said to them: - Creative non-fiction writing is about the story as much as it is about proficiency in the English language. Grammar, idioms, et cetera. All of you are good at the latter. It is in the former that I wish to sharpen your skill. While writing, think of words and a flow that would interest your reader. One that always makes them want to know what happens next. He or she should not want to put down your story to go for a short call. You can go now, but I want three paragraphs tomorrow.
The next day, Tuesday, they all stood in front of their colleagues and read their three-paragraph stories. Kishindo’s story went thus:-
Ten O’clock. Low hymn-like sounds penetrated my walls. I peeped outside my window and saw a procession coming out of the small room which acted as a temporary mortuary, heading to the bushes southwards. I put on my open shoes, opened the door and sauntered following them. I was still in my pyjamas.
It was dark. The occasional cracking of small dry branches which I stepped on must have felt like it was their own doing. Clouds were scarce but still. You could hear weevils and crickets chirping from the near bushes. I followed their voices, careful on the footpath for it was narrow.
After about fifteen minutes' walk, I saw that the party had formed a semi-circle and something was covered by a white cloth in the middle. There was an inscription on the white cloth, it read “Bububu Health centre.” And I recognized one of the congregants to be the head staff in charge of the mortuary. I could not stay there any longer because my heart was in my mouth.
After dismissing the class, I asked Kishindo to remain because I wanted to have a word with her. I told her that Creative nonfiction demands stories to be real. Not cartoons, not fiction not anything inconceivable. She looked at me with no emotion. I could not tell whether she was a bit offended that I did not take her story seriously or that she was heeding my advice. I have always been sceptical of matters of voodoo and witchcraft and have dared people who believe in it to make it crap lots of money.
The next day, nothing was interesting. Or you may say, nothing that I expected because I looked forward to a continuation. Maybe Kishindo was angry because her story today was about her experience in Tsavo game park drive. I talked to them about the importance of suspense in a story and being articulate. Then I told them they can write as many paragraphs as they wanted for their next day's assignment.
“Curiosity killed the cat.” Kishindo started her reading on the morning of that Thursday. “It was my curiosity that brought me back to these bushes tonight. I had to know what Berumba, the Mortuary head and his cohort did to the dead bodies. They were supposed to be transported to Coast General Hospital every morning where there are proper and enough facilities to preserve cold bodies.
After about half an hour of dancing and music, they all removed their clothes. They removed the white cloth that was covering the corpse too. Four of them started facing towards the bushes to make sure there was no one coming. Then, one by one they went down and kissed the dead body on the nose. After that, one man went down and knelt on the lower side of the stiff body, chanted a few words I could not understand, and then descended on her.
I must have lost myself for a considerable moment because I was breathing heavily when I came to my senses. I was going out of breath. I couldn’t believe it. The guy was copulating with the cadaver. I couldn’t feel my limbs but after a moment I regained my energy and decided to escape.
Just before I reached the hospital, three men and a woman caught up with me. We were rejoined by the others after ten minutes as they took back the dead to the temporary mortuary. They explained to me how in their culture that ritual is done to cure impotence. I reminded them we are active members of the medical profession. How could we still believe in those things? Furthermore, they were violating the dead person. They said it worked. And as I continued to argue, one of the women having long nails slapped me hard which made the pain in my already bad tooth severe.
They had made it clear they were not joking with their business. They warned me that any word to the Police and I would have invited my death. Moreover, I was to participate in tonight’s ritual, and it was not a request but an order. I heard one of the women say 'it would be a gift and a blessing because I will have many babies.' The thought of sleeping with a corpse scares me, but so does death. I couldn’t eat. Neither could I perform my job well after I came back from the writing sessions of Mr Ahmedinho. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I want to stay alive."
It was not after her last word that I discovered the scratch marks on her chin. She had tried to conceal them using cheap makeup but the marks were somehow visible. Also, I recognized a brown opening on her teeth lining. She was scared to death and it showed on her face. The others left their mouths wide open as they listened to her story.
After a ten-minute recess, I told them that there is a difference between Autobiography, biography, news reporting, academic papers and creative nonfiction writing. All except the last are based on real events and true stories. When one encounters things or activities that go against the law, or things that are harmful to human beings, the wise recourse is reporting to the police.
That afternoon as I lay on my bed back home, I could not help but wander my thoughts to the predicament that had befallen this girl. Her intention, and ambition, were just to practice and spend time in that hospital for her placement so that she can get the necessary testimonial to help her with her career. Here she was, caught up between evil and her dreams. But her method of crying out left me nonplussed. She had decided to convey her confusion in an artistic form. Was it a reality, or just fiction? Was it writing, or was she really in danger?
After a long battle in my mind, I decided to go and witness it myself. I dumped the idea of going first to the police because I would become a laughing stock if the rituals for tonight were postponed. It was nine thirty and dark when I came down from the Matatu at Kona ya Mtongwe stage. I took to the left then after a hundred meters I went right following a footpath that I knew would lead me to Bububu health centre. And before ten, I was hidden behind a large Boribo-mango tree where no one could see me. Anxiety kicked in at half past ten. This was the time the rites started. Five minutes passed, then ten, then half an hour. I did not hear people singing or coming to the back of the hospital. I was patient enough to wait for another hour and a half but no one came except angry mosquitoes who sting mercilessly leaving you expressing your agony in silence. And they do not give up coming back when whisked.
I was first in the hospital on Friday morning determined to get answers. The receptionist told me they don’t have a mortuary and after making noise for fifteen minutes, two nurses escorted me back to the back structure that was on the right side of the staff quarters. They opened it and to my embarrassment, I saw that it was a kitchen. Full of pots and firewood and other kitchen stuff. I asked about Kishindo but they said they never heard of her. I described her to them, that she had an average body and stern eyes, even when she smiles. Chocolate in colour. Curvy. About five feet three inches in height and head always covered. They identified her as “Hilu”, they said her last day was yesterday and she was doing her nursing internship with them. Where is she from? I asked, and they said Malindi.
The game was over. She had gotten the better of me. I tutored them about making their stories interesting but she had gone further to make them believable. So attached was I to the sequence of events in her story that I wanted to enter her world and experience it myself. To hear, and to see what she saw on those nights. She used words to paint a perfect picturesque of the location and rituals in our minds. She plays with language to play with minds. She makes readers’ minds dance with the words. She curves her words in a rhythmic form that took my emotions hostage. I could feel the adrenaline rising high each time I finished a sentence to begin another. What a writer! Surely, the writing world is at a loss. Creative nonfiction lost a talented writer when she took medicine to be her career of choice.
She did not come to class the next day. I had designed my own certificates to give them. I remained with hers since I did not think of asking for her contacts. And until today, her certificate hangs on the wall of my bedroom. I have given praise to many writers for their exceptional works. But when I talk about Hilu, it’s with high regard and reverence to the sublimity of her writing prowess.
