Your achievement is even bigger for Ma. Unknown to you, and everyone else except Pa, Ma always thought that education was the way forward in these times. And so, she swore to ensure that her children studied as far as they could go. But Fate, that monster, looks upon our feeble dreams and scowls.
Her first three children did not live to see their sixth birthday. Abalo, her first, died of Polio, aged three. Next, Aryemo, also a girl, was struck down by Malaria. She was just two when she died. And then came Obalim, the light of Ma’s world. He made it past the age of five, and everyone thought he would be the one that stayed ─he had such life in him! And his smile! Even today, the older folk still speak of his winning smile that stole your heart and suffused your entire being with joy. But Death would have him. He drowned in the village stream, where he had gone to fetch water with his mates. He was six years old and in Primary One. Of all the children she lost, they say his death hit Ma the hardest. Everyone, including Pa, thought she would not recover. But she did, eventually, and then she had you.
They say you were always a small child ─too small for your age. Even at birth at the Health Centre in Kal, you came out weighing just two kilograms. And to make matters worse, you were quite sickly. If you did not have flu, then it was malaria, or diarrhoea or something else. When you were sick, Ma would walk around helplessly, despair written all over her face, and the only person who understood her during these times, the only one she could stand was Pa. His constant presence, coupled, strangely enough, with his silent disposition, somewhat consoled her, and people said of them that their spirits connected so much that they didn’t have to talk at times. Luckily for you and Ma, you somehow survived; and though you remained a small child for your age, you were determined to live.
When Ma took you to school in Primary One ─unlike most children your own age you seemed to love school. Every morning, while other children had to be cajoled or threatened to go to school, you rushed eagerly out of the house and raced through the dewy grass so you would not be late. Ma and Pa found this feature of yours strange, but still, it pleased them greatly.
“Okidi is going to study and be a pilot!” Ma would exclaim from time to time when she was in a good mood. Although she did not know much about piloting and what it took to become one, in her world education meant open doors and opportunities.
“Look at the family of Ocen, they have an iron roof over their head because of education,” she remarked, about Ocen Noah, a close neighbour of ours. His son had gone to a technical school after Primary Seven, and upon completion of a certificate course in building, was able to construct a small, two-roomed house with an iron roof. His iron roof house was the only one here and was viewed as a grand achievement. These were the sort of events that inspired Ma to have her children in school.
As for you, despite your small size, you did not disappoint Ma, and you kept her dreams of a better future for the family alive. Throughout your early education, until Senior Four, you were a top student.
This is why everyone around the fireplace is anxious this oroo evening, why Ma cannot be still, because of what she has been through all her life. Is death still coming for you after all this time? Just when everyone was beginning to think that you would stay?
***
Latim is the only one from the nearby compound who can read. He studied up to Primary Seven, and then his father Okello, thought it fitting that he ease into the next phase of life: getting a wife, and having children. He now has a wife, and two children, after dropping out of school three years ago.
This evening is special; we have gathered around him in recent evenings, but today, it’s finally confirmed that the results are out. Finally! It’s been one long wait, especially for Ma.
Pa on the other hand has always acted as though he did not know what was happening around him. He always gave the impression that he was in his own world, and remained his usual restrained self through all the mayhem. Ma was the exact opposite: expressive and loud; and for some reason, as she talked, which happened all the time, she preferred if somebody did the listening. Perhaps that explained why she and Pa had got married in the first place. But those who know Pa well are not deceived by his apparent indifference. He pays close attention to details; and if there is one thing he and Ma agree on very strongly, it is the education of their children and their pride in your academic prowess.
***
So, here we are, crowding anxiously around Latim as his eyes scan through pages of the best candidates in the country listed by district.
This is what we had waited for. We have bought this paper daily for two weeks. The paper costs one thousand eight hundred shillings, which is a lot here. Uncle John had called us wasteful for buying the paper daily during this time. “Lok kati”, he said, meaning that we shall still get to hear your results without having to buy the paper daily. But Ma would have none of that. “Why did it bother him so much anyway?” she often asked. It was her own money, made from selling some of her sorghum. This was the sort of sacrifice she was willing to make, as long as she thought she saw a way forward.
Suddenly, Latim clears his throat and announces in his best radio-Presenter impression:
“Aaaaand, coming third in Lamwo district, Okidiiiiiii Jaaaaames!!!!” We cannot believe our ears! You were among the best in the entire district! Everyone cheers. Ma breaks out in a dance. Even dad, who is seated a little removed from us, cannot hide his pride.
But can it be true? Surely it’s too good to be true. But your name is right there, in print! Pa asks him to make sure. We wait as Latim re-reads the names; he reads Lamwo district, then Palabek County, Palabek senior secondary school, then your name. Okidi James. Lastly, your aggregate which is 22 in 6, and 31 in 8. It is true, all true!
We are so excited, so proud of you; but that only makes our sadness over your condition even keener. You are down with this strange disease which no one can explain. First, we thought it was the Nodding disease which mostly afflicted children, then perhaps SLIM?? It was neither. Even the doctors were perplexed, and Pa whispered in his reserved way that “gamente should do something”. So will the government think of something? You are the first one, ever, in our village, to have his name in the Newspaper for passing, yet you might not continue with your studies. This is unthinkable, yet it is the harsh reality before us. True, Amone had his name written in print when he was appointed the headmaster of Badege Primary School, but that does not count anymore; it happened so many years ago. Besides, his Parish has since been declared a new district, so that talk has since been put to rest.
After waiting so eagerly for this, now we are afraid to tell you the good news. Perhaps you will not even understand what the news means when we tell you, and that would hurt Ma even more. You are seated away from us, under the jambula tree. Then suddenly, you jerk like one possessed by jok. You shake vigorously, your limbs flailing this way and that as saliva oozes from the sides of your mouth. Ma, always on the lookout for you, drops the cup that she’s holding and runs to hold you down. The rest of us help her restrain you, and after a while, you calm down. Ma holds onto your head, and though you are 19 years old, she holds onto you like you were her six-year-old boy. Obeny then comes and takes you gently out of Ma’s arms and carries you back into the hut.
Ma cries and beats her laps and stares into space, then asks no one in particular: “Why! Why! Why, why me Lubanga?” All the earth seems to hush as the sound of her sobbing ripples through the air. Her shoulders are shaking, and endless tears run down her cheeks. Pa walks silently to her and puts his arms around her shoulders. That seems to comfort her. A few minutes later she sighs as one resigned to her fate. At such moments, when Ma seems to be weighed down with uncertainty and hopelessness, Pa becomes the Rock that supports her in grief that only the two of them can understand.
Your strange sickness is affecting not just Ma, but the whole family. Ever since you remained in school till Senior Four, the rest of the extended family began looking at you as their hope for the future. Ma’s constant talk had imprinted itself in their heads.
Your condition has persisted for about three months now, and we are fairly used to it. With the results out, we now know that Senior Five opens in three weeks, and you are still a long way off from recovery.
What surprised everyone was how fast the nicknames spread, and before anyone knew it, all the little children in the village ─even those who had not started school yet called the teachers by these names when they saw them passing through their compounds. Of course, their parents always gave them a beating whenever they heard them. “You must give teachers respect!” Pa said from time to time. But the fear of getting caught by the grownups only added to the excitement.
Days go by and Senior Five starts next week. You are in no condition to start. We have a copy of the Rupiny with your name, and Obeny travelled to town on his Hero bicycle to find out where you had been admitted to for form five. “Layibi!” he exclaimed as soon as he got back, jumping off his Hero bicycle from the edge of the compound. “Okidi was admitted to Layibi.”
Layibi College is one of the best in the country, and it was your first choice. You are the first person in our family to go this far in school. You are the first in this village to reach this level.
Yet, although no one will say it, we are all afraid that you may never go back to school again. That some of the people from the other homes may not be wishing you to get well and continue with your education. That they say your achievements will make us step on their heads. People from Oryem’s home pretend to pray for you. Their firstborn Atoo studied up to Senior Three. It was the highest level anyone from the village had reached. The highest level, before you. They have not come out to say it openly, but we think they would not want you to go even further with your education.
“Lubanga let my child get well doh,” Ma laments from time to time. “Even if he does not continue with Kwan, just let him get better.” Of course, Ma, being a mother, would love for you to continue with school, but not at the expense of your health. Well, that was surely stating the obvious. No one wants you to be in this state, other than the Oryems, it was generally agreed.
Senior Five in Gulu to us here sounds like crossing the ocean. Atoo was studying in YY Okot in Kitgum town, and that had also seemed so far removed from us down here. At the time, she spoke of Kitgum as though things were done very differently from here in Palabek. “In Kitgum, people do not sleep at night, because there are disco halls everywhere,” she would say. “In Kitgum, shops are opened until after midnight because electricity does not go off,” she would comment, which we found mind-boggling.
Atoo is now a mother of three. Her firstborn cut her education short in the third term of Senior Three. It is said that a nephew of Olara Otunnu was responsible. But people are not so sure about this, because as is the case, the Atoo family loves to be associated with things that are above the ordinary person in Palabek. The name Olara Otunnu is viewed as such. Besides, said nephew never showed up, and when Atoo stayed home for two years with her daughter, Okello Lapwo took her in as his third wife. Now she has borne him two more children. She was the most educated person in the village, till you.
Some people are saying that her family went to Ajwaka to stop you from going any further with your education. But then again, this rumour was started by the Olums. Everyone in the village knows that the Olums do not like the Atoos because the Atoo family migrated from Madi Opei and encroached on the Olums’ land. This happened three generations ago, but no one in the entire Palabek could swear by their ancestors about the authenticity of these assertions. These sorts of things were always suggested, especially between people or families that didn’t see eye to eye.
It’s a year down the road. You are still not back in school. You still get your convulsions occasionally, though not as frequently. You still stare listlessly into space; though once or twice Ma saw you staring listlessly into your books. Listless it might have been, but you were looking at your books. This was enough to excite Ma and to let her hold on to her flicker of hope about your ambitions. She took you to Kitgum hospital. The doctors said that even though your condition is a unique one, you would get better and resume normal life because your brain seemed fine, and your nerves were also okay. Ma was not satisfied with this and she planned, if she got the money, to take you to Lacor hospital in Gulu. Pa silently agreed with her.
Uncle Arege says we should take you to a very good Ajwaka in Kitgum Matidi. He is certain it will not fail. “Before the white people came we had our own ways of treating illnesses,” he likes to say. “We should not neglect our ways.”
But no one takes Uncle Arege seriously, right from his name to what he has to say. Uncle Arege is a nickname because he drunk a lot of Arege, the local potent spirit. His real name is Okwera, but Arege has been used for so long that very many people, especially the little kids, do not know his real name. His suggestion is met with scorn, especially from Aunt Rose, who is a staunch Catholic. Word has it that she nearly joined the convent as a little girl, had it not been for grandpa. Grandpa is dead now, but Aunt Rose is married with five children. Five children yes, but at heart, she is still a staunch Catholic.
Today you left the house by yourself for the first time since anyone could remember. Ma was a little worried, but everyone said you had been making some progress in the last few weeks, and maybe Ma did not have to be overly worried over you. She reluctantly gave in, though she constantly looked at your disappearing figure, till you were out of sight after the bend. When you got back after about an hour, you made straight for your box which had your books. You opened it, looked through it, and this got the compound buzzing with suppressed excitement. In the night after supper, you asked to see Lapwony. Lapwony is the headteacher of Kal High School which is about five kilometres from our home. This request caused quite a stir. Ma looked at you closely and asked guardedly if you felt ready. You looked long and hard at her and then nodded your head. She burst into tears. We all knew that you were coming back. We all saw the flicker.