Once upon a time, there lived a young boy, tall and black, happy and adventurous. The world was his playing ground, even though he would have to return to a 12 by 12 mabati (iron sheet) shack. When the sun shone bright, all his troubles went away, he was always out that door when the cock crowed, but when it crowed again, it was time to endure one more night.
The food wasn't that good, but it's not like his neighbours were eating anything better, it didn't disturb him much. The bed wasn't that big, and he had to share it with mama, but that didn't bother him much either, it kept him warm when the winds raged and whistled and their house swayed from side to side like a flag at day break. When it rained, the iron sheets turned from a roof over their heads to the sounds of a thousand school bells rung right at his ear, but that didn't bother him either, he could sleep through a hail storm without moving an inch.
But one thing made his stomach churn. Every day he had to look at the sun set on the horizon, the light would be soaked up by the darkness like a raindrop that fell on a giant sponge. One by one, the cars on the adjacent highway would light up their head lamps, the street lights next to the highway would light up simultaneously. The one big flood light that overlook his part of the slum would light up, but the shadows of the shacks still filled the sewer filled alley ways.
He would stumble home every day, on those dark alley ways jumping over sewers and walking past drinking dens where most of the men drank away their families future on illicit brew that reeked more than sewers he just jumped. He would walk past Mama Pima selling roasted fish by the corner, the sight of her fish left his mouth drier than the Sahara, her fish was the stuff of his dreams. He would walk past the jobless corner filled with talented youthful men and teens that had nothing better to do than to tell stories and share broken dreams and those who could still dare hoped and dreamed for better days. After passing a few rows of the shacks, the darkness would set in and the light from the huge lamp in the slum would be a distant memory. Only God knows how he knew which row his home was. He would walk down past a few doors and right there was his home.
This was the time of day he hated the most, nothing was worse than walking past the door and finding his home engulfed in darkness. Even the black tarmac on the highway looked brighter than their home. He and the tarmac had a lot in common, both are black and life seemed to trample him as much as the car rolled on the tarmac, but at least the tarmac had street lamps and head lamps shining on it. A tin lamp was their only source of light and kerosene was scarce, only mama was allowed to light it. Mama would make it home from work at around 7, burdened with the choice to take a matatu (14 seater van) home or to buy Kerosene for the lamp, mama always made sure that tiny lamp shined, "what were feet for anyway?" she would always say sarcastically.
She would come with food at times but when times were hard she had to go to the kitchen and fix up whatever she could for them to eat. The kitchen was the space right outside our door, if she would cook inside the room it would be filled with smoke. But at least we graduated from the three stones cooker to a meko one. Mama was so awesome she even found firewood in the concrete jungle. The funny thing is how regardless of taking the kitchen outside, the smoke still filled the room.
The lamp was only put on when mama had finished cooking, she always left the door open so that the light from the fire sipped through the door opening and the holes on the wall. Then she would put the wick on, say grace and we would eat whatever mama could get that day.
In all this mama could see how the dark got to his boy. How the night time removed the sparkle in his eye and the life in his words. So right before they retired to bed, mama would reach under the mattress, on the side where they rested their head right to the mabati wall, and she would pull out an old Kiswahili Bible. She would carefully move it next to the tin lamp, careful not to burn its old light dusty pages. She would read his boy a story and she would bring it to life, using voices actions and even songs. And just for a moment nothing mattered for both of them, they would get lost into this book till the light on the smouldering wick would start to flicker, but this didn't bother them, that book would light up their room more than the head lamps and street lights lit up the highway. They wouldn't stop until both their spirits were both lifted and not even the burdens of life could bring them down.
When they were done, and were ready to retire to bed, mama would look down on his boy, she would kiss him on the forehead and move her fingers in his hair and she would say to him, "Yesu ndiye mwangaza wetu Fatuma." ("Jesus is our Light Fatuma.")
