… For miles and miles…
When grandpa rested on the 14th of May, I didn’t really get the enormity of what had happened.
See, he had been unwell for quite a while, but the image that I had nurtured in my head since childhood was one of superman.
“Grandpa’s strong. If not strong, he’s really cool. If not cool, he’s always favored.”
At one time, his condition had deteriorated, and dad had to rush home to check on him. The following day in the morning before leaving for town, mum talked to me, told me that he wasn’t doing well, and that, unfortunately, anything could happen.
I didn’t respond.
Minutes later, before I left, I walked back to the living room and told her, “Well, if there’s nothing the medics can do, we can pray.”
He survived.
Deep inside, I couldn’t fight the avalanche of emotions. The image I had of him was slowly fading.
He was just a man.
We would later travel together with dad to see him. There he was, the man who had given me the best childhood a boy could ever ask for. He couldn’t tell who he was talking to, and so I was asked to call him.
“Uvoo waku?” (How are you?) and he weakly responded by calling my name,
“Mutinda.”
Despite his visibly worrying condition, he exhibited a unique sense of calm, a character that had defined his entire life. In between the conversations, he could try to laugh at a joke made, perhaps in an effort to calm us down.
All this time, I was there by his side, quiet in disbelief.
Grandpa Musau was just an incredibly amazing man. Everytime we traveled to the countryside, he was always there to talk to us, his grandchildren. If not repairing the bicycle for Linda and I, he would be out there herding cattle with Nancy by the roadside.
You’d find us with tools and pumice stones fixing a puncture in one of our bike tyres, and in between endlessly inquiring about our studies, small talk about the weather, politics of the old and the new, and of course, a thermos-flask of tea right next to his seat.
Too complex a set of topics for us mere kids, but he did it so smoothly that you didn’t want him to stop; carefully thinking through his words, which implied a rather slow style of speaking.
He was extremely wise, but his non-confrontational attitude would occasionally portray him as one who avoided enhancing arguments, but was quick to play the diplomat when needed. Such a personality had its own set of shortcomings though.
He was fiercely peaceful, a trait that would earn him respect and love from those who interacted with him. Fiercely peaceful that it made it difficult for any aggressive person to figure out how to deal with him.
Too cool and yet extremely tough inside, like a steel statue carefully crafted to fit under his skin.
He would stay true to this until his last breath.
On several occasions, he’d grab a smoke, masterfully rolling the tobacco leaves to a piece of paper. There was a sense of grace in the practice, perhaps a virtuous vice that inserted an artificial crack, reminding us that he wasn’t perfect, but we knew he was!
I couldn’t help but be mad at him for going without saying a proper goodbye.
“I wanted him to see me succeed, to see me become the man he always talked me to believe I’d become. Now what is success without him?!”
As the days neared to his burial, I dreaded that final day, after all the messages of condolences have toned down and now you have to face it all by yourselves.
The night before, I had a long chat with Linda, both of us worried about Nancy.
She really loved him.
We all did.
Grandma was holding it together. She couldn’t speak though, quietly listening to the sermon. They were really close.
It’s been different since he left. I feel his missing strand. When a loved one goes, you really can never replace them.
When he left, nothing else mattered anymore. I could try to keep myself busy and read myself out of the thoughts, but he is that presence that never shouts for attention.
My education won’t give me solace. My daily bread couldn’t either. It’s like, in his death he reminded me about the things that really matter.
Are you perhaps too busy for your family and friends? Could it be that you’re too engrossed fitting into the frame designed by others and not yourself?
Are you even doing what you love? If he was to spend a day with me, I know he’d be proud that I was busy, but would he be satisfied by just that?
In the last day of your life, what would really matter? Who would attend your last address?
No one tells us this when we’re young, but our legacy really goes beyond paper and exhaustion. We are meant to believe that we are moving because we are always busy, but no one reminds us about those intangible things in life that mean everything; God, family, true friendships and service.
He liked to serve, especially in the community. When the local church had some field activities, he would ride his Raja bicycle to the place, and get down to work like everyone else, perhaps one of the fewest of elderly men who would avail themselves anyway.
Musau never discriminated or despised anyone. He had all these acquaintances who knew him. When he was bedridden, people from different walks of life would visit him. It was never ‘the special ones’. Because to him, everyone was.
Such a diversity.
When young, we are made to believe that your friends define who you are; could be coming from your parents, or the society itself, or from that impressive person whose value for friendship is their net-worth!
So, we’ll move with speed to make new ones, those we feel best befit our status. Not really understanding that this has to be the most selfish thing ever!
Your friends do not define who you are - they are the link from your self-made bubble to the world as it is. They remind you of what you should do to make the lives of everyone a little bit better, because they are the side of you which you declined to become.
That is how you become irreplaceable, like Musau.
That is how you change the world, by touching it. He did his part, and yes, he did it so well!
That is what we learnt from him without ever being summoned.
Speaking on behalf of the grandchildren, we made a promise to him,
“Mzee, you were a great man in a small town. We will put your name on the map. I promise you, we will do that.”
Till we meet again grandpa.
