The Gizzard

Papa had never been that angry. The last time, I vividly remember, the worm in his head turned, Mother trekked for six miles to her birthplace at twilight. We slept on empty stomachs till her eternal return. She had made a grave mistake: giving out Papa's Christmas suit to uncle Nyaranga earlier that day.

Uncle Nyaranga is a chicken seller. He combs villages robbing ignorant farmers without violence and then takes the fortune to Kamukuywa, on the market day. What a good kill the brother of my mother makes! But what baffles us is what he does with the money. The bloke spends nothing on himself, leave alone his family. So that day he came home looking sorry and thoroughly beaten by rain. I reckon he only visits us when in dire need. He wanted warm things. Clothes, tea, food and fire. There was no way Mother could deny him. Generosity is a treasure she is well endowed with. Moreover, didn't she always say that she wouldn't have seen the sun had Nyaranga killed their mother at birth? So she gave him all-- including Papa's most treasured cloak. When the owner returned, he swore by the rags he was wearing not to eat or sleep till the suit is returned. This too meant that there would be no food or sleep for us.

''What the hell's wrong with Nyaranga's head? I paid them dowry. Why can't he stop salivating at the little I've remained with?'' He lamented. Mother had to go. The suit had to be returned. I sympathized with her. I cursed her brother.


I smelt trouble. It was written all over Papa's wide face. It had started to wrinkle. Whenever anger overwhelmed him, his face acquired thousands of undesirable wrinkles. He looked ugly. The wrinkles seemed to increase as Pastor Machasio bit the piece of meat on his plate. Papa was not eating. Real appetite had deserted him. Someone was savouring what was supposedly his-- by virtue of being the head of the house. Fear gripped me. Soup went the wrong way, choking me; I coughed uncontrollably. This helped to smother the loud silence that had been reigning for ages.

''You know, brethrens, God's full of grace,'' the man of God said.
''Yeah, really,'' Mother emphasized.
''I left my abode a fortnight ago, with nothing in my little stomach; but only memories of the meals I ate at Nambafu's wedding last month...''
''Oh sweet Jesus! Why?'' Papa cut in. '' You should have swallowed something, man. You know, we can't build our bodies with timber or bricks. We too, like vehicles, need fuel badly. Man must eat to live. See?''

The man of God raised his head, stole a glance at Papa and continued doing justice to his gizzard. But he ceased not to vomit spiritual wisdom. Mother had been pinched by Papa's outburst. She had stopped eating and was apparently studying dust on the floor. Embarrassed. Perhaps.

''Duty first, son, others come last.'' I don't know how young Pastor Machasio is. No one in the Sacred Strength of Samson Tabernacle ever knows. However, what I am sure of as hell is that Papa was looking after cattle in the field at the time when the man of God was still hiding under his mother's skirt. He still cried for the breast when Papa was facing the knife and eating chimbetete. Then what the hell or heaven gives him guts to call the age-mate of his father as his son? Isn't this abomination enough to make a sheep lose life?

''Mmmmmh---eee---eeh...'' Mother tried to mumble something. But her tongue, apparently heavy, failed her.

'' When Jesus commissioned his disciples to spread the gospel to lands yonder,'' the pastor commenced, '' nothing could stop them. Mission was king. Thus, for me, I couldn't let my stomach affairs worry me. How could I? Only a foolish servant disobeys his master.''

Papa, apparently annoyed by being belittled by a toddler, gulped his soup and left hastily. Mother sighed. The pastor sighed. Relieved. I stood up, washed my hands and left.


Whenever a chicken was cooked in our home-- a rare occurrence though-- everyone had their specific pieces. Eating them confirmed the joy of eating a chicken. Missing it was worse than an insult. This is what Papa experienced when Mother turned the world on its head and served Pastor Machasio a whole chicken. The gizzard and the back are vital (if not sacred) in a chicken. They are eaten by the owner of the homestead-- the man. The value attached to them spans for ages and needs not to be disputed or overlooked. Most women in this age do not know this. Some just ignore this traditional bullshit. But they dearly pay for their thickness. They are thrashed. They are send back to their mothers for re-education. They are divorced.

Mother is a devout christian. A notorious believer of the gospel of the second coming of Christ. So she represents us in The Sacred Strength of Samson Tabernacle (TSSST). Papa says that in a land where everyone is a heathen, the presence of a single saint saves them from eternal condemnation. But religion has intoxicated her, like bhang. Its effects are evident in the way she breaches traditions that have guided us since time immemorial. For example, her giving pastor Machasio Papa's gizzard. Today, indeed, women have ragged manners. Their engagement with the church has uprooted them from cultural values and ideals. No wonder her cohorts go about laughing, shaking hands and hugging fathers-in-law.

The tension eased at Papa's departure. Pastor Machasio chewed enthusiastically. His wide smile-- it ran from ear to ear-- returned. He enjoyed every bit of the rare meal with renewed appetite. Indeed you would think that he had been starving for forty days in the wilderness.

Papa loathed him passionately. I liked him neither. How could a man be at peace with eaters of his fortune? Were it not for his coming and doing-- he strongly condemns whoever doesn't give and whoever gives a meagre harvest-- Papa wouldn't be upset and I wouldn't be bathing in soup. A cloud of doom would not be hovering above us. When the owner of the homestead is wronged, he does not tell who is responsible; everyone pays. Perhaps for sitting back and watching him humiliated.

It was close to midnight when I returned from dreamland. Nope, I was dragged from it. There was commotion in the big house. We have two houses. An iron-roofed stone house and a grass-thatched small hole. The former is the main house whilst the latter is the kitchen. I sleep here, with goats, chickens, cockroaches and rats. For ages, the roof has been threatening to fall on me. The poor thing leaks like hell. At night, I always count the stars and trace the path of the moon on its ever endless journeys. I hardly sleep. How can one sleep with the sky smiling and the roof precariously hanging above them? However, the small house boasts of only one treasure: a picture of some palatial villa. Probably one of the likes found in the US, Europe or nowhere. With it in my midst, I am content that I own two houses. A magnificent bungalow and a tiny hole. All in one!


It was as if people were exchanging blows. Mother burst into loud sobs. Could it be thugs? Nope. We had nothing worth the world's envy except dreams. And dreams are hardly welcomed anywhere on the globe. I listened keenly. Then got Papa's drunken voice.

''... Stupid woman. You'll reckon that I'm the king here. Where the hell's my chicken?'' The gizzard is equivalent to a whole chicken. He would not be convinced to have tasted a chicken if he fails to see the gizzard. ''... How dare you entertain that swine and starve me? Why? Whose wife are you? Leo utanitambua...'' Papa swore.

Mother was now mum. She was used to this, whenever Papa's throat is thoroughly irrigated. Moreover, she was damn sure that some loose-tongued neighbours were listening. And she did not like the idea of being aired in Gossip FM the following day.

Thrashing began again. Hard and deadening. I had thought that it was over and was desperately trying to woo my sleep back. Mother could not hold on any more. She wailed, calling my name.

I shot out of my bed like a bullet and literally flew to the big house. I had grabbed a rungu in the process. Nobody walks into danger with bare hands. I knocked at the door angrily.

''Who the hell's there?'' Papa inquired. He, apparently, disengaged his muscles.
''It's me...''
''Who the hell is me?''
''Sindikha.''
''What the hell brings you here at this ungodly hour? Don't you know that we're sleeping?''
''Yes. But Mother call...''
''Mother what? Get lost before I find you there!''

I heard him making for the door. My body started freezing. What would the devil in his head incite him to do? I wondered. In a similar episode, two years before, he had mercilessly rained blows on me. I nearly joined our ancestors. It took me two weeks in the ICU to recover, during which the law was teaching him some manners. It was hell.

''Leave the boy alone,'' Mother shouted. Defiant. She had been quiet for a while. Papa wasn't listening. He could not even if he wanted to. I held my rungu firmly and remained standing, like a the president's bodyguard.

The door flung open. There was him--the bull that was terrorizing Mother. I moved back, to a safe distance. His eyes darted, from the sky, my head and then settled on the stuff in my hand. He shook his head and laughed. A scary, annoying dry laughter. Then Mother, who had been trailing him, fell at his feet. Crying.

''Dare not touch my son. Kill me first, if that is what you've planned
tonight...'' She cried and cried and cried. I started crying too. I
cried for her. I cried for everything. There was nothing to smile
about.

Papa was quiet. Just busy starring. It was if he had lost his network.
Then he did what we least expected. He bend and helped mother up.

''No one wants to kill anyone here.'' He said as he walked back.

In the morning, next day, two chickens lost lives. Papa talked and
talked, with two gizzards on the plate. Everyone was too excited to
remember the last night's episode. But what I secretly prayed for was
not a repetition of the same. Pastor Machasio to keep off till we meet
in church, heaven or hell.


(c) wafula p'khisa