Jackee Budesta Batanda,
"Holding on to the Memories"
(page 2 of 6)
II
Naboro was the last of the children. She was born after the '79 coup.
He hadn't known about her until the day Zahara, his wife, took her to
the prison. Naboro was, in some ways, the most important of them all;
she was the girl he had always longed for after a parade of boys.
He could have refused the pardon and stayed in prison, waiting for
his time. But the empty eyes of the child in the picture haunted him in
his sleep. This was the child he held in his hands only once, early in
his incarceration, when Zahara brought her to prison to meet him.
Naboro, a little bundle, sucked her thumb as she slept, oblivious to the
world she had been brought into. He felt a pain sweep through him like a
searing flame when he held her. He looked Zahara in the eyes and quietly
asked her not to bring the child to him again. He didn't want his only
daughter to see her father as a condemned man—a man counting the stars
each night through his prison window, thinking that if the poison did
not kill him, then the executioner would summon him. Each night, he
counted stars he believed would be his last. The sky has a multitude of
stars if one has been counting them for 25 years.
He accepted the pardon as his only ticket to knowing his daughter. He
stopped caring about the cause of being imprisoned. He thought that
perhaps meeting her would atone for his sins in a past life. Many
reasons could have pushed him to turn down the pardon. He had grown used
to the mechanical life—waking up at 4 a.m. for the morning drill and
gruelling work, all before a light breakfast of porridge, meant to last
until lunch, when he ate half-cooked posho, beans, and cabbage, followed
by an equally miserly supper. He lost his sense of taste. You lose many
things in prison if you intend to survive. You build a mechanism around
you and adapt to the new life. You try to block out those left behind
and the luxuries with which you once lived. To him, morning, noon, and
night lost meaning and melded into one., as though the day consisted of
one long circle drawn around his eyes. He was tired of rolling his head
to see the end of the circle.
He resigned to this state of being until an agitated Zahara visited
him. They sat in the meeting room and chatted about general things.
"Do you still have the sore throat?" she asked quietly, keeping her
gaze on the table.
"I am fine."
"I am glad to hear you are fine . . ." she sniffed, fighting back
tears.
"What's the matter, Zahara?"
"Nothing," she said.
"Something is wrong."
She shook her head vehemently. He stretched his hand across the table
and lifted her chin. The tears that filled her eyes sparkled like
crystal. He let go of her chin.
"Tell me what's bothering you."
"Naboro keeps asking for her father. She cries each time she asks for
you. And I don't know what to tell her."
He reached for her hands. "Look into my eyes," he whispered. She
lifted her head and stared at him.
He wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Do not cry," he told her. "Tell
the little girl that her daddy is not coming home. Tell her anything,
but do not tell her that he is in prison."
She nodded, taking a white handkerchief from her handbag and wiping
her eyes.
"What about the boys?" she asked.
"They are old enough," he said. "You can tell them the truth—but not
the girl."
She pulled a black-and-white picture from a brown envelope and gave
it to him. "I want you to remember your daughter."
He held the picture in his hands and studied the chubby face that
smiled at him. Those glittering eyes made him forget everything. They
made him realize his loss, and they eventually started haunting him. He
prayed for another day to see his daughter, hoping that God would pardon
him. And when his prayers were answered, he signed his pardon papers
without hesitation. He knew his time in this life was winding down, and
he could not afford the indulgence of saying NO to the MAN. He walked
out of confinement, leaving his mates behind and trading 25 years for a
few months with his only daughter.
As he sat on the bed she had suddenly left, emptiness engulfed him.
He thought of his life in confinement with nostalgia. Perhaps he hoped
for too much. Perhaps he should never have returned. Perhaps the charade
should have continued. But he knew he couldn't handle prison any longer.
He stopped handling it when the doctor told him about the malignant cyst
growing on his liver. He counted his time and wanted to make peace with
everyone; mostly, he wanted to reconcile with his daughter. If he could
earn her forgiveness, then he would die at peace with the world. That is
why he blindly signed the pardon papers the day his lawyer waved them
before him. He agreed to the conditions of his release: holding press
conferences to praise the MAN and not commenting on the political scene.
He signed away his voice and opinions. None of this mattered anymore.
All that filled his mind was little Naboro. But was coming home the
right thing to do?
Zahara entered slowly. Their eyes met. He hung his head and could not
hold her gaze. She walked to him and sat beside him, resting her hand on
his shoulders.
"Naboro will get 'round to having you around," she consoled.
His shoulders drooping, he nodded slowly."I don't blame her. I'm just
a stranger in her life," he said dejectedly.
"That may be true," she uttered, "but it does not change the fact
that you are her father. You have to give her time."
"Time is what eludes me, Zahara." He looked up at his wife, with
pools of water flooding his eyes.
"Nasser," she interjected, "we have all the time in the world, and we
shall use it."
"I'm drowning," he said.
"Forget the doctor's diagnosis," Zahara soothed. "He could be wrong,"
she said, squeezing his shoulders. "He must be wrong."
He lifted his hand and covered hers. He closed his eyes tightly and
inhaled her scent. His Zahara, ever naive and believing in miracles.
"I wish it were true," he sighed, "I wish it were true."
Page: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
Next page
|