GONE WITH THE TIDES.

A short story.

By Brian Nzomo.

It had been three years since Mwanaisha and I signed the marriage certificate at the Attorney General’s office. The small office. Just us, two witnesses and the senescent attorney General.

Both of us had come to this uncanny decision based on the negativism our relationship was facing. Mwanaisha was from an obstinate Islamic background. I, on the other hand, was an atheist.

I met her on a bromidic Monday. A decalescent and prosaic afternoon, crunched by the incessant phone call ramblings by my editor on what I was supposed to do and what I was not. I was tempted to switch off my phone but that would even put me into further conflict with that hot tempered editor of mine. I was covering an Inter-schools fair at the Two Rivers mall.

As I was seated on the cemented barricade near the crowded playground, amid the deafening noise of exhilarated kids, I saw her. Seated on a mucilage bench. Her hued “dera” glistened in the sun. And that neck. Slender and poised adroitly at the adjacent direction. After a few minutes of amassing confidence, I approached the dexterous lass.

   She was friendly and bold. A heartening personality that made sit there and just listen her talk. Her intelligence and erudite vibrance carried me away into her island of thought. She was a teacher and had brought some of her pupils to the fair. After two hours of smooth conversation, I took her number. I decided that advancing proximity with this girl would be a critical point of my life. But of course. The day ended badly. Another stingy lecture from the cranky editor.

That was where it all began. The relationship was a bliss. It smouldered all my daily life’s distention. It sparkled our lives. Colored our existence.

*** ***

Her limber smile. The symphonious voice. And her lithe skin. All that was the iridescence I ever wanted in my life. After an year of courting her, I was convinced that I had to marry her. I proposed. But before we got married at the AG’s office, the six months between were tanned in difficulty.

**** ****

The six months. Her family in Malindi came to know of the relationship. They weren’t pleased. The police commissioner’s son, one Ahmed Bakhressa, had visited Mwanaisha’s parents willing to marry her. Ahmed was apparently a successful businessman who had jetted back into the country from Qatar after seven years. Mwanaisha’s parents were elated. What more would they have wished for, than a son-in-law who was not only wealthy but from a prominent family. Their hopes were daunted when their precious daughter working in the city as a modest teacher, told them she had met someone and was intending to get married to him.

One of her lazy brothers at home was enraged. He could not imagine their good luck would easily fade because of his sister’s idiocy. Mwanaisha’s elder sister, Aisha had escaped from home after she discovered she was pregnant out of wedlock. The rest of her brothers were still either struggling hustlers or still schooling. Her family therefore saw her as the epitome of hope. Her decision therefore was a threat to that expectation. I remember one evening. Her brother called me. Insulting me and threatening me to leave his sister alone. He called me a ‘kafir’. But I was unrelenting. I dared him to stop me from dating his sister, warned him to stop calling me and blocked his damn number. I’d never been so brave and daring. But I did it. Because if anything was to separate me from Mwanaisha, it had to be death.

We pushed on. It was clear that her family would not be party to her decision. I could see the pain in her eyes. The pain of sacrificing the interest of her family to fight for us. Us to be together. I even suggested we end things, in order to alleviate her pain. But she resisted. She was doing things her way. I couldn’t introduce her to my father. We had not been in talking terms for 3 years. His staunchness in belief as an Anglican could not bear my openness with him when I told him I was no longer a believer.

Six months later. After a period of emotional turmoil of whether things were going to work, we came to the adamantine decision to fight. Our love wasn’t going to be stifled. Whatever had to be done, had to be done. We settled for a civil marriage.

*** ***

The marriage wasn’t a bed of roses. Constant disagreements threatened rocked the union, jeopardizing our love. Financial crunches were common, placing the marriage at a point of imminent fallout. But thankfully the blitheful moments overpowered the threats. An year later. She became pregnant. Nine months of impeccable strife, She gave birth to a ravishing son. We named him Amani. A Swahili word for peace. Hoping his presence in our home would cull the flaring challenges and bickerings. His name was magical. Amani was indeed a gift. Our home became more beatified with love. But the final affliction was about to hit us. When baby Amani was six months old, Mwanaisha was diagnosed with stage two Ovarian cancer.

***** *****

The country was bracing with a scourge of cancer. But I never expected it to hit the woman I loved. The mother of my beloved son had joined the grim statistics of those affected by Cancer. Hers was advanced due to late realisation. Amid the financial scourge, her eyes dimmed with pain. Both physical and emotional. She was growing weaker by the day. Not even those heart wrenching procedures in the hospital could help. More money was needed to keep her going. But more money wasn’t a privilege. I had been tempted severally to join an illegal syndicate dealing with fake money. Despite being briddled with guilt, I remembered pocketing the infamous “Brown envelope” to kill a story about the illicit dealings of a local politician. But I had to. I didn’t tell her. It would hurt her even more that I was growing desperate to earn more to save her peril.

The school she was working at dismissed her for being too weak and sickly to teach the kids. Her supportive earnings were cut short and she had to stay at home and take care of our weaning son. We had to move out and live in a more smaller house in an unsafe neighbourhood. But we still lived on.

Day by day. She became weaker. Her lithe skin had lost its supple nature. Became pallid. She could no longer walk and swing her graceful body like she used to. She had lost much weight. She was no longer the astir Mwanaisha I knew. But the love I had for her. Still pervaded the her diminishing ebullience. Another year passed, when the doctor gave up on her. Her condition was irredeemable , her plight inconsolable. She had only three months to live. The cancer had spread in her body beyond recovery. All our struggles to persevere were futile. She had lost the war. The final three months…

*** ******

Since it was improbable for her to live longer, we both decided to take a vacation to the coast. I had booked a lonely but peaceful cottage ashore the Indian Ocean. We took the trip to Kwale after she had informed her family of her plight. She didn’t want to see them. She could die of grief seeing her mother break down at the deteriorated health of her dearest daughter.

We left Nairobi. My thoughts painfully trying to figure out how the three months were going to be the last moments to spend with her. At the bus, she smiled at me slightly. I couldn’t make out if the smile was concealing grief. But when we got to the cottage at a warm evening, I faced the roaring ocean and promised to make her last moments priceless.

The last moments were unforgettable. Despite her fazed out virility, I could see her determination to make me happier than ever before. The kisses, the love making and touches were more captivating and emotionally stringed. The three of us, Mwanaisha, our son Amani and I , played on the warm sands in the evenings. Cooled ourselves with the sprucing water in the ocean during those sweltering afternoons. But the epoch was unstoppable. Moments were running out. The last sands of time were dripping.

The third month. Mwanaisha was fazed out completely. It was now ineluctable that death was swinging around her. Then that Saturday evening, baby Amani was asleep at the crib in the cottage. Mwanaisha and I were clutching each other at the slanted chair facing the bawling ocean. We were facing the aurora above the sea horizon.

” Bernard,” Mwanaisha whispered to me. Her head rested on my chest, as I playfully frisked her short hair. Her eyes shone with a crimson reflection of the aurora.

” Yes, love,” I answered. “You know I love you and Amani right?” She whispered again in difficulty. ” We also love you hun. Please don’t cry”, I said, wiping tears that were now cascading down her face. I fought the urge to cry. I had to be strong for her at the time.

“When I go. Please promise me you’ll move on. You two were the most precious things I had in my life. But now fate has decided I must not be here to share in your bliss…Please promise me you’ll be strong for your son. For my memory…” She sobbed.

“No please. Mwanaisha. Don’t cry. I still need you for a few days. I mean. Who knows what miracle could happen…” I cried.

“Don’t cry for me,” she continued,” I cannot go on. But with me, I leave with the bliss you’ve formented in my life…”

Those were the last words she uttered. She then waned into sleep. Before long I also drowsed off. When I woke up, the sun was already lulled into the horizon. The last of the tides was recrudescing into the sea. Mwanaisha was peacefully lying upon my chest. I moved slightly and her hand slid. I recoiled. I called her while touching her face with my palm. She was aberrantly cold.

“Mwanaisha. Mwanaisha”. She didn’t answer. I placed my head on her full bosom. Her pulse was silent. Death had grabbed her at my very arms. I wailed out to the ocean in pain. I carried her to the sand patch where the tides swept. Eyes blinded with tears facing the dark horizon. My grief filled voice dampened by the growling ocean. The tides reeled back into the sea, ebbing with it. The life of my beloved wife Mwanaisha…