I REMEMBERED OMA

            The trunk box Mum directed me to, was cluttered with items - a messy mix up of items that seemed a herculean task to tidy up. I had no choice anyways because the novels I was looking for were underneath the box.

I set to work – unpacking and arranging some of the items at the top. Mid way, I brought out an old family photo album and opened it just by instinct. Scanning through the photographs, I paused at the picture of my 17th birthday. I gazed at it, not for admiration but at my best friend Oma. She stood beside me in the picture with her ever charming smile. For a moment the reminiscence of her filled my thoughts. It was so vivid.

I remembered so much about her on a deeper reflection. I smiled – a progressive smile that got me laughing loud for old memories. Slowly I removed the picture and held it up in my hands for a closer look.

“Where are you? I mumbled amidst torrent of tears. “It has been a long time – so long that you could be taken as dead. But I know you are somewhere, may be also thinking about me.”

 

          Oma and I met at our second year in college. It was a cold late morning, after a heavy down pour. We were in the classroom for a catch up lesson in Biology subject. A new subject teacher has just been assigned to us. Oma sat beside me during the lesson at the rear, though not her usual sitting position. She supported her chin with her left hand, a little clumsy even to write notes.

“Hey, I didn’t see you write much. You sat quiet all through. Are you ok? I asked her as we were about leaving the classroom after the lesson.

“My name is Oma, and yes I’m not ok” She retorted with a little frown; obviously not happy I used ‘hey’ to address her.

“Pardon my manners” I apologized. “I am Katty – Katty Njume.”

“I know”, Oma cuts in.

“Katty who always sit at the back row” she teased.

“Is it not the same back row you just sat with me? I asked.

“The new teacher was loud, too loud for my slight headache and fever” Oma said.

“Are you feeling any better now? I asked, touching her body to feel the temperature.

“Honestly I’m still feverish inside, feeling some body pains coming on” Oma responded.

I helped Oma to the school dispensary. She was examined and given some medication. She was also given some few hours bed rest, may be for close monitoring. I stayed a while with her and left when she fell asleep, to inform our class supervisor.

 

         Oma was ever grateful. We became friends. We secured friendship which blossomed in a short time and transcended beyond the confines of school. Unfortunately we didn’t know we lived in close neighbourhoods merely demarcated by a street.

I lived then with my parents at one of the exclusive residential areas provided by Government for senior public service workers. Some called it G.R.A housing estate. It was categorized in semi apartments, apartments and complete bungalows, for different strata of seniority. My family had a bungalow, a nice one I must say. This probably had to do with Dad’s position as Provincial Head for national education.

 Few meters from our bungalow home, at the opposite side of an adjacent street, was a beautiful duplex with spacious exterior. Houses located at this side were peculiar in size and structure with well trimmed flowers along each tarred entrance; otherwise they could be taken for an extension of the G.R.A housing estate due to proximity. But it was the senior staff quarters of the agro-industrial corporation – DEVCOP; which till date remains the highest employer of labour in the country after government.

I never knew the occupants of this duplex until I ran into Oma in the neighbourhood on a Sunday after noon. She was coming back from church; may be one of the micro worship centers of some denominations within the housing estate.

“Do you live around? I asked her, as we hugged each other in excitement. 

“That’s our house over there” she responded, pointing at the beautiful duplex.

 “I did tell you I live by the G.R.A”.

”But you never mentioned this street”, I cut in. “This area is quite big you know”.

“I’m sorry Katty; it’s just the name. I’m not yet conversant with the name”.

“We are barely four weeks old here” Oma said rather apologetically.

We bonded even more by this realization, like people with identical destinies - two friends, same school, same class, living in the same area. We became inseparable, admired by many, cherished by our family. Our family’s relationship was also strengthened.

 

          Oma was beautiful – slim built and always exude elegance in her physical adornments; exemplary, with some behavioural maturity and intelligence far beyond her age. Her calm demeanor no doubt reflected on her affectionately good-naturedness and academic brilliance; more like an “overall” student who is exceptional in all subjects.

She was hard working, with glaring academic strides even at fourth grade. She won the then Provincial school prize as best student in the fourth and fifth grades; a feat that seemed unattainable for some of us her class mates. For me, it wasn’t smooth initially with academic work especially science subjects – my most dreaded. I virtually struggled to pass my class examinations. But studying with Oma, I improved exponentially.

Her parents were successful career couple who got to the top going through the ranks by hard work and expertise, in a clime fraught with injustice and favourtism. Her father was director of finance at DEVCOP. Her mother heads a faculty at the state owned provincial university.

All was going well for them –a stable family and career peak within a short time. But they remained easy going, living in cautious display of affluence. They never flaunted their social status. Oma and her younger sister had these values inculcated, and carried it about like an aura – very much unlike the repulsive arrogance associated with kids of their age and social background.

 

          I fought hard to hold the torrent of tears which almost blurred my vision; the photo still in my hands. I sobbed silently in anguish unable to fathom the reality of our long separation – a sort of nightmare prompted by her father’s sudden death in an air crash.

It was a sad day. We were in school during the mid term break for revision classes, in preparation for our public examination. The school administration made it compulsory for all final year students. Oma’s domestic driver came looking for her in school - an unexpected visit with glibly explanations that made us anxious. Our revision lesson for the day was not over but I couldn’t let her go alone. I followed Oma home.

The driver drove that day in somewhat suspicious silence and so where Oma and I. Every one seemed enveloped in deep thoughts as if cautious of what to say. We got home later and the reality on ground starred at us. There was an unusual calm in Oma’s family house. Two of their domestic staff came out from the house to meet us. They looked distraught. A small crowd which gathered in the compound wore sober faces; some of them spoke in hush tones, with sympathy stare at Oma as we alighted from the car. Inside their expansive siting room, her mother and junior sister sat huddled together on a long sofa, amidst a handful of visitors – may be close friends who made efforts to console them with tears eyes. Oma fell over mother in wailing shout. She wept uncontrollably, even when she has not been told anything.

 

          Her father’s death was an unthinkable shock that gloomed our neighbourhoods in silence like an invaded city. Many mourned. Many sympathized yet many more eulogized him – his likeable personality. Oma was devastated and inconsolable.

Burial of her father took place at the countryside, at the behest of their extended family. They are from a part of the country known for high penchant for tradition and customs. Her late father embraced it and somehow blended well with its relevant ideals and his western education.

My parents and I attended the burial - a long exhausting two days journey interspersed by unusual stop overs because of bad road condition, made worst by the terrain of the countryside. Grotty as it seemed, I was happy making the trip, being there for my bosom at this time, more so as my parents also got deeply involved in the burial arrangements.

“We are leaving for the city early tomorrow morning” I said to Oma over dinner in her room.

“Mum has just informed me”

Oma paused, as if trying to swallow the piece of meal in her mouth before continuing. She snorted, with a stare at me as if reading my mind.

“How I wish all of us are going back together” I muttered, not very comfortable with her stare.

“That’s alright Katty. You and your parents have done so much” Oma said in an emotion laden gravelly voice, holding my hands very tight as she spoke.

“You have always been there for me” she added, with failed attempt to hold back her tears.

 I consoled her again, what I have done virtually all evening, during and immediately after her father’s interment.

“You must be strong my dear and there is no other time but now” I told her in whispers.

She nodded in response and slowly wiped her tears.

 

        We returned to the city – my parents and I, as scheduled. Oma and her family had to stay a little while; for just a little more to do after her father’s interment. The final burial rites must be performed as customs demand, which her uncles said is usually seven days after burial of a deceased. It requires the presence of deceased spouse because thereafter marks the beginning of mourning period for the spouse. So much for customs and tradition: that which is almost sacrosanct and religiously adhered to.

I was succoured - that in few days all about the burial rites would be over. I was certain Oma and her family would be in the city soon. I eagerly waited for her return as days and weeks passed by. My waiting protracted. Our final year examination was fast approaching. I became deeply worried, even my parents and our school authorities.

My parents also became concerned about my concentration in studies. They made good to stabilize my mind – all sweet talks and encouragement, but my yearnings was for Oma’s return. Her seeming absence was having a toll on me.

“How could you possibly miss out in an examination we all looked forward to” I said to myself, thinking aloud.

Mum’s pat on my shoulder got me back from my tinkering thoughts. I was miffed because I wanted to be alone – just alone to really reflect on Oma’s continued delay and silence.

Mum watched me for a while, which was enough to make me look up. My eyes met with her flickering eye lids, as if she was jittery. She walked and sat with me on the pavement in front of the veranda of our house; a little space away from me. She was silent, her folded arms resting on her chest.

I snapped at Mum’s intrusive questions and stood up to walk away. She was infuriated.

“Listen to me Katty and listen pretty well. If a bird decides to perch on a rope, it must be ready to dance with the rope” Mum snarled, pointing a finger at me.

 “Your friend and your final exams are competing issues in your life right now; all your choice to make on which precedes the other. I’ve said this over and again; you must focus on your forthcoming exams else the mistake will later be your pains. Oma’s return is not in your hands Katty, you must understand that” she warned and left.

I stood still, almost motionless, shocked at Mum’s flurry of words at me. She was frankly hard on me but I knew she meant well. I also knew she has genuine concern for my friend Oma.

 

          At the height of our anxiety, Mum went to the Provincial University where Oma’s mother heads one of the faculties. All we wanted was information; anything about my friend and her family. We thought the university could at least have a clue about their employee, one of their best hands so to speak. Indeed they had something for us but not exactly what we wanted.

“I was reliable informed that Oma’s mother may not come back to the university for now” Mum told my Dad and I in our sitting room.

“Is that a sack Mum? I asked inquisitively.

“No my baby”, Mum responded. She hemmed and hewed before speaking further. She beckoned me to sit beside her, holding me close as she continued.

“I think…, I mean I was also informed that she and her children left the countryside about a week ago”

“Not much detail was given. I was simply told it’s a bit complicated”.

 I squirmed at this information, not very convinced though it came from my own mother. Slowly I pulled away from her and excused myself. My parents were mute. They exchanged glance, not knowing what to tell me as I stood up and left.

I went to my room, on my bed, mopping at the ceiling in wild thought. I steeled myself from believing what mum have said. “May be their pranks to get my mind off the botherations about Oma” I said within me.

I held on to my expectation. I held on to the fact that Oma can not abandon our final year exam. That was my glimmer of hope, a hope so strong that not even my parents supposed pranks could squelch. But it soon became a forlorn hope. It died out in a very short time when Oma and her family vacated their official residence in absentia.

My waiting paled to nothingness but the memory of Oma lingered.

For a long time her absence had a sorrowful grip on me. However, I had to move on. I did excellently well in my final exam, a feat I dedicated to her. I have graduated from the university and now doing well in my chosen profession. Fifteen years has gone down the line but like yesterday – I remembered Oma.