However,
for the two figures approaching the grave on the knoll overlooking the valley
and stream below, nothing else mattered in the world except the memory of their
father. They walked in a haggard manner, with their hands behind their backs.
Even their faces carried expressions of extreme grief on them.
It
was just a week ago that the brother and sister heard about the passing away of
their father, and without wasting time on preambles, bought tickets for the
next international flight home from New York City. They arrived in Douala three
nights after they departed from the American city
and then embarked on the arduous journey to the Bamilekéland. Arriving
home in Banganté exhausted at almost four o’clock in the morning under the
cloak of a moonless night, they succumbed to pressure from their mother and snatched
some rest before venturing out that morning to the resting place of their
father.
The
sister extended her left hand to her brother who grabbed it as if it would
provide the support he needed not to buckle under the weight of his grief. Then
the two approached the grave with what could be perceived as the synchronized
steps of soldiers involved in a precision march. They were about thirty yards
away from the grave when they stopped and turned around, one after the other,
to find that their mother was now about five yards behind, watching them with
eyes unmixed with grief, love, and understanding.
It was as if she finally realized that her children did not heed her call to
stay put in America until the end of their semester studies because they wanted
closure in their lives. However, Mami Njike decided to keep a distance because
she thought it would be better for them to spend some time with their father
without her hovering around.
The
Njike son quietly freed his hand from his sister’s hold and then hurried
forward with bold steps. He did not look back as he dropped to his knees and held his hands together, tears
streaming out of his eyes. His manly outpour of grief began an outburst of
wailing that could be heard in the valley below, as his sister and his mother
joined him in weeping for the man whose love they could not replace, and whose
legacy was too wide and too deep to comprehend.
Others
joined them too — first, the relatives and other people of the Njike household
in Banganté and then neighbors and their own neighbors too. The crowd that
formed within half an hour exceeded one hundred souls, and they acted as if
they were carrying out another phase in the mourning of Josef Nana Njike. They
said prayers afterwards and the oldest Njike daughter stirred the crowd into singing
“Count Your Blessings.” Elizabeth raised her voice at the last stanza and
brought it to a crescendo when it came to, Help and comfort give you to your
journey’s end…as if the last line was the part of the hymn she held dearest
to her heart.
The
youngest Njike son stood still for a moment and then extended his hand to his
mother for the flowers. He took them with pursed lips, laid them on the marble
grave and then made a sign of the cross. Paul Njomou Njike surprised himself
when he started weeping loudly for the first time since he received the news of
his father’s death.
The
story of Josef Nana Njike’s life and death became a popular narration in
Banganté and the surrounding lands. Different versions of the account have been
told by those born before him, people who grew up with him, the mothers, and
fathers whose lives he touched, and the children he inspired. Nana Njike’s life
story quickly became a third-person narration, and from there, the legend was
born. Still, all the narratives had one thing in common―the disadvantaged Josef
Nana Njike knew he was an orphan at an early age but went about his life as a
bright-eyed kid who inspired a king, warmed the heart of a German soldier,
became the son of a white man, and prevailed in the knowledge of white men.
When he grew up into a stud, he fell in love with a white woman, seeded a son
he never forgot about, yet he was focused enough to return to his people to whom
he dedicated the rest of his life, even making his family secondary in the
process. All the while, he harbored enough love to satisfy all those who
reached out for that soft spot in his soul, to the point where he could even
forgive those who caused the death of his favorite son.
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