THE GREAT AWAKENING

A Story by Mercy Orengo

The story is about how a young girl chaged my life, andd made me view life differently

THE GREAT AWAKENING

The heavy down pour had stopped but it was still drizzling lightly outside. My six-year-old sister was humming one of the rhymes she had learnt in school that day, and the monotony of the song was beginning to irritate me.

I did not comment. Doing so would only lead to a fight. Of course I would win, but my parents would always take her side and rebuke me for being inconsiderate.

“For heaven’s sake, she is five years younger than you!” they would always say.

I could not find sleep, not with my sister singing over and over right under my ears. It was so nauseating. I tossed and turned, trying hard to ignore her.

Anytime I mentioned to that I wanted to have a room of my own, my mother would narrate to me how they- all the nine sisters – had shared a smaller room and slept on a papyrus mat without complaining.

I was tired of listening to the same old story. Those were their days. Times had changed. I wanted to be like my other friends who had huge rooms with big music systems.

My father had promised that we would move to a larger house, but that would only come after six years. Six years of waiting! Six unbearable years of sharing a room with my sister. Six long years of being different from my friends. It seemed so far.

“ Give me a pie, give me cake…” my sister’s shrill voice droned on. She was starting the song over for the eighty- ninth time!

I placed a pillow on my head and let my mind wander. I imagined myself in a beautifully decorated room, listening to loud rock music. It was so much fun. My friends were flipping through cool fashion magazines and we were all admiring the fabulous dresses the fashion idols were wearing.

My sister called me- there was urgency in her voice. I rolled my eyes. It was so like her to remove me from my fantasy world just to ask me her kiddish questions!

“Mercy, did you hear that noise?’ she whispered.

I did not respond. I knew it was one of her many tricks. I was tired of them- fed up!

She started shaking me vigorously. My patience was running out.

“What is the matter with you Judy?” I whispered back.

“There is somebody moving outside. I heard some movements,” she replied, alarmed.

I remained silent, and tried to listen. There was nothing. I felt intense anger and hatred towards my sister rise up within me. These feelings flashed through me till I felt my breathing being laboured. I slapped her hard across the face. I slapped her again. And again.

She did not yell as expected of her. She just let a low moan and sobbed silently. I covered my ears and turned to face the wall.

Then – I heard it. Somebody was coughing outside.

Stealthly, I tiptoed towards the window and parted the curtains. I peered outside but I did not see anything. There was deep darkness. For a timeless moment, I stood staring outside, hoping to see the cause of the noise, but there was nothing.

Then, I heard it.

“Daddy!” I called out.

My sister was still sobbing.

“Mercy, I hope you are not waking us up to convince us that you need your own room, your eight aunts and I shared an even smaller room when we were much older than you…” came my mother’s voice.

I knew the story word by word. I had heard it ever since my sister was born. It was so boring. I particularly hated the part where they would fight for one blanket; the nine of them! It worsened when my aunts came visiting. They would gladly show me the scars they got from fighting for the blanket.

“Mum, it is not that. Somebody is walking outside.” I stuttered.

I heard my father saying that my obsession with having my own room was beginning to affect me psychologically and something should be done. My mother suggested boarding school and then they both came to our room.

“Have you two been fighting again?” asked my mother, holding my sister’s hand.

“It is Mercy who started it, ” said my sister.

I did not want to start an argument. There was somebody walking around our house and I thought it was more important than knowing who started the fight.
“There is somebody outside," I interrupted.

Nobody was listening to me. My parents were busy fussing over my sister as usual. I threw myself on my bed just as my father began to lecture me on how I should respect the age difference between my sister and I.

As they were leaving the room, they were startled to hear sounds of someone crying outside.

My father rushed to his room to get a torch while my mother reached for the whistle and then they hurried outside.

After about ten minutes, I heard my mother rapping on our bedroom window.

“Get me methylated spirit,” she ordered.

Barefoot, I rushed outside with the methylated spirit. My sister was following me from a distance.

I strained my eyes to adjust them to the darkness. I was surprised to see my mother squatting next to a young girl who was shaking from the impact of the nights cold.

Her body was bruised and blood was oozing from her temple. My mother wiped her bruises gently and time and again, she winced in pain, but she did not cry.

“What is your name,” my father asked. Silence. She did not reply. Her gaze remained on the ground.

“Where are your parents little one?” my mother inquired, stroking the girl’s otherwise shaggy hair.

“I have no parents Ma’am,” she answered weakly. A cold wind blew my face. There was deep nocturnal silence. I felt a sharp pain on my stomach.

“And where do you stay Sweety?’ my mother broke the silence.

“ I have no home. I stay in the bus park, but today the big boys sent me away. They want my marble.” She replied. Tears streamed her face and her fist was clenched tightly.

“Do not send me away. I swear I will not steal anything.” She said amidst sobs.

My eyes moistened. I felt the need to be close to somebody. I held my sister’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

My mother helped the little girl rise from her sitting position. Her blue dress was tattered and I noticed that her hair was longer than mine, only that hers had not been combed.

When we reached the house, my father gave her maandazi and milk. She ate greedily as we watched.

“What is your name,” my father asked again.

“ I am Kelyn,” she whispered. Her face remained expressionless and she stared blankly at the wall hangings in our dining room.

I saw her rugged marble. She was holding it tightly in her right hand. Her face was pale, but she was pretty. Her blue dress must also have been very nice when it was new.

“Kelyn, let us go to bed. Our room is very big…” I found myself saying.

My parents looked at me in surprise. My father held my shoulders, my mother held my hand, and kelyn smiled. Yes, she did.

That night as I lay on my bed, I cried. I realized that I had been crying for a bigger room, yet there were children out there, children younger than myself who were crying for a room, regardless of the size.

I stared at Kelyn who was deep asleep. Maybe it was the first time she was sleeping on a bed. In the morning when I woke up, my mother informed me that Kelyn was being taken to an institution that caters for children like her. That was the last I saw of Kelyn, but her face stayed in my memory to this day. It is engraved in my mind.

Kelyn changed me overnight. I had received the great awakening. I started seeing our room as too big for my sister and I.

I could not believe it. So much had happened in such a short time and I had changed so quickly

“Your room is nice,” Kelyn had said to me when we were having breakfast. Her words had meaning, and so did the smile she wore when she said them.

I watched as my parents took her with them. She waved at my sister and I, till they disappeared from our vicinity.

I went to our room and found her marble on the bed she had slept on. I kept it to this day- a part of Kelyn had remained in our room.

Never shall I forget Kelyn. Never shall I forget that night which changed me for all eternity, and taught me how to appreciate things. Never shall I forget. Never!