I was in the village recently to say goodbye to my grandmother. I went to visit her in the morgue, where she lay in a fridge with strangers. She wore a small smile. Maybe even a triumphant one.
She seemed smaller, because death not only shrinks you but diminishes you. I wonder if Einstein was right about energy being transformed into another form, and if she could, in a way, hear my thoughts telling her that I won’t bury her because she will live in me with my mother, and that she journeys on to whatever it is that was promised to her.
Later that evening, still feeling the weird emptiness that a grandmother leaves you with [she was 95, so it isn’t grief exactly, is it?], I went to Pikadili Hotel in Kendu Bay with Lady and her brother.
I went to show them that we also have great hotels, even though we only got a bank last year. Saving face, etc. Pikadili is our pride and joy. It’s our crown jewel. We have a swimming pool and clean rooms.
That night, a band was playing out at the restaurant area, which is in the form of a courtyard of sorts. I was getting a nasty flu, so I ordered a hot toddy but with whisky.
The band called Lomboto Band was playing a song my dad used to listen to when I was a baby. It was by Ochieng Kabaselle, a song called Milicento. [I asked the waiter for the track].
Our songs are mostly about love; us declaring our love, us moaning about love gone wrong, us remembering past love. This song is an ode to one Adhiambo Milicent, from Asembo. Kabasello is imploring her not to change her great behaviour.
At some point, someone at the next table asked loudly, “leo umewacha engineer wapi (where is the engineer today?)?” and that got Lady’s brother roaring. He said, “do you guys not have names, you are addressed as daktari or engineer?” It felt good to sit there and drink to my grandmother’s memory. To be amongst kith.
