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<p><strong><em>‘There is really nothing here to tickle a genuine smile’</em></strong> — Jide Badmus.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-355adb36ca67e6e4e456f836cb6b34a2">Time is long when your heart is aching. You hear it ticking then stop then tick again, very slowly. Not like before. You wish things could rewind to before. Pause…</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-52c9f27b6bab2a63422dbc81fc92be68"> I need you to remember this: it is 28<sup>th</sup> February 2018; a month after her death, a week after you have left, eight days after your birthday. You left ‘cause you need to. You <em>really</em> need to inhale. Exhale. The pain of it all is folded- albeit imperfectly- in your chest and you know that if you don’t take a moment to breathe (migrate), all the acts you have (in effort) put together, will disperse. You fear the chaos of a broken life.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-3bafe9477555690b9faab32b1b74bbd1">A thought has convinced you that moving will tear this grief into shreds that won’t haunt you. You have heard some say they managed to cup joy back into their lives when they changed houses, cities, countries, et cetra. Later, you will realize that these things—loss, grief and all—are metaphysical; they transcend geographies. But: at least in the other place, you don’t see the river that took her life. You are away and so you can’t stand by the banks to hear the rustling of those waters wringing your insides with rage. Distance has provided you with a somewhat privilege of not being able to remember her face sink and sink then come back up hours after, lifeless, devoid of her usual warmth. She is your sister, and she died by drowning in River Awach. These memories well your eyes. You try as hard as you can to balance these tears.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-e0d41c0be0a723c213e8c6374bbe68aa">However else, you still remember.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-95bd85cf306de3c68a449d0e62a3e7bf">#</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-a702a7fc91a63364cc8b90e837458e61">You remember the day you left home. How, through chills and the grating cold, you dragged your luggage (to mean burdens as well) to a different city in a different country. You remember a sullen wind blowing past you as your mind drifted backwards to seeing her lying dead and Ma wailing in a pain that only a mother can. You remember, too, Ma asking, <em>‘How are you going to survive in Kampala, my son? Do you know anyone there?’</em> Your assented nod must have revealed that you were lying. You were resolute and nothing she said would stop you. And so, you left.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-eda3da73af1394746427d8c1dd6999ee">Your mind is blank when anyone asks how the journey from Kisumu to Kampala was.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-10c517c759a583b780d971f35c9a8234"><em>Was it a long travel?</em></p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-8e0940469c3c1927f6025122c06d203e"><em>Does the weather change immediately you get at the border?</em></p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-7ea015c3dc7f3dd9b4c06129b64a5b6c"><em>How much did you pay for documentation at the border?</em></p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-0a2cc69339d081517754b2bf4b7504ee">You can’t answer these questions honestly. Anytime anyone asks, you make up a sweet, enticing lie.</p>


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<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-4c6e5d885a92e099857d4d91e2458c05">Still on remembering-</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-ba16127dfe39ee51580db26180115ad9">You see leaves rubbing and some pricking your body as you run home to take the news that she, Liz, has drowned. How Ma arranges her face, conjuring it into an expression you will never forget after confirming that Liz is indeed dead. This was five years ago. Time should have healed you, No? All these memories recur whenever you sit in your tiny, congested room in Kampala; legs stretched out on the wall; eyes glazing over the stains on your ceiling board, watching the stain spiral and spiral and spiral. This glazing over incites a question, ‘<em>what has moving here helped me with?</em>’</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-f5a115a3ab7e47fd8216a27a64c535fb"><em>Nothing</em>. You have not recovered.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-95bd85cf306de3c68a449d0e62a3e7bf">#</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-c17bf9ce4bdc41974d0a879d4343d09b">Your sister, Liz, was a host of things:</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-5858a6fc3d8afa26053699f60c93b536"> Light-skinned for complexion. Hers was that which glowed averagely enough to seduce men without shouting too loud. You still hear the whistles that come your way whenever you walk together in the market. How men made advances. Her beauty was great, great enough for convenience. You know this because of the number of free lifts that motorcyclists gave you, in return for associating with you so that they could reach her. You miss this.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-186d340cf77dbcfd2215e40b620e8f5b">She was always sickling so this made her hate traveling. How many times did she vomit even during short travels? Uncountable. All through, her body never turned pale or depicted any signs of unstable health. For this, she was a fighter, a victor even. One fight that she constantly lost was the one on mastery. Liz was slow in grasping concepts and general knowledge. No matter the time she put into learning something, she still would not get it, even simple things. Her mind stuttered when subjected to pressure, she quivered during examinations, and her body shook viscerally when asked to present anything in front of people—including at church. This should explain why, when teaching her how to swim, she instead died.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-058597d7505c1c2a19986afe015ed606"> All in all, she remained your sister, your older and only one. When she died, you found nothing to stay behind for.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-95bd85cf306de3c68a449d0e62a3e7bf">#</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-696ae437e09d67aa83e140b25ae31e4f">Now, in Kampala, you occasionally shuttle from solid images of home to abstract thoughts of what it would have been if you had not moved. There in, you mourn the loneliness you have put yourself through since coming here, as well as the isolation your Ma has had to endure from losing both her children; one to death, another to distance. Now, in Kampala, you are barely existing. You are hosting a disintegrated life. You fear that you might establish here- in this place which is not your <em>real</em> home.</p>



<p class="has-black-color has-text-color has-link-color wp-elements-b90f830e2b123234eccee2eeb4295851">Tonight in Kampala, you turn off your light but open the eyes in your head: to see Liz finish her life in a struggle. You see her flapping her hands as the waters lap on her face, helplessly as you yelp for any help. None comes and so she dies. You wish you had contained her spirit before it migrated to a different realm, leaving her body—l<em>ifeless</em>.</p>



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<p class="has-text-align-right has-very-dark-gray-color has-text-color has-background has-medium-font-size" style="background-color:#ade6fe"><em><em><em><em>Akal Mohan is an emerging short story writer and poet. He is a 2023 recipient of the inaugural Idembeka Creative Writing fellowship. He has also participated in two digital creative writing residencies organised by The University of East Anglia. Akal reads in trust and writes in faith.</em></em></em></em></p>
 
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A Distant Elegy | A Memoir by Akal Mohan
Photo by GREAFREAKS / CANVA.com