Port Heya Chapter 4

4

On Monday morning, Kwame penned�"Tribal Rites�"in red on a white board and turned to his audience of thirteen curious souls. “Who can give me an example of a known tribal right?”

Pronto, Kamaria’s hand went up at the front of the class.

Kwame nodded. “Okay. How about we start with Miss Kamaria?”

“So what’s new?” Wanjala snickered.

Kamaria ignored him. “The Maa people spit on someone as a sign of blessing, starting from early childhood when infants are spat on to wish them a good life.”

“Very good, Miss Kamaria. But is it all Maa people, or is the practice prevalent among a particular tribe within the Maa group of communities?”

“Who cares?” Wanjala reclined so far back in his seat it creaked.

Kwame looked up. “What was that, Mr Wanjala?”

“I don’t give a flying hoot what anyone does it for.” Wanjala looked around. “You spit on me, I bash your fuc�"your freaking teeth in.”

“Watch your language, Mr Wanjala. By the way, what tribe do you belong to?”

“What does it matter? Sir?”

“Can you familiarise the class with a tribal rite from your community?”

A smattering of veiled laughter broke out.

Wanjala shot warning glimpses this way and that. “Where I come from, we break the bones of anyone who dares jibe us.”

“And what community is that?” Kamaria shot. “The Imbeciles?”

Wanjala stood a little too fast and rammed his upper thighs into the desk, eliciting more chuckles from his classmates. Wincing, he wagged a finger at Kamaria and slinked back into his chair. “I’ll get you for that, b***h.”

“Okay, that’s it.” Kwame pointed to the door. “Out of my class, Wanjala, and report to the dean’s office.”

Wanjala got to his feet carefully, retrieved his bag from the back of the chair in front and swung it over his shoulder. “You’ll be hearing from my father.”

“I’ll put together a welcoming committee. Goodbye.” Kwame returned his attention to the class. “Now, where were we?”

A shy hand in the middle of the class rose halfway up. “I’ve heard of herdsmen who ride bulls in Ethiopia.”

Kwame smiled. “You’re right, Miss Amina. Young men of the Hamar tribe in the Omo Valley, Ethiopia, become fearless bull riders in a coming of age ceremony. And you know what? They jump on prize bulls while naked as jay birds.”

This time around, the laughter was open and full-throated.

“There’s also the giant, circular lip plates of the Mursi people,” Kwame continued, “a beauty modification dating back thousands of years. But my favourite is the niricha hakhi nzetu, a demon-chasing ritual of the Kauma people, one of the Mijikenda at the coast.”

“You mean like an exorcism?” another student asked.

“Not exactly. Niricha hakhi nzetu means “leave us alone.” It’s a long-forgotten rite that was performed in a sacred forest, a kaya, which is a place of prayer. It was meant to exorcise demons, not out of a single person, but away from the community.”

“The entire community would be possessed?” asked the student.

“That’s why it’s so fascinating.” Kwame grew more animated. “You see, according to lore, each time a soul had exhausted its use here on earth, an entity from the underworld would visit the people and ferry the soul to eternity. But sometimes the entity would overstay its welcome, resulting in the deaths of many other people who, purportedly, weren’t supposed to depart yet. Niricha hakhi nzetu would then be performed to chase the entity back to the underworld.”

“But, sir.” Kamaria cocked her head in contemplation. “Isn’t that what your paper is about?”

“My paper?” Taken aback, Kwame stepped close enough to whisper. “How do you know about my paper?”

Kamaria shied away, averting her lecturer’s searing gaze. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know�"”

“Sorry for what?”

“I work part-time in the chancellor’s office and…”

“And what?” Kwame breathed hard and his eyes blazed with rage, though he couldn’t tell for sure why he was losing control. “Out with it, Kamara. You read my paper?”

“It was in a garbage bin, sir. I only�"”

The rest of her plea fizzled into thin air as Kwame sped towards the door. He careered down the corridor, down two flights of stairs and onto the grassy expanse between the lecture halls and the administration building, his breathing now out of control, his heart marking a dangerously high rhythm trying to sate the need of a body working beyond its capacity.

“Hey, you!” From across the lawn, Koba shook a rake at the man tromping over his prized grass. “Get your dirty feet off my St. Augustine.”

Kwame flashed the old man a middle finger. “F**k you, Koba. You and St. Augustine can kiss my arse.”

The chancellor’s office was on the third floor of the modern glass cage. Kwame could hardly breathe when his foot hit the last landing.

A young female member of staff in six-inch heels pattered over and asked, “Are you okay, sir?”

Kwame had seen her around the campus but he didn’t know her by name.

Bent in half and speaking in spurts, he said, “You know how it feels when you get punched in the gut?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

He looked her in the eye. “Do you want to find out?”

The would-be-Good Samaritan scuttled away, her stilettoes tapping a receding dirge down the hall.

Kwame sorted out his breathing, wiped sweat off his brow and walked with (hopefully) a modicum of dignity to the chancellor’s office.

Upon swinging open the door (a little too hastily), the chancellor’s secretary rose and raised her hand. “If you’re here to see the chancellor, I’m afraid he’s in a meeting at the moment.”

Kwame said, “Who else would I be here for?” And headed for the inner office.

The secretary ran after him. “Sir?”

At the door, Kwame stopped and swung around. “I’m warning you, miss. Right now, I’m channelling a tribe that’s fond of bashing people’s freaking teeth in.”

A confused look fell upon the woman. “What?”

Kwame shook his head and entered the chancellor’s office.

Behind a desk the size of a mountain, Chancellor Bokole craned his head towards the door. “I said I wasn’t to be disturbed, Sissy.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Sissy the secretary began before Kwame shut the door in her face.

He looked from the expensively-clad, rotund head of the college to the other man in the room. “Mr Pago, what a stroke of luck that my immediate boss happens to be exactly where I need him.”

The head of the Humanities Department looked over his shoulder. “I beg your pardon?”

Kwame pulled up a chair and sat next to Pago across the desk from the chancellor.

“Mr Adala,” said Bokole, “as you can see, we were in the middle of�"”

“An important meeting?” Kwame cut in. “Aren’t you always? This shouldn’t take much of your time. I only need to know the progress of my paper. You know, they one you submitted for peer review uhm… what, three months ago?”

“Oh, that?” Bokole waved a chunky hand adorned with rings on every finger but the thumb. “I’m yet to hear from the review board, but I’d say a decision should be coming in any day now. Was that all?”

“No, Mr Bokole. I’m afraid that’s not all. Not even close.”

Bokole deposited his meaty arms on the desk and burned Kwame with beady eyes hooded under bushy, unkempt eyebrows. “In that case, do you mind stepping out and making a proper appointment?”

“Nah.” Kwame sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “I’m afraid the hour of the dance is upon us, chancellor.” He turned to Pago. “So, my boss, are you too aware of this?”

Mr Pago was cursed with the kind of face that looked to be in perpetual pain. “Aware of what?”

Kwame patted the other man’s thigh (a little too roughly). “My paper, silly. The one being ‘reviewed’ by the board of my peers.”

“I handed your work to the chancellor, if that’s what you mean.”

“I am very sure you did.” Kwame swivelled towards Bokole. “Because it somehow ended up in Mr Bokole’s garbage bin.”

“What?” Pago looked appropriately surprised. (Or is he merely acting?).

Kwame studied the chancellor’s face, already aware of what was coming.

“The garbage bin? Where would you get such an awful idea? You are an important part of this institution, Mr Adala, and getting your paper published in a peer-reviewed publication would do loads of good to our academe.”

“Yes,” Bokole said instead, nodding for emphasis. “Because in the garbage is where it belonged.”

“What did you say?” Kwame’s jaw hung loose. Bokole admitting to the truth so openly was like a slap to the face. “Lemme get this straight. Are you admitting to chucking my work in the garbage bin?”

“Mr Adala.” Bokole toyed with the massive ring on the middle finger of his left hand. “I have to say I do not in the least understand your fascination with…” He looked at Pago. “What was it again?”

“Niricha hakhi nzetu,” Pago supplied.

“Yeah, that. A subject rooted in conjecture and not any conceivable facts.”

“Conjecture?” Kwame roared. “I’ve spent years researching this subject and I fail to see how, of all people, a glorified balloon in an expensive suit is in a position to make that judgment call.”

Bokole bit his lip. “I understand your frustration, Mr Adala, and for that reason, and that reason only, I’ll let your impudence slide this one time. Unfortunately, for you, that is, I care too much for this institution to subject it to the ridicule of our learned peers. If you care to write a paper on another credible subject, this glorified balloon in an expensive suit will be all too glad to approve and take it through the process.”