The Manifestations of an Exiled Clairvoyant
Frank Njugi
Frank Njugi
And it is with esteemed gratification that I shall reply to the high-spirited letter that I receive from him. I shall tell him how the disclosure of his play “Ahmed’s Turban,” making its debut at the le theatre d’Oran that coming month, will effectuate a festive mood ne’er seen formerly in our home. And how his sister Gezala will verily dance ‘Chaouiya’ for an unimpaired one hour. Her grandmother shall practically ally in her moves and his father shall even pledge not to use Hookah until after the play. I shall, to all intents and purposes, tell him how we all are proud.
I shall tell him how from the beginning I will know he is destined for triumph and that these happenings will authenticate that. I shall recall the first time I take him to school there in Tindouf. How after just a day, I will be told he is the best in class and how a mother could not be prouder. I shall remember looking at my son and murmuring a prayer to Allah, petitioning him to give my son an easier path than we his parents have had. He will know from our anecdotes during his ages as an ankle-biter, how we came to live at the camps in Sahrawi. I shall reckon he knows how exigent it is growing up in a foreign land. And I shall be gleeful that his adulthood will turn out to be how we all aspire it to be.
But howbeit his letter shall abound in good tidings and applaudable news! I still reckon there will be something in his words that will leave me disconcerted. He will be elated, but the hint of self-doubt will leave me worried. Why would he have misgivings about his proficiency after all he will achieve? Why would he, the grandson of the valorous Brahim Mohammed from the west of the desert, doubt his ability to attain a Master class? Didn’t his grandfather die in the hands of those Moroccan soldiers so that we could have our lives in the East? He will wrestle a great deal to distrust his capabilities at this point.
I shall harken back to the first time he will tell me that he fancies to become a writer. Will he remember his words?
“I want to create monsters that I can turn into angels when I want to. I want to write about children who can have food whenever they want it.”
He shall grow up wanting to be in control of his own world; something he will say. So, if he will be so certain he could do it in his years as a dreamer, what shall make him not sure especially now that he will be living his dream? Will the success overwhelm him or is it the fear of a debacle? I shall not understand. Isn’t he the same person who will stoutly come out to his father and disenchant him by saying he will on no account marry because he is different? He is the son of Fatima, the banished clairvoyant of the Shilha people, and he shall always know he can overcome anything.
I shall happily inform him that we will in plan to be in Oran on the day of his play. We shall all be witnesses to his rise to the top where his seat shall be waiting for him. I will tell him to be assured that his sister will be there, cheering every curtain rising and falling. I will tell him to be assured his father will be there; smiling at every word he will scribble being uttered. And I will assure him that I shall be there too with my heart delighting at how far he will come. We shall all be there to see him achieve what we all know he can.
Ultimately, I will, I will tell him that the fear and those shakes that will plague him at the time are common. He will grow into a talented being and with that comes the diffidence he shall feel then. The Holy book says, “Our Lord is the one who gave to every living thing whatever was necessary for creation, and he directed,” so he shall have Allah’s guidance perpetually. Allah is the one who shall give him this burden. This gift he shall sometimes see as a curse. This hankering to work and achieve all he can. I shall tell him to never distress because this curse is the best gift one could ever have. I shall tell him all this and more. But at this moment I can do nothing much but bottle feed him, to make him strong enough for the journey we shall undertake in an attempt to leave the shackles of ostracization that has kept us hostage in these camps of Sahrawi.
I shall tell him how from the beginning I will know he is destined for triumph and that these happenings will authenticate that. I shall recall the first time I take him to school there in Tindouf. How after just a day, I will be told he is the best in class and how a mother could not be prouder. I shall remember looking at my son and murmuring a prayer to Allah, petitioning him to give my son an easier path than we his parents have had. He will know from our anecdotes during his ages as an ankle-biter, how we came to live at the camps in Sahrawi. I shall reckon he knows how exigent it is growing up in a foreign land. And I shall be gleeful that his adulthood will turn out to be how we all aspire it to be.
But howbeit his letter shall abound in good tidings and applaudable news! I still reckon there will be something in his words that will leave me disconcerted. He will be elated, but the hint of self-doubt will leave me worried. Why would he have misgivings about his proficiency after all he will achieve? Why would he, the grandson of the valorous Brahim Mohammed from the west of the desert, doubt his ability to attain a Master class? Didn’t his grandfather die in the hands of those Moroccan soldiers so that we could have our lives in the East? He will wrestle a great deal to distrust his capabilities at this point.
I shall harken back to the first time he will tell me that he fancies to become a writer. Will he remember his words?
“I want to create monsters that I can turn into angels when I want to. I want to write about children who can have food whenever they want it.”
He shall grow up wanting to be in control of his own world; something he will say. So, if he will be so certain he could do it in his years as a dreamer, what shall make him not sure especially now that he will be living his dream? Will the success overwhelm him or is it the fear of a debacle? I shall not understand. Isn’t he the same person who will stoutly come out to his father and disenchant him by saying he will on no account marry because he is different? He is the son of Fatima, the banished clairvoyant of the Shilha people, and he shall always know he can overcome anything.
I shall happily inform him that we will in plan to be in Oran on the day of his play. We shall all be witnesses to his rise to the top where his seat shall be waiting for him. I will tell him to be assured that his sister will be there, cheering every curtain rising and falling. I will tell him to be assured his father will be there; smiling at every word he will scribble being uttered. And I will assure him that I shall be there too with my heart delighting at how far he will come. We shall all be there to see him achieve what we all know he can.
Ultimately, I will, I will tell him that the fear and those shakes that will plague him at the time are common. He will grow into a talented being and with that comes the diffidence he shall feel then. The Holy book says, “Our Lord is the one who gave to every living thing whatever was necessary for creation, and he directed,” so he shall have Allah’s guidance perpetually. Allah is the one who shall give him this burden. This gift he shall sometimes see as a curse. This hankering to work and achieve all he can. I shall tell him to never distress because this curse is the best gift one could ever have. I shall tell him all this and more. But at this moment I can do nothing much but bottle feed him, to make him strong enough for the journey we shall undertake in an attempt to leave the shackles of ostracization that has kept us hostage in these camps of Sahrawi.
Frank Njugi (He /Him) is a writer and poet living in Nairobi, Kenya. He is a poetry reader for Salamander Ink magazine and his work has appeared on 20.35 africa, Kalahari Review, Ibua Journal, Olney Magazine and others. He is currently curating an Anthology of East African Poetry.