She was encircled with other children playing with sand, when suddenly she heard a sound, she looked up; it was an aeroplane and it was downing. She, from the radio, had knowledge of what was soon to happen and the sighting of the aeroplane was an indicator that the moment had finally arrived. She withdrew from the other children and started running, head focused to a white tent ahead of her. She entered in the tent and cared not who was in there and shouted to the one person she knew would be present. Grandpa! Grandpa! Grandpa!
All the eyes that had concentrated to the front now looked back to see whom it was, disrupting their meeting. It was a small girl, seven years about of age, wearing a dress, brown in colour, a clear indication of her playing with soil. They were all surprised, what was such a kid doing at such an important time? Who is she and whose grandchild was she?
It was an important time in the history of the men and women in the congregation for a final decision by the President of the Republic of Kenya would decide their destiny. The closure of their second home, to some, and a first home to numerous. Normalcy was what defined life while living there at the camp, not until the country went haywire. The country's environment was like a matchbox that would flare up fire whenever one stick was strike, at a timed manner. All in all, the timing was believed to be orchestrated there at the camp. The problem of handling the camp financially also made the President of the Republic think twice. With little donor help, it was an adequate choice the President had to make.
One woman who was seated in the congregation and was nearer the child, stood up, reached to her. "Go and play girl," she said.
"Am not a girl, my name is Hafswa," the little girl said.
The woman was surprised by such an answer but went on politely as ever, "Hafswa, go and play, your parents are talking,"
The crowd usually met to discuss the new issue that unfolded.
"No! No! No! I want to see grandpa,"
An elderly man who was the speaker to the audience was approaching the spectacle where the woman and Hafswa were.
"Grandpa," Hafswa, taking the woman she was talking to out of the picture ran to the old man approaching them and hugged him.
"What is it?" asked the old man.
"Mr. Amad, is that your grandchild?" asked the woman.
"Yes, she is," answered Amad.
"Papa,"
Papa was a name Hafswa liked to call Amad.
"Yes, Hafswa,"
"The aeroplane is coming,"
"What airplane?" Amad asked.
"The one for taking us home, your country,"
"Aah!" all in the congregation exclaimed.
Hafswa after delivering the message said to her Papa, "me going to play."
Hafswa happily paced out of the tent while jumping like how an antelope gallops.
They ran away from their country and came to Kenya as refugees with no guarantee of how life would be after. Hope for light, enshrined in their hearts forming a bridge that transformed them totally. They got help from distant family members, the United Nations and slowly their tides changed. There was the wave of them having access to media gadgets like phones, televisions and radios. It was from here that they had heard the position of the Government of Kenya about their fate. They also heard of the closed door meetings between the Government of Kenya and the United Nation. However in all instances, the stand of the meetings was: repatriation and closure of the camp. The coming of the airplane was symbolic to the audience; their time to walk on a foreign land was overdue.
The congregation that was initially in a discussion was quiet as though they were giving respect to a national flag being raised at 6 A.M. Their faces all looked sombre; for the women, tears cascaded down their cheeks while the men withheld theirs. Yes, home is the best, but what is best if conditions only eclipsed from worst to bad.
Each had his or her memory flash back to the moment when they ran away from their country to search for greener pastures. Amad who had approached his granddaughter earlier on returned back to the front; instead of standing to continue his speech, he just sat down on a chair that was near him. He scratched his bald head that protruded countable white hair, and he too joined the others to think of the country they left behind, their motherland.
The dawn days of the country were good: plenty of foods from agriculture, existence of brotherhood and sisterhood, trade from harmony with each and every other citizen, it was the replica of Eden. It was not until the government of the day was toppled down and its president assassinated when heaven broke loose. Clan fought clan, a brother killed another brother from a different mother; who were cousins, it was confusion everywhere, no place to run or hide. Most of the citizens got tired of such a living of life, where to sleep on a bed was suicide, they slept under the bed floor.
Amad too, during his ripe years was not left behind from this phenomenon. He was thirty years then and had a wife and together had quadruplets, of five years old.
Amad doubled up to the sum of those who were tired of life in such conditions, worthy not a human being. He together with his family decided to run away from that country, they called home.
A woman who was among the crowd in the tent started lamenting on the ground. "What now! How will it be? Where will I stay? What will I eat?" The women, who were present in the tent, came to her aid to console her. "It was planned," some said. "God will be with us," "The best is at home."
YOU ARE READING
THE REPATRIATION
Short Story...the news of them being returned back to their country went not well. They remembered those days when their country was all to the drain, and what languished was fear . Amad, rewinds back to that moment in time. Memories of the loss of his wife...
