Muna Kaiser (short story)
MUNA KAISER
by Simon Mol
With foresight, he wouldn’t have agreed to a meeting with him. ‘Had I known’, his mother would have said in a similar situation. Well, now he was telling himself in hindsight. How things work themselves out into often bizarre configurations…it required foresight to master tomorrow and ironically after-tomorrow calls tomorrow yesterday and views it and all that happened therein in hindsight.
The day finally came and he had to meet the old-man. Foresight and hindsight were both suspended by the suspense of the present. He left his exile home in the district of Mokotow in Warsaw reluctantly and made it to the bus-stop. After a short wait bus 174 came along and he hopped in. He got to the office block along Krakowsksie Przedmiescie Street, negotiated two floors via an old staircase and got into the office. Nobody was there. This gave him time to put the place in order. He rearranged papers, set the chairs straight and sat down to wait.
At exactly 11:00a.m., someone knocked at the door.
“Yes, come in please.”
The door opened slowly.
A man nudging seventy walked in. He was slightly bent over, and had on a blue turtleneck sweater over sky-blue jeans. An orange-coloured bag rested in his right hand, almost playfully. It was as if he had been carrying it along for years. He observed, from the tender way the visitor toyed with the bag, that it contained most of his documents and a comb.
“Welcome sir. I am Moza’zo. It’s a great pleasure on my part to meet you.”
“Thank you. I am Mirek Boniecki. May I sit down?”
“Of course sir! Please do take a sit.”
The old man sat down and stretched his legs.
“Would you like tea or coffee sir?”
“Oh, don’t worry! I had tea earlier on and I am fine…. Well.” He paused and looked at his hands before carrying on with his statement; “I read about your activities in the papers and I would like to help. I also know some friends who would like to be of help also.”
Moza’zo didn’t react. He just sat there listening.
The old man went on; “We work with dogs. We train them to look after the old, the young and invalids. Are you interested in dogs?”
The very first thing that came to the forefront of his mind when the old man asked the question was that ‘Mo’oli also had four eyes’.
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Yes Mo’oli predicted many deaths, sniffed-out witches and wizards and exposed mischievous and nocturnal spirits whenever they trespassed into the land of the living. This was one of its many traits that made him dear to everyone who was close to him
On a particular rainy day in June a few years earlier the entire family, seven of them, sat around the fireside. There was little to say. Or rather, there was much to say but none had the energy to speak. Hunger was in absolute control. In measured intervals each one of them yawned. Mo’oli did yawn as well, lying down at his corner which strategically permitted him to enjoy the warmth oozing from the fireside.
It was getting close to twilight. The last curb of maze had been devastated by the kids whose parents watched from a distance as they scrambled over every single grain. Whenever the rain permitted they could hear similar noises of children from neighbouring homes. Yes, the rain had come after much expectation but it would take several months for the land to yield enough food to keep starvation in check. And when the rain came, it came in anger. It came in such a way that instead of being a blessing it turned out to be a curse; digging out the grains that had been planted and flushing them away in huge, unstoppable erosions.
As they sat by the fireside, without warning Ikome—the third child of the family who was a first son—unleashed a whacking on the back of his elder sister. That was enough to start a fight which saw chairs, plates, and other utensils flying from one end of the kitchen to the other. It took several minutes before they could be separated. Ikome’s response to the question of why he had attacked the sister was that he couldn’t stand the rumbling of her stomach. The parents responded to his response with silence. They were aware that wherever there was hunger, anger was also not far away. However Ikome was soon to acknowledge his blunder. For of all his sisters, he had made the grievous error of targeting none other than Iya Ekolo’kolo, better known by everyone in the village as ‘Muna Kaiser’ (child of a king). It was more her beauty that won the title from the villagers, and had nothing in connection with her parents, who were virtually paupers. Iya Ekolo (Muna Kaiser) was beautiful. She was beautiful no matter how one looked at her. Irrespective one one’s sense of aesthetics, Muna Kaiser (Iya Ekolo) was a manifestation of a Liengu (mermaid). What else to say? How else to describe her? Turn her upside down, she was beautiful. Clothe her with a beggar’s rob and her smile would transform the rags into something of envy. It would be doing her beauty injustice to even attempt to describe her looks. Iya Ekolo’kolo (Muna Kaiser) was beautiful, period.
The Mo’oli family was banking on the brains and beauty of Muna Kaiser to free them from the clutches of poverty. Hopefully, she would finish her studies, get a good job and help her siblings. ‘Perhaps someone from a rich home would fall in love with her’. This was the mother’s dream, which the father didn’t share. He would rather that his children—the girls—got a good education and subsequently good jobs afterwards, rather than count on being rescued by their husbands.
Muna Kaiser was carefully examined by the mother to make sure that Ikome’s attack didn’t scar her. Though the mother didn’t reprimand him, Ikome knew that he would have to work extra hard in order to attune for his erratic act against Muna Kaiser.
Calm soon returned after the fight in the kitchen. The rain too gradually petered out.
When the fight started Mo’oli had cast a silence glance in the direction of the conflict and returned to his resting position with the calm of a bishop who had just enjoyed a godly breakfast. He slowly got up when the rain reduced, yawned and walked towards the door.
“Hey! Mo’oli where are you going? Come back here!” The mother shouted. “Can’t you see it’s still raining and wet outside? Come back here this very minute!” Mo’oli paid her no attention. He walked through the door and out. Nobody could muster enough strength to go after Mo’oli to stop him venturing outside.
About an hour later they heard people shouting outside. The commotion grew with every passing second. Even curiosity was not enough to spur any of them to investigate what the hullabaloo was all about. Finally, the noises grew louder and louder and it became clear that people were gathering outside their home. “What’s going on?” their father asked. He got up stiffly and before he would get out of the door to find out what was happening, they all saw Mo’oli walking backwards into the kitchen, dragging something along. He was followed by a crowd that was cheering and chanting “Mo’oli, Mo’oli!” The father stopped where he was standing— in the middle of the kitchen. Mo’oli finally came into the kitchen, pulling a deer along. He dropped the trophy at his master’s feet. The rest of the family members joined in the chanting of ‘Mo’oli! Mo’oli!’
“So Mo’oli when you left us you went hunting! Oh, my poor brave child” The mother embraced Mo’oli. One of the girls rushed in with a towel which she used to dry Mo’oli’s body. The father requested members of the crowd to help him with the animal brought in by Mo’oli. In a short while the deer was skinned and partitioned into little portions. The Mo’oli household kept forty-percent of the meat, while the rest was handed out to those who cheered Mo’oli home. A member of the crowd rushed to his house and returned soon afterwards with a bunch of plantains. He dropped it in the middle of the cheering crowd and started sharing it, giving a good portion of it to the Mo’oli household.
In a short while Mo’oli’s exploits elevated him to the status of a hero in the village. However Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa saw things from an entirely opposite angle. When he got wind of the adventures of Mo’oli, he dismissed the piece of comic with a comment, which though uttered lightly then, later transformed into a concrete act of unimaginable proportion; “Only a creature with socialist tendencies could do something like that!” This was a serious misfortune. Of all people, Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa was the wealthiest and most influential man in the district. The sole positive dimension of his remark was that it sparked debates in bars and Kwacha houses. Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa’s ingenuity in self-defense had become a legend. Of all subjects, he studied law. Aided by craftiness, natural misfortunes, coincidence and the tendency to exploit, his word became law. To get a picture of the might of his ambitions, rumours circulated that Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa claimed that the Mount Vwako, which stood behind the village and towering some 5000m, personally belonged to his forefathers and therefore to him by right. The legend had it that his claims became so serious that the matter ended up in a court of law; Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa vs the people. He won. Chief Sami Lipapa, during the trial, the legend goes, produced binding documents supporting his claims. What was more — the documents were supposedly signed by God! This wasn’t a hyperbole. In practical terms, Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa had absolute authority over the mountain. He personally controlled the sale of medicinal plants that grew on the mountain to foreign firms and even carved out geographical limitations on how local hunters were supposed to hunt on the mountain grounds. The legend went on to postulate that Paramount Chief Sami Lipapa was so strict with affairs related to the mountain that he knew by heart all the animals that lived there. And their numbers.
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Trust Nature with ironies. Or is it Destiny and Fate that connive in pairing people? What is that radical element in humans that spark relationships? Is there a chemical reaction somewhere along the line, beyond human control, that could lead someone to vow, "Of all the women/men on this planet, I shall know no peace except I pair and spend the rest of my days with A or B"? Well, such contemplations would have crossed the mind of whoever had chanced to witness the case of Prince Ngeka Lipapa, son of the dreaded Chief Lipapa, and Muna Kaiser of all. Who could have imagined for once that such a relation could come into play, and that Mo’oli would have a say in its outcome?
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The full-moon shone with exceptional brightness on this particular night. The sky was clear and star-studded. Two gigantic and equally radiant stars—perhaps Jupiter and Venus, flanked the moon. A third star stood just below the moon. The formation of the three stars around the moon created a mystifying triangle. The moon was full and huge and appeared to be closer to earth than usual. It was as if it was planning a trip to flirt with its reflection on the surface of a huge pool of stagnant water that stood not far away from the household of the Mo’olis. On this particular evening the mild breeze was equally stimulating. It blew with a gentleness that caressed the human body and the cluster of passions that lay beneath it. Responding to the call of the wind and the irresistible charm of the moon, the leaves played a song of their own. It was an alluring night tainted with temptations— a groovy and surreal night that unleashed the sort of vibes lovers yearn for.
Behind this background a young and ambitious dreamer stood between two trees. Their shadows shielded him from any passer-by while giving him the advantage to observe unobserved. His target was the main door leading into the house of the Mo’olis. He was impatiently waiting to pounce on his moment of opportunity. The young man was no other than Prince Ngeka Lipapa. It was no secrete that he was under the weight of two spells; that of the night, which culminated in empowering him to venture out, and the second which was cast by an even more powerful magnate, Muna Kaiser. It had taken him several weeks to reach this height of his folly. And this came after other manoeuvres had failed him. Ngeka had been swindled by mates who coined him into believing that for the right amount they would get him Muna Kaiser. He paid. Not once. Nothing came of it. Some of the agents he hired relayed their messages to Muna Kaiser. The uncrowned princes simply laughed. Two Nganga’s (shamans) took their shares, promising to prepare charm portions that would make Muna Kaiser run after him. The charms and amulets proofed even less impotent than his courage.
After standing at his chosen position long enough to see a soccer match start and finish, his moment arrived when Muna Kaiser came out. She was carrying a pail in her left hand, while her right hand was toying with a string of beads. Ngeka gave her a few metres. She walked passed without noticing him. Then he came out of his hiding place. Surreptitiously he came out of his position and soon caught up with Muna Kaiser.
“Muna Kaiser! Muna Kaiser! Are you going to fetch water? I can help you.” He mustered valour and uttered a few metres behind Muna Kaiser.
“No thank you Ngeka.” Muna Kaiser replied without even looking behind. She recognized the speaker from his voice.
“OK no problem. But can I talk to you for a while? Please,” said and rushed to catch up with her.
None of them was aware of the approaching Mo’oli.
“Well I am sorry but I must rush, my mum is…………” Muna Kaiser didn’t finish her statement. Mo’oli concluded the sentence with a pounce on Ngeka. Before either of them knew it the prince was on the ground. Backing, Mo’oli mauled and scratched him. It was no fault of Mo’oli. Seeing Ngeka rushing behind Muna Kaiser, it reasoned that the prince was rushing to harass princess. It took a few frightful minutes before Muna Kaiser would convince Mo’oli to come off the prince. With a few scares on his arm the crowned prince made for home after apologies from the uncrowned princes. Since behind every crisis lurks an opportunity, the unfortunate incident was shaping itself in favour of prince Ngeka.
“Please Ngeka; please accept my apologies from the bottom of my heart! Please. I am sorry for what happened.
“Don’t worry Muna Kaiser… it wasn’t serious.”
“O mother! What shall I do? What will your father do to us if he finds out?” Muna Kaiser lamented.
“Don’t worry. For your sake I won’t tell him.”
“Let us meet the day after tomorrow if you want.”
“That should be ok. I will wait under the tree close to your house at the same time as today.”
At this they parted.
Holding his scarred hand Ngeka headed home, resolved to hide the incident from his father.
His plan didn’t work out. It was his sister Evweti who discovered it and reported it to his mother, who in turn alerted the dad.
“Ngeka!” Chief Lipapa yelled from the dinner table where he sat sipping palm-wine.
“Yes papa.” Ngeka answered.
“Come here!”
Ngeka tiptoed to the table, holding his hand behind his back.
“Show me those bloody hands of yours!” The Chief yelled.
Ngeka hesitated. “Do it now before I pull them out of their sockets!”
Reluctantly Ngeka brought out his hands from behind his backs.
The Chief looked at the scars on his right arm.
“My goodness! Who did this!?”
Ngeka stepped back alarmingly… the Chief was fuming anger.
“Tell me now you scoundrel or I will skin the devil out of you!” As the Chief made to get up from his seat, Ngeka spoke; “It was Mo’oli daddy, pleas don’t beat me!”
“You bet! Are you trying to say that that socialist animal did this to you? Goodness me! I swear by my crown that animal will be buried!”
Ngeka’s mother, the Queen-mother, called for medical aid. After a short-wait a nurse from the local hospital arrived. She administered to Ngeka’s wounds and left. Soon after the nurse left, the royal family went to bed. None was ware of the plot raging in the mind of the Chief.
Early the next morning Chief Lipapa had a phone conversation with the Chief of the local police.
“Can you imagine Commissioner that a creature of such a nature molested, scarred and maimed my son!… the hire to the throne!”
“That’s a horrible thing Chief.” responded Commissioner Fai who was in good terms with Chief Lipapa.
“Indeed! That creature will have to pay for it with its life!” The Chief answered.
“What can I do about it Chief?” Commissioner Fai asked.
“Logically the matter should be taken to court! I want the creature arrested with immediate effect. It is obvious that the animal is a menace to public security physically and mentally. How prophetic I was recently! Remember I made a statement that that creature is a socialist imp when it brought a deer home? Good gracious! How can we have such a treacherous mammal in our midst… it will be an unpardonable mistake to have it roaming the streets!”
“I shall have it arrested with immediate effect Chief… don’t worry.”
“I know I can count on you Commissioner, please come for lunch this afternoon.”
“Thanks for the invitation Chief… that’s very kind of you.”
Soon after the phone conversation between the Chief and the Commissioner, a police Inspector accompanied by a Constable paid a call at the Mo’olis. When the Police van grounded to a halt outside the residence a crowd soon gathered.
They knocked and entered.
“Where is the father of the house?” the Inspector asked. The father of the household came out from the bedroom.
“Yes.” He answered.
“We have come to arrest Mo’oli for attacking the harmless and law-abiding crowned prince. Here is an arrest warrant.”
The father of the house didn’t even look at it. His attention was focused at the corner where Mo’oli lay.
The Inspector nodded at the Constable.
The later brought out a chain, lopped it and threw it at Mo’oli neck. The loop missed its target. In a wild frenzy Mo’oli rose, backing ferociously. It readied itself for self-defence. In a flash of reflex action the Inspector pulled out his pistol and before anyone knew what was going on he fired a shot. The bullet pierced Mo’oli’s left hind-leg. Mo’oli went down in a pool of blood mourning and defeated. The Constable adjusted his chain and threw the loop around Mo’oli’s neck again. This time he didn’t miss. Mo’oli was dragged from the house and propelled behind the police puck-up van. The crowed outside had tripled. The Mo’oli family stood watching in shock and utter disbelieve.
As the police van sped-off and disappeared out of sight the entire Mo’ol household came out mourning. The head of the family stood stoically watching the van as it disappeared.
Members of the crowd joined in the wailing. Without a word the head of the Mo’oli household went back into the house silently. He wasn’t a practicing Christian. Yet getting into his bedroom he ransacked through his archives and soon found what he was looking for; a dust coated St. James version of the holy bible. Wiping the dust from it he leaved through until he found the page he was looking for. It was the passage in the holy book about David when his son died. He read through silently but fervently and at the end he returned the bible to the same position where he had taken it.
An hour later the police van returned. Mo’oli’s lifeless remains was pulled out of the van and dumped at the doorsteps. The wailing intensified. Women went down on all fours, rolling in the dust. The whole episode metamorphosed into an emotional drama that reached climax when Mo’oli’s lifeless remains was dumped at the doorsteps. As the whole household including neighbours wailed, the head of the Mo’oli household returned to where he had kept the bible. Picking it up he flipped through again and reached the section on Psalms. He selected a Psalm on vengeance and read through it. He repeated the particular Psalm for the next forty-days that followed Mo’oli’s burial; he read the Psalm in the same way, at the same time, always.
It was a cathartic self-narrative retold in the language of the spirit of
man; a language constructed with the immortal threads of time and fine
‘Wasn’t I right in thinking there was a comb in that bag?’ The silent
question brought him fully back to the present. Soon, it dawned on him that
he had revealed too much of himself, to himself, even if only mentally. He
felt slightly uneasy, as if he had been talking allowed. In his embarrassment he rehashed a pretentious cough, not knowing how to re-ignite the conversation. Worst still, he couldn’t even admit to himself that he was the unfortunate crowned prince. Nor that the dead of Mo’oli had catalysed his journey into exile.
Sensing his unease, Mirek Boniecki cleared his throat;
“Excuse me…”
“Yes, sir? Sorry I thought you were reading the brochure and didn’t’ want to
interrupt you…” He managed.
“No, don’t worry….can I use your gent’s?”
“Thank you….I won’t be long.” Mirek Boniecki got up slowly and went
searching for the toilet.
Left alone, he thought it was polite of the old-man to have left him alone for a while. He got up and took a few steps to the balcony. Getting there, he cast a look five floors below at the busy streets of Warsaw. Right across the road exactly opposite him stood the statute of Charles De Gaulle. His right hand was lifted in a military salute. It was as if De Gaulle was saluting him. He smile. It crossed his mind that from a geographical and geo-political position, De Gaulle was facing Africa. ‘Is he waving to the continent? Was this how the sculptor wanted it to appear?’
No response came to him.
Instinctively he turned right and was just in time to see bus 175 wheel right at Rondo De Gaul. Making another routine trip to the departure terminal at the Frederic Chopin International Airport from its base at Dzworzec Gdanski in Zoliborz. He wondered how many trips the bus had made during the course of the day. ‘There is no particular driver assigned to any of the buses permanently,’ a retired bus conducted had once told him. He was fond of this particular bus because when his time did arrive, he didn’t know when, the same bus would drive him to the airport. Hence its route and character were important to him. ‘The bus embodies memories which will be dear to me once I have left…’
Someone knocked at the office door. As he made to open the door hoping to readmit Mirek Boniecki, the door was pushed open. The postman walked in briskly and handed him a registered letter.
“Thank you sir.”
“Nie ma problem.” The postman replied and handed him a recipient’s slip to
sign.
He signed and handed it back.
The postman took and left.
Left alone, he examined the letter, turned it around several times and hesitated. The
scribbles on the envelop looked very familiar.
As if urged by a predetermined urgency, he ripped open the envelope. A photo fell from the envelope at his feet, facing skyward. He looked at the image and found himself staring right into the bright big eyes of Muna Kaiser.
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Warsaw, 2005. Simon Mol is a playwright and writer from Cameroon. He is awaiting placement within ICORN. Visit his website.
