She came to bury her son.
All around were tears as well as smiles – as let’s call him Roy – was genuinely, a funny fellow. Roy had a habit of giving close mates, nicknames.
Listen to him, drunk (as usual) and being kicked out of this club where I was playing live music. Glaring up at the stage he hollered:
“Chief Macawa! These awful American pow-lace! Sing Bob Marley for them. Sing one love. Chief Macawa! Tell these bloody pow-lace to keep their hands awf may!”
As you might notice Roy was typical Londoner with a 100% Cockney accent. His distressed speech was as funny as it was disturbing. Pow-lace.
And he called me “Chief Macawa” after I had told him stories of some of the greatest African resistance chiefs during colonialism – e.g. Tanzania’s Mkwawa of the Wahehes.
“Get your hands off may, pathetic Americans!”
These are typical London security personnel. African and Caribbean black men – and he is calling them “American police.” Overseas night club bouncers tend to be big black males. In America, it is a documented reality that law enforcers often shoot blacks. See Roy’s “dark” humour?
Anyway. That is a story for another day. We are narrating Roy’s funeral and his mum who inspired today’s piece.
I had seen her few times at Roy’s hospital bed. He had become severely ill recently, but still some of his “friends” managed to sneak in some beers. The mother would sit, calmly, looking at Roy – a fifty-something years old man weeping: “Mum… help me… I can’t take it any-more!”
She clasped his thin hands that now resembled dried, light brown-pink leaves hanging on an ancient tree. Akin to a white angel with massive wings, the mother stared lovingly at him. Gently. Always the child; under hospital sheets, urinating and defecating on himself.
“Muuuum… please help me.”
87 years old, Mama Roy had seven children, twenty grand kids, nine great grand children. Some woman, indeed.
There is always an odd ball, in families.
“Roy was always trouble,” she reminisced sadly. “When he was little, we were once at this birthday party. It was 1969; news of astronauts landing on the moon, on the telly, with Armstrong and the other bloke – can’t remember his name. They are bouncing on the moon surface and Roy is only four; he is doing this funny dance. We are all bewildered, staring wide eyed at the TV screen and little Roy is saying he is the moon doctor. Mummy I am the moon doctor! We all laughed…”
Alas. Roy finally died. His liver and organs gave up, as they say.
Here we were at the cemetery standing with Mama Roy. Standing straight, youthful almost, she wore a long, silky, lovely dark dress and gazed, calmly, at the coffin being lowered down. Siblings, nieces and nephews wailed. She made an incredible speech.
“I don’t know where Roy got the booze habit from. His dad never drank. His brothers and sisters hate the bloody thing. Roy would call us boring clowns. I am 87; have never smoked, never drank, not even a swig of champagne. Never tell lies. I go to church every Sunday. Sleep 8 hours every day. Never have headaches. I raised seven kids. I always wonder why was Roy like that. I love my sleep… Sleep is the best thing.”
And so we buried the 57 years old charming alcoholic. The mother reminded us of health and sleep.
Most of us tend to equate sleeping with wasting time… Numerous health journals cite 7 side effects of sleep depravity. Long term mood disorders, immune system disruption (making you constantly ill), risk of diabetes, infertility (reduction of reproductive hormones), weight gain, decreased libido, blood pressure, heart disease, etc.
A Swahili proverb also warns: “Even the most clever child cannot escape sleep.” Bless your eyes. Lala salama, if you love Kiswahili.
