I am Going Home!
by lute wa lutengano
I am already planning my annual pilgrimage to my roots in the evergreen southern
highlands of Tanzania, famously known as the Livingstone Mountain Ranges. The
crisp clean and cool air will definitely re-invigorate my now bloated, sagging
and tired structure. Actually, I am already on the verge of attaining that
figure which will enable me to proudly sport an XL T-shirt with a bold
inscription reading "I am in Shape! Round is a Shape!" But that is a story for
another day all together.
Going home I am. I want to visit my mother and taste her soft snow-white 'ugali'
which goes well with fresh well stir-fried Soya beans in peppered gravy. I want
to hear her forcing me eat more, because, as she says, only weaklings and the
sick hate food. I want to hear her shrill voice ordering me to do something
about my unkempt hair and my patchy beard. I want to hear and see her bossing me
around, because as every man knows mothers will always be mothers. I wonder what
the world would have become without mothers. But then there would have been
nobody around.
I am going home. I want to walk on top of those ridges straddling the Bena
villages. I want to cross those clear water springs, where years back we used to
pick some very sweet wild berries. I want that sweet smell of tender green grass
to pervade my body. I want to touch the grass. I want to feel it and walk over
it with my bare feet.
I want to walk deep into the thick pine forest. It is so vast that it stretches
as far as the eye can see to the western horizon of my village. I want to walk
inside the ten acres of soft pine my grandfather willed me just before his
death. I want to touch the pines oily green leaves. I want to inhale the pure
and fresh air of the forest. Perhaps through them I can relate to my pious
grandfather.
I want to visit my old Lutheran church. Built with stones, muck and logs, more
than 100 years ago, it still standing tall amidst the squat houses of the Benas.
I want to sit in there on a hazy Sunday morning and listen to the old pastor
extolling the virtues of total abstention to survive the AIDS scourge. I want to
sit in there and listen to the mellow and soothing sounds from the choir of
village teenagers. I want to hear them sing about the savior from Nazareth,
before whom nothing can go wrong.
I want to be there and take in that fresh air. And perhaps come back with it to
my dusty, polluted and foul smelling Arusha.
Oh! How I envy John Gronow, a Welsh businessman who has come up with a method of
selling Welsh atmosphere around the world. I wish I could do the same.
Gronow now assures that Welsh expatriates throughout the world will no longer
miss the sweet smell of home because they can now buy a bottle of air from the
hills of Wales – but for a price of about US$ 35 (Tshs 35,000/-).
He has assured his compatriots that it is the real thing. Each bottle will come
with a certificate guaranteeing the air has been gathered in the Welsh
mountains. I am told he has already collected air from Snowdonia and the Brecon
Beacons.
He is quoted as saying, "I am offering a genuine service for people who want
something of Wales that reminds them of their childhood or their homeland. It is
the genuine article from the green, green grass of home."
Surely that is a crazy idea. The only sane solution which guarantees 100 per
cent success is for me to physically go home. So! I am going home!
lutengano@hotmail.com
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