JKS Makokha
Let us call him Mr Matchstick. Or Chief Matchstick for that was his official title. Or simply Chief M.
I remember him very well although it has been 11 years since we last worked together. I had been commissioned by the government of a republic somewhere in Africa as an Enumerator in the National Housing and Population Census process. The census has been conducted in this republic every 10 years since 1949. The British colonial government, faced by the imminent war of independence by the natives, had thought it wise to find out actually how many heads and huts were there in the colony. This statistical strategy could come in handy in case the restless natives made good their threat and rose in rebellion against the Crown. Of course they did but the British eventually won the long and dirty war in 1958. In spite of the resounding victory for the new Queen, the colony was lost in the winter of '63. The rest is history. The census endures. The recent one was conducted last year. The nation awaits the results. Some say they are still being (prepared) cooked or in local palaver: "The results are still in the kitchen".
For 14 nights, Chief M and I had roamed the narrow slum paths visiting homesteads under his dominion. They were 144 in total. Home after home. Head after head. Door after door. The process progressed smoothly albeit with minor occurrences here and there. The 74 year old war veteran-turned-long serving chief, his crooked walking stick and me ensured that the government got what it employed us to do - offer a comprehensive bilingual tabular of the total numbers of people and hovels under Chief Matchstick's dangerous dominion of Location N. He had earned my admiration for his stamina. His ability to explain some of the paranormal events and activities that dominated the census exercise was exceptional too.
One of these occurrences stood out and makes him a memorable part of my history. It is this extraordinary happening that now brings his familiar face back to my frozen brain as I read this SMS from his son in Haiti. The son, a green-card immigrant to US, works for the US Marines and has appeared severally on global TV speaking Krio to hordes of hungry Potoprens residents. The SMS is about the recent demise of Chief M. Memory brings back those times the aged chief and I served our nation together.
******
We had counted 117 homes and were proceeding well at a steady pace. The North-western and North-north western quarter of the location had been covered. They were highly cooperative. And this was part of the overall strategy. To start from the cooperative and Islamic quarters before proceeding to the animists. The latter still rebel against ANY government effort to "develop" their lives, ever since their forefather did the same against the Brits. They had not made it a secret that they will release all sorts of magic and spirits of sorcery on any khaki-dressed government fellow or his underling who appeared at their doorsteps carrying the flag of the ruling independence party, the official government census ID. One normally docile chap had, in fact, erected a banner of iron sheet with the clear message written in jeep oil and faeces:
NOWADAYS TO DIE IS EASY. ASK ME TO SHOW YOU JUST HOW.
Of course the message was in the widely-spoken urban slang, just in case....
The night of the memorable event, we started from the abandoned slum butchery, by the abandoned Hindu crematorium. A woman had given birth to quadruplets. She wanted us to count them just in case one or two perish before the census. She had sent a powerful emissary. The new slum voodoo sorcerer, an unregistered refugee from DR Congo. The sorcerer insisted that we would be rewarded with the honour of having two of the babies named after us and the remaining two given the patriotic names Gavementi and Sensas! Although this deviation was far away from the census plan for the night, Chief and I could not down the grand favour. Thus we proceeded off schedule, counted the young hunchback mother and her brood. We then decided to count all the remaining graveyard quarters in her vicinity for that night before resuming the regular modus operandi the next night. This helps you to understand why most of the locals in this area were caught unawares by our unplanned visit on this night. They were not prepared to be counted on this particular night. They thought we would be with them after two days or so per the schedule pinned on the notice-board of the chief’s office. Our unexpected visit to the graveyard quarters caught them on the wrong foot. It did not take long for this to be made very clear to us.
*****
We entered the strange home of memory at exactly 3 and a half minutes to midnight. The pattern was the same. The chief walked ahead. I was always behind him at the strictly recommended two feet apart distance. I was also usually armed with the voluminous scroll of fill-in-the-blank-spaces government spreadsheet protected by a plastic gunny sack. While on duty, the sack never left my head at all. Never. In it were other precious national materials bought dearly with the tax-payer's money. I had two kilos of pencils. 10 grams of razor blades to help sharpen blunt pencils. A quarter kilo of Ever Ready batteries and a pink plastic spotlight that took three batteries at a time. My over-size gumboots were heavy with black river mud stuck like demons on their soles. The left one was torn on the sole near the main toe and made a splotchy sound as I trudged behind the staggering old chief.
Presently, he started the now familiar introduction ritual strictly given him by our pre-Census preparatory workshop facilitator. He stood at military attention suddenly. So did I right behind him. He then cleared his cancerous throat six times and in his croaky alto voice announced the arrival of His Excellency the Junior Officer of the Government of K National Housing and Population Census Exercise at homestead Number 119 of Ghetto G, Sub-location 55, of Location 715, of Division A/715, of District T/A/715, of Province W of the Republic of K, Africa, Earth!
He did this little preamble using a microphone powered by a jeep battery that he always carried in a canvas rucksack on his frail and bent back. He then hummed the first stanza of the national anthem as we stood waiting for the head of the homestead to tie or lock up his mongrels or genies that offered common home security around these parts of the capital city.
Then came the silence. Silence. More silence.
The head of the homestead (lets call him Mr Y) came out, finally. He was armed with his bone-bladed scimitar, a shield made of bricks and cap with a miner's torch on its foreside. His naked body, covered only with torn knickers, was painted with the colours of our flag. He proceeded with a small war dance, stabbing right and left in the air and yodelling in an archaic form of our vernacular. It went something like this:
“Horeeeeaa hai! Horrrraaaeee hia!” Repeated about seven or six times. Five too can do.
The chief whispered that I should dare not bolt away at all. Of course his whisper came at a good time. We stood our ground. Mr Y jumped over his gate of broken beer bottles cemented together with asphalt and stood a metre above us in the air. Silence. More silence. More Silence. More Silence. More Silence. More Silence. Silence.
Then I found my voice. I asked irate Mr Y kindly if we could conduct our government business after apologising for coming to his home unexpected. All this time Chief M kept quiet. The chief just stood there smoking his marijuana from a wooden pipe and ignoring the irate Mr Y.
Mr Y, a suspected hermaphrodite, came close to me. He opened the infant albino palm in his war pouch covered with cobwebs and let me smell the darkness in it. I did. He looked at me with one raised eyebrow straight into my bespectacled eyes. We understood each other. It smelt of that ancient alien plant with a wordless name. The one we normally use in secret rites I cannot reveal here. I understood his war antics and urged the chief that we leave the good Mr Y alone for tonight.....Silence.
"We should come back tomorrow night or on a day specially set aside for his homestead," I reasoned, raising my voice to a loud whisper. Silence. Chief? Silence. ChieEEF!?? More silence.
Chief Matchstick only came around from his ganja reverie and recognised my presence after we arrived at the next homestead. Panting. He exclaimed that I had counted the last homestead so fast!
"Remind me, young man, to include a paragraph on your persuasive and arithmetic skills in my letter of recommendation any time you need one from my good office," he said with a lop-sided smile.
*****
I remember him now upon his demise miles upon miles away from Location N. His eyes still bear in me that lost look they had on that unforgettable night.....RIP dear colleague.
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