Chapter One

An aura of gloom swept over Bill as he sat at the edge of his bed that morning. He had just woken up from a terrible nightmare of being hunted down after so many years of living in silence. This silence had come at a price, and with it was no peace at all. The government had asked him to remain quiet and ostracize himself from the social sphere if he wanted to continue living.

Along with that burden were two other things which contributed to his unhappiness. There were questions about his paternal background that nagged his crippled bones. And far more than all, he yearned for redress for himself and his fellow soldiers massacred in the infamous El Adde tragedy, which occurred some seven years ago and left him on the wheelchair. 

To avert such thoughts, he shifted his attention to a clutter of spiders that filled a giant spider-web that had lounged at the left corner of his bedroom window. Outside, sunrays zealously wrestled to illuminate his dimly lit verandah against the wishes of a bottlebrush tree that stood next to the same window. The tree, which he had sourced specifically for landscaping purposes about a decade ago, resolved to baulk its foreseen goal, assuredly. It was at that moment doing more than the intended. It completely barred those pallid rays from penetrating the room, despite their turbulent insurgency. This left them stranded several metres away from the window, a plain sign of defeat.

"Oh, good Lord! Your servant is right here at your feet," he began. "Mighty One, please cover me with your sacred blood. Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" He sighed and continued feasting his eyes on the scene in the cobweb. The spiders were living in peace, unhindered by anything else in the world around them. What if the walls just curved in without warning or a monitor lizard came trudging through that place; would that not be their end? Forgive it, there was no point in having it all negative. The spiders were living in harmony, each of them taking their own responsibilities without malice and prejudice, and that was all that mattered. That was all he wished for his beloved country.

Satisfied with his own judgments about it, he threw his silken blanket on the edge of his bed and gratifyingly sat on the fluffy mattress that filled it. He was now confident of reaping a lot from that day. And even though a slight feeling of trepidation still nagged his mind, he swore to march on.

Starting his day with deep contemplation was a familiar routine for him. Nearly all were much the same as the others and were made up of such solemn invocations, with a lengthy meditation instantly coming after. Reading the signs, however, he felt that that was not going to be a normal day. It was not going to be different from the queer days that forced him to reconnect with the entire population of his native country, and for another day, he had no choice.

At some point, his fellow citizens used to be mindful. But that was long ago before his estrangement. They had forced him to live a solitary life, what many described as the sheaves of his toil. As expected, this had then snowballed into a lasting tune sewn on everyone's lips. They cared less whether they were barking up the wrong tree or not. They had made up their minds to loathe him for good and for all.

Astonishingly, Bill had successfully managed to lead the gruelling life for a good number of years. His grievous tale began not long ago but immediately after the forced retirement that kicked him out of the defence forces for good. However, he had not lacked consolation.

About seven years ago, he had arrested the attention of every media house within and outside the borders of Kenya. That fateful morning, he was found half dead, in a pool of blood, with a rifle in his hands. It was reported that he writhed in excruciating pain, and if the search party had hesitated, even by a wink, he would then probably be lying six feet under, like hundreds of his fallen comrades.

In some way, therefore, Bill felt that it made no sense to be handed the first batch of the ex-servicemen retirement package. It brought him no happiness. Also, he did not fully comprehend how he managed to lead a life quintessential to a hound’s, yet he had been cut off from the world. His wife, Faridah, had passed away nearly seven years ago, and his only daughter, Leah, had been swallowed up in the world of academics in Utah, USA. He could not even recall when he last laid his eyes on her. Maybe it was before they were deployed to what turned out to be a suicidal mission at El Adde, in the Gedo region of Somalia.

The day they left for Somalia went parallel with Leah's seventeenth birthday, which the couple attended but virtually. This meant that, aside from that day, Bill never got the chance to run across his daughter again. As a father, it tortured him to admit that he would never see his only child. Leah, who was now an American, was callous towards her ancestral roots. She had loathed her swarthy complexion severely and, on many occasions, deemed it a stumbling block to her dream of cruising enchantingly in the land of the Caucasian.

Faridah was also celebrating her birthday the same day; and so, in some way, Bill still had a back to lean on. With their hearts pounding and adrenaline pumping through their veins, they strode proudly and defiantly, hand in hand, as if they owned the world. The final prayers had been said, and the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport runway beckoned like a challenge they were determined to conquer. Waiting for them patiently was the Airbus helicopter, a symbol of their past failures and future triumphs. In another life, he could have been a brigadier or lieutenant, but that was long before his future was shattered into a million pieces. All he had now was the present, and he was determined to make it count.

He fixed his eyes on the portrait resting on his bedroom table. The radiant glow on Faridah's face made it seem like she was still alive. He wondered whether he would be able to recall her facial features with such clarity without the help of the portrait. The realisation that his recollection of her appearance had been fading since her passing hit him hard. He clutched the portrait close to his chest, and the warmth of her blooming smile sent shivers down his spine. Heavy tears gathered in his eyes. Soon, they streamed down his weather-beaten face like pearl-drops from a flint.

His mind flew back to the fateful day she left him. He was certain that it could have been before he had woken from the coma, with every part of his body sealed with bandages and plasters. Indeed, it was such a lousy day, which stole everything from him.

He somewhat wished Faridah were alive. He wished she could have just cooled her heels a little longer and patiently waited for him to wake up from what everyone perceived as his eternal slumber, like that of his comrades. He blamed her for her weak heart, which immediately died down while his lifeless body lay sprawled in the bedbug-infested hospital bed. But for how long had he been asleep? Could it have stretched to hours or months? He still recalled the day they had flown to Somalia, off-head: January 6, 2016, and how could it be erased from his mind? He had long anticipated it, but it ended up rewarding him with the eternal grief that settled at every corner of his villa and at the base of his heart!

Therefore, as much as he cherished his wife, Faridah, he came to dislike her for betraying her patience with him. “Why the hurry to leave me, Faridah? I was merely taking a nap as I tried hard to recall the heart-wrecking incident that struck while we were preparing for the day," he said, thoughtfully. "First, there was fire, then boom! Explosions... Explosions were everywhere as guns began wailing. Tu! Tu! Tu! 5 a.m. on January 15, 2016 was not morning again. It was a night filled with smoke, terror and death, which took hold of every corner of the camp. Thereafter, there was total darkness. I could not remember much, dear. Will you tell me how long I closed my tear-filled eyes? Did Leah come to comfort you? Or did they leave you on your own, darling? That girl! I suppose she didn't, because it is I who single-handedly laid you down into that mound, with him—Father John."

He rose to his feet, with the help of his crutches, and faced the direction of his wife's lonely grave resting beside the house. Then, dejectedly, he went again: "No one from Nang’eni turned up for your burial, no one except Father John. They all deserted us. Brutes! Mongoloids! Hypocrites... bloody hypocrites!" Eventually, he receded to his bedside and went on scanning the portrait, disbelievingly.

Hossana, his faithful houseboy, was yet to arrive. To him, the fifteen-year-old was more than just an employee; he was a true companion and a reason for him to keep going. He made him believe he had a purpose in life. Hossana had no family of his own, and Bill had taken him under his wing, treating him like a son. Bill always admired his loyalty and obedience, and he felt a deep sense of responsibility for him.

The boy's past was shrouded in mystery; he was orphaned. He knew nothing about his parentage since it was only whispered that his father had died immediately after his birth. His mother, too, was nowhere to be seen, and her whereabouts were incomprehensible. Rumours had it that the day she had disappeared was the same day they got him, abandoned in the market’s sewer line.

Bill had then offered to take him to his house when his woeful tale was broadcast in the chapel. And because his physical state was such that he could not easily manoeuvre on his own, it was vital for him to get Hossana entirely by his side.

At first, he had hoped to have him enrolled at the Shooters International School in Nairobi County, where his daughter schooled before flying to America. He knew verily the good tidings accompanied with education, and getting Hossana through the same didactic and informative system would have been a reputable choice, which perhaps would have spoken volumes about him. However, he did not see the possibility of putting it into action because, without Hossana, he could not even scratch his own back! He had to have someone who could lift him a bucket of water to the bathroom and help him keep the place tidy. So, he had no choice but to keep him as his houseboy, and the two completed the two-person family, excluding Milo, his scruffy-haired mutt.

He lay supine in his comfortable king-size bed and continued thinking about the past and the present. He could not help but feel a sense of compassion and sympathy for Hossana and himself. They were both alone in this world, relying on each other for support and companionship. But as long as they had each other, they knew they could make it through anything.

At last, he cast his mind back to the fond memories of his early days. He recalled his life in his mother's desolate arms. The woman had passed away, many years ago, even before enjoying the sweetness of the fruits of her womb to her fill. He got stuck on this particular person, to whom he accredited all the success he had achieved over the years.

Bill had perhaps counted himself more lucky than most of his childhood friends. Unlike them, his mother had stood by his side through thick and thin. She was quite a sturdy woman who was determined to boil the ocean in order to make her son successful. And this, indeed, saw him soar to unimaginable heights. Being a staunch supporter of optimism, she instilled this trait in her only son, who also chose to move mountains just at the age of twenty-two, when he miraculously earned a place in the Kenya Defence Forces (KDF).

That year, after laying his hands on the Shoot to Save military scholarship, he went on to be a prominent youth. His fame spread to every corner of the country for his brilliance and the sudden twist of his life. It also meant that he would be the first person from the region to step on US soil and, if not least, the first military personnel of Kenyan roots to be equipped with both airfield and open-field army skills. He was destined to serve his nation both in the Air Force and the Army.

The news, which only came to them as a mere whisper, saw them so enlivened to the point that his mother was caught up in disbelief. Since they did not own a radio, it was Bill's uncle who came to confirm it to them. He read them a letter he had picked from the post office that afternoon. And when the news about his departure finally found its way out of the hut, everyone in the village was elated. They all promised to lend them helping hands before he eventually departed for the land of the white man.

The day they came to pick him up marked the first time a vehicle stepped into their compound. That afternoon, a group of school-going children assembled in their squalid hut, which had despondently stood along the shores of River Nang'eni for more than a decade. A group of elderly women later joined them. They emphasized the importance of having him showered with grace, saying it was to see him through this unforeseen transition. They were, without doubt, delighted to see him open a fresh chapter of his life.

They broke into songs and dances, along with ululations, which took hold of the air. The soloist, a distressingly ancient woman with a toothless mouth, rocked the air with Isukuti tunes of Mwana wa mberi ni shekhoyero (the firstborn is a treasure) as the others joined in with reverberating ululations that threatened to blow up the sickly mud house.

Mwana wa mberi ni wina?

Mwana wa mberi

Ni wina?

Mwana wa mberi

Ni wina?

Mwana wa mberi ni shekhoyero.

Efwee khubolanga:

Kano ni ka Mulongi,

Unyala kosi,

Ka mwikulu nende ka aasi,

Nyasaye mwepamekho nende chimbavasi,

Mwana-efu Biili.

Who's the first born?

The firstborn,

Who's he?

The firstborn,

Who's he?

The firstborn is a treasure.

We're now saying this:

These are the works of the Creator,

The only one who's able,

When it comes to things on earth and in heaven,

God, stay with him and atone for him with your grace,

Our son, Bill.

The moment the clergyman stepped in, the air in the hut changed. He commanded attention with his stately presence and silver hair, and his eloquence was unmatched. But what truly set him apart was his ability to win over even the most hardened of souls.

With authority, he rebuked all the obstacles that stood in the way of God's chosen path, fearlessly evangelising to all who would listen. And when he delved into the world of the underworld, he did so with bravery and conviction, casting out the powers of darkness that lurked in the shadows of the humble abode.

After a spiritual and ritual cleansing, the clergyman handed Bill over to his new family, who whisked him away in their sleek Ferrari 612 Sessanta. It was a bittersweet departure, breaking the hearts of his mother and the villagers who watched as he drove off towards the big city.

But Bill was just getting started. He underwent rigorous military training at Camp Simba Base, near Manda Bay, for a year, and later in the US, honing his skills and knowledge for a decade before being called back to his homeland, Kenya. There, he embarked on peacekeeping missions both within the country and beyond its borders, drawing on his intellectual prowess and military expertise to make a difference.

Bill's journey was far from over, and he was determined to make the most of every opportunity that came his way. His experience at Joint Base Andrews-Naval Air Facility-Washington and Fort Campbell Hopkinsville, Kentucky, was a tale to live with.

***

"Hello, papa, it's me. Are you in?" Hossana’s voice echoed through the house as he burst in, full of energy and life. Bill knew that voice like the back of his hand. It had been his constant companion for three long years, and he could not imagine life without it. He had to find a way of getting back to where he started, to clear his name in the big city and fend for his son, Hossana. His life depended on these.

As Hossana made his way into the living room carrying a newspaper, Bill could not help but marvel at the boy's confidence and spirit. He was everything Bill had lost, and he was determined to do whatever it took to get it back. For a moment, he forgot about his insecurities and the horrors of the past. He was lively again.

"Hey, papa! I’m sorry I'm a bit late today. I thought I was on time, though," Hossana apologised with a grin on his face.

Bill chuckled, slightly embarrassed, and then replied with a smile, "Oh, it's not your fault, son. I forgot that today is Wednesday, not Sunday. And besides, you had to fetch me a copy of Angaza Newspaper from the streets. I’m glad you have it. My memory is not what it used to be, son.”

Hossana nodded with understanding and handed him the newspaper. He knew his father had been through a lot, and he was proud of him for not giving up. Together, they had to overcome the challenges of the day, including the dry showers and the water rationing in Busia Town. But they were unstoppable. This made Bill feel a renewed sense of purpose. He had to fight for what was right, for himself and his family. With Hossana by his side, he knew he could do anything. They were a team, and nothing could stop them now.

"We'll do our best, Papa. Won't we?" asked Hossana.

"Sure. All is well. Let's keep hoping for the best."

That had been the trend for nearly three years. The young but confident voice had been his only companion in life, and without it, he was sure that his life was also vaporising. He had sworn not to abandon his hopes of unearthing the lost piece of his golden days, and as a result, he was determined to get back to where he had started.

He unfolded the newspaper and his eyes popped out when he saw the front page. He glanced at Hossana and would have quickly folded back the paper, but the boy stopped him: “Don’t even think about it. I’ve already seen that.”

“Oh boy! Have you?”

“Yes. And I’m not surprised. Thank God you told me the whole story.”

Bill was well aware of Hossana’s high level of curiosity and had often warned him against being overtaken by the negative yens surrounding it. But as it stood, the kid was not finding it easy to cope with his natural trait.

“Alright,” Bill said with a deep sigh. "You know, I'd truly forgotten that today is Wednesday and not Sunday. Thank you for reminding me of that, and for bringing with you Angaza."  He folded the newspaper and dropped it onto a pile close to his bed.

Perhaps his grey matter, too, was wearing out. He had given this a subdued thought, sometimes up to the point where it threatened to jangle his nerves. At the age of fifty-six, he was cognizant of his inferiorities, and what had tortured his innermost soul was the horrific experience of January 15, 2016, which lent him those incapacities that crafted a wimp out of him and not the down-to-earth man whom he used to be. Hossana was to help him feed, do laundry, wash, move, and if not enough, here he was, assisting him to recall mere yesterday's discussion.

"Now, please help me to the bathroom, son, then make two mugs of tea because we'll be leaving by 9:30 a.m. Okay?"

"Yes, papa. But papa, didn't you say that the plumber would have the taps fixed before the end of this week?" Hossana hesitantly observed. "Or has this elapsed from your mind too?"

"Mmmmmh...son, how can I forget that, my boy? I recall saying that, but for now, get the bathtub filled. There's some water in that bucket." He pointed at the white bucket, which stood beside Hossana. Then he quickly propelled his wheelchair across the lavishly furnished living room, his nerves on edge. He had to avoid the nerve-biting questions that seemed to be foaming on Hossana’s restless lips. With his back disappearing into the dimly lit bedroom, he urged, "And please be fast!"

Bill knew exactly why he had done nothing about the taps in his house. He had no intention of punishing Hossana, and his plumber had come to the same conclusion. The problem was not his, but the ministry's. They had been crying day and night for over a week, but their tears meant nothing to the concerned individuals, who only insisted on the prompt collection of the monthly water dues. This made him abhor life in native Kenya, and he loathed its inhabitants even more. It made no sense to him that the same government that had reaped the fruits of his hard work only sat and spectated as the cartels fought to deprive them of vital amenities.

For two weeks, they had been rationing the water supply without any worthwhile reason. Did they not promise him a grandiose villa for his retirement? But why was he experiencing water scarcity when he had the toughest job of offloading some of the recordings of his past life as a serviceman? He had to worry about water, electricity, the unfulfilled pension scheme, and the mental ailment that had been torturing him day and night. He was not a happy man!

With Hossana's help, he took a warm shower, mindful of the remaining bucket of water that was not even enough to carry them to the following day. In an hour, it would be his turn in the eyes of the Lord. He had been yearning for spiritual strength to scrape off the daunting memories that had long enslaved him. He still had a reason to rejoice in the Lord, who had stood by his side on the day that saw his twenty-four Heroes Team comrades and over a hundred KDF soldiers reduced to ashes. However, the baleful stares rehearsing for him made him dislike his hometown greatly. Those cold and penetrating looks always made his hair curl. He felt like a stranger in his backyard, accused of something he could not say.

With Hossana dutifully trudging at the back of his wheelchair, they finally made their way into the fully programmable gate leading into Busia Holy Cathedral. The faithful, who seemed to be taken aback by his sight, did not hold back the scornful looks printed on their faces. Despite that, they were equally relieved and delighted to set their eyes on him again. At the side entrance, the usually cheerful usher met them and, after introducing himself as Brother Paul, led them in.

"Salvē, Brother Bill... I'm glad to see you ready to join us on the way to salvation. Once again, welcome to the Quadragesima's Ash Wednesday," he said with a warm smile on his face. He then helped him adjust his wheelchair at the centre of the pulpit.

Hosanna stood meditatively close to the perfectly crammed pews in the church. He was convinced that since he was merely a frivolous parishioner, he had no better role in the day's business other than backing up his master. Unlike Bill, he was nowhere near the centre of attention.

Soon, the entrance chant filled the air. Contrary to Bill, Hossana was bubbling with enthusiasm. He was a music enthusiast who still held on to his dream of arresting the airs of his native country with his hauntingly beautiful voice. He had a belief that his day would come, and if all went well in that year, he hoped to raise the entire amount that he owed the chorister, which would instantly see him again in the chapel's choir. He yearned to entertain his master and all the faces that meekly stared at the choir members as they riveted them with their timeless melodic tunes. Perhaps, he had wished to also prove them wrong since he believed the definition they had given Bill and him was inapt.

Minutes later, the priest, a middle-aged man robbed in a black gown, walked calculatedly to the pulpit, stood rooted uprightly, a metre from where Bill sat, and threw expressive glances at the crippled old man. Finding nothing but emptiness in his wrinkled face, he fixedly gazed at the entire congregation as he said: “May the Lord be in your hearts and on your lips, that you may proclaim his gospel worthily and well, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

"Amen!" the congregants roared back in response.

He then extended his hands and greeted them:

"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all... Today marks the beginning of Lent, meaning that it's time for us to confess our sins and profess our devotion to God."

Their eyes met again, and this made Bill boil with rage. He had always felt an instant aversion to every sight, and this was not an exception. He was cold with anger. He gave thought to the possibility that this was his day since the priest had chosen to centre on him. He, therefore, saw the need to withdraw his disillusioned eyes by facing the direction in which his son stood, ready to take him home. However, the powerful eyes perched on the pews met his, and he felt shunned. So he dejectedly cast his eyes on the floor, his head hunched, and then looked vacantly at his still wrist-watch.

"...Brethren, Lent season reminds us that there is a time for everything and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace...

"Therefore, brethren, let this day remind you of who you are. Let it christen your soul as we commemorate the role the Son of the Most High played in our lives. So, know your time and the season you're in. Let not the son of man draw you out of the godly lanes. Remember that whosoever believes in him shall not perish but have everlasting life. Let's get to our feet and pray the prayer that our father taught us."

At that moment, Bill dozed off. On waking up, he faintly heard the words "for dust you are and to dust you shall return" which Father John said while applying ashes in the shape of a cross to his forehead. The talons of sleep had whisked him away while in the middle of the mass. He opted to hurry back home before they got on his back again, once Father John finished his business on the pulpit.

"Papa, Father John has sent me to come and call you," Hossana reached out to him as he propelled his chair along the pavement outside the hall.

"What?"

"He said that you should see him in his office."

Bill went silent. He had not expected this. He had sworn to avoid Father John like a plague. Since his return, Father John had become one of his worst enemies. Their enmity had started the very day he was selected for the military scholarship. This had not sounded well to Father John's family. His parents had anticipated such a call only for their well-schooled son, who would now later only turn into a priest, but not for Bill, the son of a mere peasant. The altercation had escalated flames of hatred between the two families, and his late mother had faced dire consequences. After Bill's departure, everyone, including the same women who rejoiced the day he left for the US distanced themselves from her, and made her lead a solitary life in her new house till the day she drew her last breath, when her health further deteriorated.

When Bill received the news of the demise of his mother, he got mad, and his camp room at Fort Campbell Hopkinsville was dismantled because he had wailed uncontrollably, day and night, for two days. His camp brothers, who were mostly from the US and Canada, did not even sympathise with him, because such tears never meant anything to them. How could he do that freely on foreign soil and, if not least, in the eyes of the coloured? He was only spitting in their faces. Therefore, their cruel black platoon sergeant consequently punished him, terming it a violation of the camp rules, and were it not for the kind SMA (Sergeant Major of the Army), he would have risked being expelled from the team. He was perhaps more lucky.

"Why has he sent you to me? What does he want?" he finally asked, exasperatedly, breaking the silence between them.

"I couldn't believe my ears the moment he called me to his office, papa. He shouted, ‘Hossana! Hossana!’ and then asked me to call you. He said, ‘we need to see your father right now, boy’," Hossana responded, trying to mimic Father John's comical tone.

"We? Who's 'we'? I thought it was just Father John himself. How many people are with him?" Bill exploded with excitement, his face lighting up. He was determined to lock up his true colours.

"Well, it was just him. But papa, are you really going to go? It doesn't seem like it, and if not, what should I tell him?" Hossana asked, eager to know his response.

"Tell him I'm not coming! And if he insists, tell him to send me a letter because I might not be around for long." He went silent, sighed softly, and then picked up again, "Boy, I sometimes wonder who they think they are, calling Bill the town's money-spinner! I've already done so much for them; now it's time for me to focus on myself. Look at that conference hall." He pointed at it with his withered finger. "I financed it wholeheartedly. They didn't even invite me to the inauguration. Let them find someone else to support them."

Hossana was dumbfounded. He did not anticipate this. Since the day he had begun staying with him, his papa had never been vexed the way he was. He had always been lively and cheerful whenever he was close to him. He was always bursting with happiness, and all this while, if Hossana had an example of a cheerful person he had ever come across, it was surely him. However, little did he know that the man was sick inside. He had to admit that something was wrong.

"Get me to the gate, son," he said while he wearily propelled his wheelchair on the rough pathway that led to the exit gate. "And don't worry about this. You'll not understand it, son, at least not for now.” He stopped propelling and turned to Hossana at once. His flared nostrils and wrinkled forehead spoke it all. “Rush to him with my honest response first. Be fast. We need to go back home, away from those good-for-nothing fellas who do nothing but suck and sip from the less fortunate."

"Okay papa! I won't take long."

Hossana left him and hurried to Father John’s office, next to the church hall. Bill waited calmly, waving back at those who waved at him and smiling at those who smiled. He had learnt over the years to assume a joyful façade, as that was all he needed to make them believe that everything was alright. After all, his agonies were none of their business. Of one thing he was worried, though—exposing his son to their harsh remarks and the well-guarded scrutiny of the likes of Father John. Even as he sat there, he projected his thoughts upon it, feeling uneasy that the priest might take more than what he considered ‘necessary time’ with the boy, probably breathing questions down his neck. But he was wrong; he squinted towards the office, just in time to see Hossana returning.

“What did he say, son?” he asked loudly and apprehensively even before Hossana reached the spot.

“Nothing, papa,” Hossana replied and smiled.

“Nothing? No, you’re lying. That smile speaks of something else.”

“I’m not lying. He said okay.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes, just like that.”

“Alright. Let’s go home. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.” Bill knew Hossana was holding back some information. The kid did not just know how to keep it without a smile.

Together, they set out for their home the same way they had come. Hossana, as he usually did, helped him propel his wheelchair out of the church's compound. On the road, they met many faces, most of whom he knew well. Some of them delighted upon setting their eyes on him, while others simply frowned. This, however, did not deter him from sticking to his course of action. He had always subscribed to the ‘forwards ever and backwards never’ slogan, which proved to complete him.

"He gave me a letter, papa,” Hossana said, retrieving an envelope from his trousers’ pocket. “He also said that you've got to see Dr Miles as soon as possible if you care for your health." This helped tear apart the pregnant silence that had already sprouted between them.

"Mmmmmh... sure," Bill responded thoughtfully. “I knew you were holding back something.”

Bill was sick of letters. He always shrank at the mere sight of any. But the more he hated them, the more they threatened to stick by his side. Like the waters of a river, they poured into his life from all directions. However, there was only one that he longed to set his eyes on, and he gave thought to the possibility of the one in Hossana's hands being that one. Maybe he had handed in the chapel's address, or perhaps Father John had gone to an abominable point of digging into his personal affairs, such that he had considered it worthwhile being Bill's messenger! After thinking for a while, he faced him and gleefully asked:

"Is it addressed ‘From Morans Pension Limited'?"

After a conscientious inspection of the envelope's contents, Hossana responded, "No, papa. It's written, 'Wedding Invitation: The Family of Tom and Mary’."

"Let's go. We won't be roasted in this sun because of a wedding letter. Who told him I needed an invitation to a wedding? Is that all?" Bill was upset.

"Yeah, there's none except this. And didn't you say that today you’ll be checking your mailbox? I suppose you should send me to the post office."

"It's okay. You can visit Posta after taking lunch. And please, pick those that seem important, okay?"

"Okay, papa."

"I only need to see one from the Morans before I close my eyes. They owe me your future, son. Your future is very important to me, and once I rest my palms on it, I shall have eventually solved half the riddles of our lives." He then went silent for a minute as Hossana heaved heavily, pushing his wheelchair up a hummock.

"But papa..."

"I need you, son, more than I need even my own life. I have already lost my family and future while chasing after greener pastures. I have seen waterfalls and seas bursting with warm and cold blood, my son. How I wish Faridah were here to see you through this lurking storm. Those people stole my only sunshine, my only daughter, leaving me refrigerated in the cold. They corroded her mind with their education to the point that my existence ceased crossing her mind. Will she forsake me too the same way she forsook her mother?"

He faced him, scanned him from head to toe, and then courteously said, "Hossana, please don't forsake me. My departure is drawing nearer at every dawn. So, stand by my side and don't let me die like a hound. Promise to give me a decent send-off when I close my eyes."

"What do you mean, papa?" Hossana asked, bewilderingly. "You know it's not good to talk about death, especially when you're from church. Death is the doing of God, and like the priest has said, there's time for everything and a season for all. So leave that to him who breathes life into the flesh and takes it at his own wish."

"Let's go. When the time comes, you'll get it right."

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