Into Thin Air

A little boy goes missing. The writer narrates how portion of her soul was stolen in her childhood as a result of this and the subsequent events.

Today is the day I write about my brother Musa. Musa who vanished ten years ago without a trace. I have finally mastered the courage to speak. To say it all and pour out my heart. I am done with the city life where I escaped to from the reality of my miserable life. After five years I am back home to my village. Mt Darwin has transformed a little from what I remember. The forest is all gone, in its stead are vast fields of yellow leaves of the tobacco plant. The air smells homely. A whiff of dry dust here, some smoky wood from the cooking fires there. I’m home finally. Animal sounds still fill the village. Women are off to the river with their earthen jars to fetch water. With babies on their backs they balance the large pitchers on their heads like nothing. The picturesque of my village life remains the same. It is still the simple and humble life I have always adored but it does not feel the same anymore. My home is pregnant with sorrow and distressing memories. Although I feel sad about it all I now refuse the feeling that I am somewhat responsible for the tragedy that bludgeoned my family ten years ago. The day was beautiful I recall. The sun shone bright reflecting beautifully in the water. Ruya river was swollen from the heavy rains days prior. The water frothed and churned against the rocks and it brought joy to all, adults and children alike. Hundreds of birds circled overhead. Women chatted and laughed, shamelessly discussing the merits and demerits of their husbands. It was a normal sighting in the small village of Mt Darwin. The world was happy. I was the older child and my task was to watch Musa as mother washed. At only twelve, I played more than I watched him. It was mother who alerted me to Musa's absence.

“Where’s Musa?” said she.
“He went to take a bath”. I do not recall who responded. My memories from that day are slightly hazy. Males and females had private spaces to bath along the stretch of the river. At ten Musa was beginning to avoid disrobing in the presence of females and always sought privacy. We all assumed Musa was taking a bath somewhere along the river. It was the last we all saw of Musa that afternoon of December 1st 1991. Mother got frustrated as the sun began to set and panicked as the night matured. She went around the village searching for Musa that night to no avail. She returned home her face as pale as death and prayed all night. My mother had great reverence for God. Let me admit that even then as a child my mother’s piety irked me. That night she recited heartfelt prayers that sent a chill down my spine. Mother virtually bargained with God that night. "I promise to be a better person Lord if you protect my son".Could it have been mother's instincts were at a clamor? Mother was a beautiful, stout woman with a mass of afro-hair and a laughter that could reverse aging. She became a shadow of her former self after Musa went missing. I never saw her smile or laugh. She was utterly broken and so was I. Despair enveloped her like a caul. I had feelings of regret and self-blame. If only I had watched Musa as I had been tasked to. There were whispers and gossips in the village. People were unkind and they made up theories pertaining to his disappearance. Social situations became incredibly difficult for us and we isolated ourselves eventually. Mother lived in limbo until her sudden passing five years after Musa vanished. They told me Mother died of pneumonia. I'm certain she died of a broken heart. Musa's disappearance had a profound effect on her. We lived with the uncertainty and hope of finding out what happened to him. No one else understands the emotional fluctuations between hope and hopelessness we went through until the police closed Musa's case. All leads had been exhausted and there was no hope that new information would come to light, so we were told. That was the final straw to my mother I think. This is what finally killed her and now I'm alone. Sometimes I think mother is in a better place. A place where she does not have to think about Musa. Whether he is alive or DEAD. A place where she does not have to deal with the sadness, the loneliness and the anguish. Although I feel all these things something has changed. I don't feel responsible anymore and I'm not leaving my home. I have hopes that one day Musa will walk in through these doors of our home and I will tell him how much he’s missed.