After the episode with the Police, my status in the neighbourhood changed. Some began to see me as an enfant terrible, and started making friendship overtures. Others thought I was bad news and gave me some berth.
At school I was a hero of sorts. None of the guys had ever been arrested before so I got to tell my story many times. With each retelling, Pa Ogijo and I played more valiant roles.
After the arrests, the thefts ceased but the school fences got higher anyway.
The remainder of secondary school breezed by without incident.
And then Pa Ogijo upped and died.
He was at his duty post one afternoon when he felt a sharp pain in the chest. He didn't even get out a word before keeling over. He was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.
Mother cried. I did not. I was really sad though and didn't eat much in the days following.
The doctor's report said he died of heart failure. According to him, it was caused by a ventricle that was completely blocked. The heart, like its owner, was overworking--to compensate. One day, it got tired and packed up.
Pa Ogijo's remains laid in the morgue for two weeks while everyone waited for his son to show up.
No one knew him. While Pa was alive, stories filtered in that he had a son but there was no love lost between them. Once in a while, someone would regale others with a tale of his visit and how he and Pa fell out.
No one knew his name or what he did. But the consensus was that he was a scoundrel. On one occasion, when they were quarrelling, a neighbour claimed Pa reminded the son that he'd disowned him a long time ago.
No one was sure if, and when, he'd come. By the third week, Pa's kinsmen came together, made arrangements and took him home.
They'd fixed a date for the burial when the son arrived. He joined in the preparations.
Pa Ogijo was 78. By their tradition, a cow was to be slaughtered as part of the rites. The son, obviously, could not afford it. He was told anyway, as was the custom. He replied the clansmen that if that was the condition for burying the old man, he was ready to let them see to it. The matter was never raised again.
On the D-day, a cow materialized. Pa's son did not ask how it happened. But when the meat from it was being shared, he insisted on two portions (as the head of his mother's kitchen and as a male in the clan).
A week before, Mother informed me that we'll be travelling to Pa's village to pay our last respects. It was the least we could do for a man who treated us as family. I was in agreement. Besides, it was an opportunity to reduce the number of places I've never been to.
She went to the market and bought some food stuff and drinks. They were to be presented to the man's son--our own little way of supporting him.
The burial was an elaborate affair that commenced late and lasted a long while. Eventually, casket and corpse were lowered and some young men began to cover the grave.
Pa's son left the graveside to go and receive people who wanted to offer condolences. Mother and I were in that number.
When mother saw him, she faltered. I held her and asked what was wrong. "Nothing," she muttered. "Just that he reminds me of someone I used to know."
The man listened to us say all the usual things, and gave the right responses. Even then, it was easy to see that he was uncomfortable and would rather be elsewhere.
Mother and I made our way out of the parlor where he was receiving sympathizers. We were on the threshold when a new arrival came in and hailed him. "OT, OT! Oliver Thaddeus, so you have killed your father?" People shook their heads in pity--another drunkard. Mother stopped, turned in slow motion to look again at Pa's son. "OT?" She managed to utter. And then she fainted.
Focus shifted from other activities to the woman on the ground. Finally, she was revived. I began to breathe again. Mother sat up, she had attempted to stand but was not allowed by the crowd.
She sought me out with her eyes. When our eyes met, she turned to Pa's son. I followed her gaze. "That is your father," she stated.