A Short Sentenced Piece

My mum was a beach boy. She used to sell wood work pieces on the sea shore. It was this that made me know the Akamba Hand Craft in Changamwe. I would accompany her to buy stock. She also sold mtandio. Some silky coastal fabrics that are good for women.

Her station was Shelly Beach Hotel. If you have gone to the Coast then you know how to go. That's after crossing the ferry. You turn left and drive not so far. And even at the hotel you turn left from the main road. So it's a turn left, turn left place.

There were so many people who worked with her. Some sold hand craft like her. Some sold mtandio like her. Some sold the Kisii stone artifacts. Some only worked as tour guides. Some took tourists on boat rides.

Some beach boys did not know how to speak English. But they needed to speak with tourists. One man did not know how to ask "what is your name?" He said, "what you collo?" He was my friend. He used to tell me to read hard and go to the university.

What you collo had his brother. His brother was not a beach boy. He used to sell tea leaves. In packets. The two loved the local brew. So much. But one day we woke up with a word. That the brother had been sodomized. Under his drunken stupor. But that was not even it. Some other day we woke with a word. That What you collo had passed on. 

My mum made so many friends from the beach. She brought them to the village. When she brought them she owned them. And we owned them too. We said they are ours.

One day my mum came with her Kenyan-Briton friend. She had a flowery name. Jasmine. She was a bit the age of my mum. Then I made a mistake. I asked her, "how old are you?" She said it was rude. I was an adolescent. She didn't know why I was asking about her age. I will not ask about the age of women any more. I was told it is rude. By Jasmine. I expect no woman to ask me my age. It is unkind. 

One day my mum came from the beach with a swollen ankle. She said she had been stung by a sea urchin. She thought it will go away. But it didn't. 

Then she got an ulcer. At the ankle. Or is it "on the ankle?" I don't know the language. Exactly.

She thought it will go away. But it didn't. Then people said bad things about her. Even those who got sweets from her visitors. Our visitors. These days the people have stopped. The bad things they said about her. 

The ulcer is still there. Some doctors think. It is varicose veins.

One other day we woke up with bad news. Shelly Beach Hotel would never accept guests. It was going to shut down. For renovation. 

Then it shut down. Then we waited. Then our village did not have money in circulation. I did not have school fees. Mum was no longer a beach boy. Her Kenyan-Briton friend was not coming to visit her any more. Or the Jamaican couple. That was her friend too. She was not receiving any seasonal greetings cards. There was no reminder that they would visit next winter. It was that bad.

That is how her dream of going to the UK died. Her dream of ever flying died that time too. Then recently. In 2011. I took my maiden flight. To Johannesburg. And I dedicated it. To her.

Shelly Beach Hotel remained closed. It is to date. There was no renovation. There is no money in our village. From the hotel. Many beach boys have gone back up country. I don't know what they do. My mum is still in our village. But she is no longer a beach boy. She is a charity woman. She cooks food. For the children. In our village.

And that is. My short. Sentenced. Piece.