In Memory of my Father
Nangiro lives in a dry and dusty land. It is a land of few trees, endless dust, and few streams. It does not rain much and recent years have seen droughts increasing in volume and intensity. It is a land where vegetation is sparse and the open barrenness stretches as far as the eye can see. It is a tough unforgiving unyielding land and the people who live and survive here have to be tough, determined and resourceful. Turkana is a land of little luxury and few comforts.
In the dry haze of the searing sun, Nangiro walks slowly with a few goats plotting his way. He is young and the deep purple of his native Turkana clothes shine magnificently in the heavy humid air of the midday heat. The goats converge around him as he uses his stick to shape and direct the tiny herd. He is a young boy at work – beginning to accept and welcome the growing responsibilities of becoming a man. As he nears his homestead, the wide-open dusty spaces narrow slightly to a sprinkling of trees that give welcome cover to man and goat alike. They are Turkana air conditioners and bring respite and shelter from the suns searing unrelenting heat!!
As Nangiro approaches home the goats scatter in familiar terrain and pick at the few bushes and shrubs that dot the arid and parched landscape. He carries his stick over his shoulder in typical Turkana fashion and carries his traditional stool in his hand. No male of pastoralist Turkana is to be found without these two constant companions. They are work tools, weapons, protectors and even leisure items. They are an integral part of Turkana life and are life long and faithful travellers with every Turkana male.
Nangiro reaches his home. His father Frances is there with three other siblings. Just a year ago his mother died in childbirth – a far too common tragedy in the baked rural grazing lands of Turkana. Her memory lives on here all around us in this small rural homestead, which I am sure was shaped, created and moulded by her hands.
Nangiro seems to be silent and reflective in nature. There is a deep sense of quiet to his actions and his manner. I imagine it comes from twelve years of relative Turkana solitude that has been his life story to this point. The rhythm of daylight, the animals, chores, finding pasture and water, and nightfall are sown into his life story and his very essence. This small community of family, friends and animals are woven into his tapestry of living; the fabric of which is deeply knotted in the rituals of life that have been in Turkana for countless generations.
Nangiro rounds his goats into the small wattle protected pen as his father Frances speaks of life when he was Nangiro’s age. I often think of my own father in these times of memory and reminiscence. When I listen to my own father I sometimes think there exists a nostalgic sense of the past. I guess we store those memories most dear to us and they continue to colour and shape how we engage and reflect upon our pasts. In these living memory banks however, amidst the fond deeds of long ago and the faces that shaped our lives, rest clear and stark truths. The one that my own father and Frances share is one that speaks gently of a changing climate. Their thoughts almost mirror each other. Two men, whose lives were lived around, with and through animals, reflecting on a life’s experience in a few chosen and crucial words. The way my father speaks of the great snow of 1947 is mirrored in how Frances speaks of the great drought of 2000. The way my father watches the weather, not as a neutral observer, but as a participant with his animals, is mirrored in how Frances views the clouds that too often pass empty over Turkana. The way my father speaks of a changing climate and resulting lost fodder in rural Longford is mirrored in how Frances speaks of recurring drought and ever increasing barrenness and dryness.
What my father Owen and the Turkana Frances share is many years of lived farming experience. They do not read weather charts, rainfall tables or metrological reports. What they know is based on a lifetime’s experience of tending animals, ensuring fodder and living with the sky. They know things are changing. They know the well-drilled rhythms of their youth are distant memories. They know that the cycles so known by them and their fathers have been punctured in the past few years. And they know it is not for the better. And in that is their truth. Life is changing and they must constantly wonder how their well-known patterns of coping are going to manage this onslaught.
A few weeks ago, my waterproof boots walked the soggy squelchy meadows of north Longford. Those same feet now wear open sandals that kick up dust and heat in the barren recesses of Turkana. I can almost hear my brother’s voice speaking of drainage and reseeding as Frances speaks of the drought, food aid and a growing lack of water. I see Nangiro from the corner of my eye and wonder how much of this he will face as he grows into a pastoralist man of Turkana.
And I guess this is the very point at which Owen and Frances have such a different perspective. Longford may have its problems with weather but the reality is that is well equipped with options, solutions and alternative ways. They are numerous, well funded and generally available. I see none of these waiting to embrace Frances or his son Nangiro. The passing solution of food aid and the potential loss of every animal they own is hardly a real option. It is desperation and it is traumatic. I wonder about this twelve-year-old standing before me as he sets out on this journey into an unknown adulthood. He finally closes the small wattle gate that protects the small herd of goats. I wonder what will protect him from what Frances and Owen know is waiting all around him. And they know he is powerless in its presence.
Nangiro walks back through the small homestead. His purple Turkana cloth flutters as a slight wind drifts across the arid sands. He sits quietly and looks to the horizon. He is quiet and thoughtful. I look at him and wonder if he suspects what the old already know. I wonder if he knows what he will face as he grows to head this family’s destiny.
I wonder if that’s why he is so quiet and reflective……………