A black man does not cry
The story of Nicho
When my son was five, I was promoted from being a security guard to a supervisor. A supervisor in a security guard firm is like an army colonel. They salute you. You inspect guards of honour. You tell them to pay attention, notice the glimmer of light on their shoes, the crease on their uniforms and can recommend their transfer at the stroke of a pen. It allowed me to pay my son’s tuition in good time. This spared me the early morning visits to the school headteacher who never liked me very much either. I could tell by the way she lowered her gaze whenever I came up into her office. I could now pay the credit to the shopkeeper promptly. My woman was happy once more. We got a second son, we tried for a daughter to crown it off, but omens conspired against us. I once contemplated marrying a second wife, but the stare of my lady kept me in check, besides, I was also a church elder. My enemies said I had bewitched my boss. How could a semi-illiterate man from a humble fishing village-Sakwa, next to the shores of Lake Victoria in Kenya rise the ranks so quickly? Friends and family said it was gods doing, my ancestors had always been a faithful lot.
When my first-born son was joining high school, I was retrenched. As other guards stood outside the office block building chanting “Haki Yetu” (Our Right), I was spellbound in silence. Our Country manager mentioned something about “ Global Recession”. I figured out it was something akin to realizing my house and granaries had been razed down by a fire and my piece of land taken over by a politician. They call it repossession. It is a polite term for land grabbing. It was my only way of reconciling with the fact that Mama Tony, my wife will now be the sole breadwinner. I needed to salvage my broken ego.
Anyway, the Lord I serve does not sleep; my son got a scholarship to Canada. In my Swahili laced dialect, Canada closely resembles kinanda a word for a “piano”. I imagined it to be a land of music.
When I saw my son removing his belt and shoes, then he turned back to wave in a huge smile. My eyes failed me. Here I was a semi-illiterate man from Sakwa sending my small child to the land of milk and honey. Family, I cried, tears of joy, I sobbed in satisfaction, Mama Tony gave me a handkerchief, but I turned it away. She gave me a shoulder to lean on, but I took a pass. It was my moment.
I remembered after retrenchment, how I walked as a messenger to deliver letters from one office to the next. How I upgraded to a bicycle and how after much was told I had put Tony through high school. I let it out, those tears I shed could fill a bucket, to satisfy the thirst of my only remaining goat in the village.
When Tony was in varsity, he started sending his allowance back home to make sure us his parents were sorted. I remember my wife murmuring, “Si ni Mungu Tu” (It is Gods doing), those were all the words she could muster. My wife, my compatriot, my woman of few words. It was the words she muttered when years down the line after my breakthrough we renewed our marriage vows. The young brother soon joined Canada, the land of music. I cried even more tears, this time, they could satisfy the heard of goats I now had.
I am waiting for Tony to graduate, I will cry, even more, I am waiting for him to walk down the aisle and I will cry, I will cry during my first ride in his car, I will look at him. I will tell him, “Cry out my son, life is for the living”. Then the wife of my youth will mutter seated at the back left “Si ni Mungu Tu” (It is Gods doing).
I know God has orchestrated my whole life.
Such is the heart-rendering story that when a Black man cries when his emotions fail him. He believes that he has failed himself, his ancestors, his offspring, and the entire lineage. He believes he ought to be strong. We have been taught that we cannot show the soft and tender underbellies of our lives. It is the very insistence that Black men cannot show weakness and vulnerability that leads to an emotional breakdown and even at worst depression. It is okay to have the resilience and with every question or tone of concern to meet is with “I am fine “but at what cost because people can clearly see we are not.
I think that we owe it to our generation that it is inevitable to be proud of being Black, to acknowledge our fears, to embrace our emotions and to recognize our weakness because it is a just a matter of time and we will overcome. I must admit it is the time that we change the attitude that Black people have toward themselves.
“Do not weep for me, my companion; I know that my country, now suffering so much, ‘will be able to defend its independence and its freedom.”
Patrice Lumumba letter to his wife from Thysville prison
When Patrice Lumumba wrote the last letter to his wife. It was wrought with emotions. I choose to believe he was raised by an equally good man before the colonialists came along. I admire him for being a great companion to his wife besides being a pioneer transformative leader in the Democratic Republic Of Congo. I chose to understand that the history he sought to be taught and a legacy he chose to leave behind is also of an African man in touch with himself.
Men have it rough. It is our time to offer a listening ear to each other, to recommend a good psychiatrist. To have a cocktail juice, a cup of coffee and talk to each other as we figure out the next bold step within us with our support systems.
It is good to share the joys and perils of watching sports together and closing the deals. But at the end of it all, we need to let loose and be in touch with ourselves. We are all human.
*These are real-life stories, identities changed to protect interviewees
To read part 1:
https://sammutisya.medium.com/a-black-man-does-not-cry-e04280b61dfa
Originally published at http://cafemaarifa.wordpress.com on December 19, 2020.
