Under the Red Jacaranda A life of love, betrayal, determination, hard work, joy, sadness, loss and triumphs. Its about my family, culture and heritage of my two tribe's I was born into; the Chagga and Masai people.
I grew up surrounded by very rich culture of stories, songs, proverbs, riddles and dance. Our mother chanted to everything she did. I loved listening to her sing as she worked, nursed her new babies and when she comforted us children when we were sad or unwell. It was amazing to watch her little dances every time we were together which was often. We would be sitting doing some work such as farming or storing the grain into sacks after harvest, or pounding and rinsing the grain ready for dinner or while doing the weekly washing or even cooking, and she'd be leading a chant that we all joined in. Suddenly, and in a calculated tempo, mama would stop working and do little dance That captivated us. When she stopped dancing, she'd throw in a proverb that we had to tell what it meant. She may even challenge us with a riddle or two.
In our beautiful home, we did not have mirrors. So when mama had dressed to go to the local market to sell her produce or at the end of the long hard working day to go and meet with her friends for a drink, she'd call us children to look at her dress, shoes and head piece that she was wearing for the occasion for our opinion. Mama was a great dresser. After, she'd sing a little and dance a little as she walked away. We would laugh and try to mimic her.
In school, we sang to everything. Including Maths We took turns in telling a short story in front of the class each morning. At recess we would all gather in a big circle and teach each other how to dance. We'd play all the children's games. And so, this was a way of life and has been a benchmark in my career as an author/actor/playwright and dancer. And indeed in writing this book.
The night before the citizenship ceremony, I thought, oh my God I am going to become an Australian and I don't know the Australian anthem. So I stayed up all night, practicing the words. After all those years of singing the Tanzanian national anthem, which I knew by heart, I now had to learn a new anthem. It was a very emotional moment for me.
But then, in the midst of my doubt and self pity, I saw the image of my mother. And she was dancing for me She was wrapped in a kanga and dancing for joy. The cloth swirled around her as she danced, threatening to slip off But she clutched it closer to her body and kept the music and the rhythm going. She knew how to celebrate, that's for sure.
Her face was full of praise, pride and happiness. And I remembered what she told us children all her life that, you are not a person, unless you are a full person. I could almost hear her telling me that I should be proud. I was not stateless or rootless.
Her face was so clear. I felt as if I could reach out and touch her. But I knew that was impossible. How can you touch an angel ? Tears swelled up in my eyes and streamed down my face. My mother should have been there. God shouldn't have taken her when she was only forty-nine years old. She should have lived to see my twin babies being born. She should have lived to witness the plays I wrote about her life and our village. She should have been there.
I closed my eyes again, and my mother was standing in front of the Red Jacaranda Tree, the place where all the important rituals and ceremonies in our family took place. I smiled in spite of myself.