Mom, I am a Grown Man

I needed time to fully digest and process all events during my visit with my family, in order to able to compose this article. This is due to this message being so touching and deep in my soul. It is about family love. Though I tried in my previous article to show a glimpse of how it was like to be back to my own family in more than 20 years, I think I might be in a right position now to fully give a narrative of what actually happened. Everyone gathered to see me and hear what I had to say about the world that has kept me away from them for so long. Kids congregated to hear from an uncle who has come from far as their eyes could see. And I don’t blame them for seeing their world this small. After all, that was how I saw my world before it opened up in a rather unfortunate way. They all came to demonstrate their loves for one who had been missing for years. My sister, Ajoh Alier, now married with two daughters, got too excited to be first in line of those greeting, hugging, and kissing me. Or she was playing it smart to remain last in line so she could enjoy a long and emotional greeting. She was giggling in the back like a too excited 3 year old girl. My other sister, Akut Alier, heard I have come back home. So she took off living her children behind to come to show her love for me. She lives 6 hours away from Bor town, which is a little away from Malek where I am now being hosted. She was holding up a cross on her right hand and a small hand bag on the left. She had a gift for me. I heard she has a small sorghum’s farm and just had first harvest. She intended to cook for me tok mixed with guarjaac. Tok are freshly harvest sorghum prepared in some special way I can never explain. Guarjaac are byproduct of a tree called Thou (pronounce as in thou-sand). It produces fruits like dates tree. It has shell outside and has nuts from inside which is also eatable. There are what the Dinka called Guarjaac. You mix them with Tok and it feels something like mixed peanuts with corns. I was amazed she still had these nuts as the season had been out for 5 months now. The last time I had this kind of meal was in 1987. My aunt’s daughter, Abiar Atong Makuei, has arrived the other day and now sleeps in the same room as I am. She brought with her a male goat to be killed for me. To her, I am her mother’s last born. I was probably around 3 or 4 year old when my aunt took me to her home. I grew up there till the war departed us. I grew up knowing no one but them. This was the reason we spent the first night talking and rewind tapes till the days prior to the tragedy of 1987. Together, we laughed and cried to these memories. In addition to these special treatments, the big day was a prayer day. Traditionally, this would be a sacrifice day. My brothers, Majier Alier and Mac Alier, have bought a bull so people in our community could share in happiness that has come to the family. Everyone was in a celebratory mood. And while this family’s jubilee for my arrival was going on, two of my uncles’ wives were absent. They both live in distances a day trip from opposite directions. To get to one, you have to row a boat up the stream and, onto the other side of the River Nile. So her son, my cousin, paddled a traditionally made boat to her on the next day to convey this rather pleasant news of the week for the family—“Panther Alier is back from exile”! And upon hearing this, she wasted no time. She decided to come back on the same boat as her son. After all, how could she waste any time when she felt she was my mother! In Dinka’s culture, a woman who is married to a father’s brother socially acquires a mother’s status. She wanted to provide what I have been missing for all these years—being cared for. She had on her some gifts. She had a freshly made crunchy peanut paste called Makuanga. Besides, she brought along with her a fish called Lek to be cooked by my cousin’s wife. She remembers from my childhood that I liked this fish so much that it would be a pleasant reminder of my childhood. My other uncle’s wife walked a day long trip from Kolnyang. In fact, Kolnyang is my birthplace. I had wanted to go there but I was warned against taking that trip. I would have to wade in water to get there. And everyone was not sure my Americanized body would support me through it should I brave the flood. Another factor that kept me from going to Kolnyang is that everyone, except my uncle and his wife, now lives closer to the Nile River—this appeared a little strange to me. I remember, from my childhood, that living near the Nile River was a seasonal occurrence. But, war has changed everything and almost everyone from my family now lives here. People’s livelihoods have been uprooted. I could not blame them for having left our old home (pan theer) to live in this rather unsettled condition. So, I decided to just send my love to my uncle’s family and hoped I would see them on my next trip back to Bor. And little did I know my uncle and his wife would brave those odds: they showed up the night before the prayers where done. My uncle could not walk fast as he was in ailing conditions caused by his chronic sickness and supported by his old age. But my uncle’s wife made sure he rested several times to complete the trip. I was too important to them to not see me for another few more years. I could not believe my eyes! I got up to embrace my uncle’s wife. And she hugged, kissed, and knelt down so such that I can sit on her lap. She looked sick and weak. I am young, healthy, and weighed 155 lbs. This would be too much weight for her boney thighs. I wanted to resist sitting on her lap. I wanted to tell her, “Mom, I am a grown man now”. Of course, in her eyes, I am still the young boy lost 21 years ago. I am the one she thought she would not have a chance to see again. And more importantly, she was doing what is naturally mothers’ thing. It is what Akuc Makuei, my biological mother, would do were she alive. I will be always that newly born creature in my mother’s eyes. This treatment my not be unique to me and my family. But, the point is, all these were done to show how I have been missed and loved by my family. I truly belonged to all of them.