I went to eat independence in the village.
Yep, I shocked the villagers by rocking up after so many years away. They could not believe it.
There had been stories that I was in jail. Some even said I had kicked the bucket overseas during my long years of study.
A popular rumour was that I had found a white woman and decided to stay with her. It was said she had divorced me and, penniless, I could not pay my way home and was a beggar.
Some of the children from the village who had studied overseas, and spent every weekend in the village thereafter, had apparently reported seeing me begging from white people. Seeing them, they alleged, I hid my face behind a woollen scarf in shame.
There was even a story that said I was in the mental asylum. In hushed tones it was also said I was, in fact, not married to a white woman, but was gay and going around with a man. Purveyors of this particular story lamented that the reason it did not rain was because of the abominable behaviour of a son of the village.
I made sure I arrived when they were all asleep. The thing about villagers is that they fear darkness. They associate darkness with bad things. No watching the stars there. So they either prefer to sleep or stay indoors. If they chill outside it is before a huge fire. The drinkers are a different breed of course.
They can just move around singing without a care in the world. They are the only breed of villagers who don’t believe stories that moving at night might land one smack in a gathering of witches.
I was exhausted from the long drive. By the time I got up in the morning the yard was swarming with people.
Well, they got the shock of their lives when they saw me. I was not delivered in a prison van. The authorities did not hand me over to my parents in chains, foaming at the mouth and gesticulating like a mad man. I did not rock up, hand in hand with my white male lover.
Nothing beats the village when it comes to gossip and conspiracy theories. It seemed everyone had a story about me. As a result there were other villagers who were fascinated by stories of my life. They put a more positive spin to the tales. They insisted I had spent so much time studying that I could speak only English.
To rumours that I had been dumped by my white wife, they argued that I had in fact divorced her and taken up with another woman from a very rich family.
My fans were dismayed I did not show up with my rich white woman. They were crushed when they heard me chatting nicely in vernacular. My folks were there. So were many other relatives and ordinary villagers who had come to check for themselves that I was back.
The kids were already clambering over my car, and fighting to check themselves out in the side mirrors. They were scolded by their mothers and told they should get an education if they wanted to drive a car. Being the polite person I am, I greeted everybody. There were uncles I could not remember. Nonetheless they claimed to be uncles. They were happy to see me.
There were scores of cousins. I could remember some of them from way back. They were all happy to see me. I could see they were wondering about the stories they had heard about me.
What if I started raving like a lunatic from the mental asylum? But everyone looked neat and tidy. Thanks to the Chinese.
For instance everyone was wearing shoes. It was unlike all those years ago when people moved around in rags and barefooted.
My village had joined the big time. Everyone sported fragile looking shoes and wore bright clothing. I must say it was an exciting time. I was even enjoying myself. As soon as they realised I was not crazy and did not speak English all day long, some old school mates hooked up with me and we went around the watering holes. I could see they wanted to ask about my rich white wife but didn’t know what to say.
People seemed happy. They were attired in bright clothing and drinking proper beer. I noticed I was not the only one who drove a car. There were so many cars. Belching smoke and sporting yellow headlights, every yard had car. This time not the Chinese, but courtesy of their cousins, the Japanese.
When you go and eat independence in the village, it means exactly that. There were feasts all over. The meal of choice seemed to be rice. I remembered I had eaten rice once or twice a year as a kid. Usually, it was at independence and, of course, when we celebrated the birthday of that kind looking, skinny white man with blond hair and blue eyes who was nailed on the cross.
As I moved further and further away from the village my taste in food changed. I encountered new types of food. Rice receded from my memory. It was no longer the delicacy of Independence Day and Christmas. I was now into Thai or stuff like sushi. Now back in the village on Independence Day this was rice like we had it during the olden days. It came with beef stew. There was beetroot. And, of course, there was tomato sauce, artchar and mayonnaise.
I must say I had a lovely time in the village. I left the day after independence. For the next couple of years they will have to gossip about my whereabouts. Then one day I will rock up on Independence Day and shock them once more. And enjoy rice, beef stew and beetroot. And tomato sauce, atchar and mayonnaise!
