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Chapter Thirteen:
Religion

Death of a Child

On a clear, chilly October morning, James Lokii paces around his compound, carrying a sleeping young boy over his shoulder.  Lokii looks over to his large kraal of cattle in the open meadows, which is surrounded by heaps of bushes.  Nearby, the child’s mother sweeps the compound, dust clouds billowing from her broom.  Animal skins from the hut hang over tree branches to clear her way for more sweeping.

As he passes her, Lokii gently hands the 1-year-old over to his mother, who stops her work.  Lokii then enters the pen to inspect some of his calves.  Soon enough, however, just as Lokii bends down to run his hand over the leg of a calf, he hears the wailing cries of his wife.  In a sprint, he returns to the hut.

Crouching through a tiny doorway, Lokii enters the hut and sees his wife rocking back and forth on a stool with their son in her arms.  The boy’s body shakes violently.  Lokii puts a hand on his son’s head, and the child’s mouth emits a croaking sound.  The convulsions last for another full minute and then stop.

Eerily, the morning silence returns to the mud-brick hut.  Lokii and his wife hear the rustling of the thatched roof as the wind cuts through it, the bellows and movement of the cows in the distance.  Their son is dead.  His tongue hangs from his little mouth, clenched between his teeth.  Both of the boy’s parents look down on him as if they think he will suddenly cry again and return to life.

Then Lokii runs outside, screaming nonsense in confusion and rage.  He curses Akuj, yells at his God for taking away his son.  He falls face-first into the dirt and begins to cry, wondering what he has done to bring about this death.  What thoughtless, careless act has he committed?

Lokii has seen death before.  His father died the previous year, and he has been on raids where both sides suffered losses.  This death, however, this passing of an innocent child, has no meaning.  That is, unless it is a punishment from God, something which Lokii’s reeling mind cannot accept. 

Lokii is not an evil man.  Even in childhood, he avoided stealing, obscene language and many of the absurd behaviours that put children in bad footing with God.  Even though he took a Christian first name, he still follows both Akuj and the Christian God.  For him, they are one and the same.  Lokii grew up knowing that, while God is generous, compassionate and providing, He also can withdraw from man and even take vengeance.  Lokii knows Akuj is everywhere and watches everything his people do.  It is as if he has a giant revolving eye that can see from one end of the earth to the other.  That is why Lokii has always strived to act as the elders have instructed him.  He strives to be kind, compassionate and caring of all around him.

Rising to his knees, Lokii faces the sky to the west and spreads his arms.

“Ani mono iyong akuj iari ngulu kang amam ngulu kon a? Kingarakinae Papa kathechit,” he pleads.  (It means, “Oh God, why do you kill my child? Why do you not kill your own?  Pardon me father for any wrongdoing.”)

He curses the west, the source of all trouble for the Karimojong.  He continues to groan, complaining that God has been unfair for killing his only son — his son who has now gone to the west and afterlife.  Had not Lokii done enough?  Had he not lived a simple life free of dire omens, disease, bad luck and poverty because he had appeased Akuj and Akuj’s messengers in the elders?

Lokii knows that, through Akuj, the elders have the power to induce rain and terminate life, even to curse someone on behalf of God.  So his thoughts eat at him at what he must have done to offend God and the elders.  His fit of anguish dies out later in the afternoon and, exhausted, he soon comes to a decision.

He will take his finest white bull, his best goat and even a donkey.  He will call for the elders, and he will sacrifice all of the animals before them.  Their blood that spills to the ground will be an offering to the deceased elders and ancestors.  Their meat will be for the living elders.  Akuj will watch over it all.

If He is pleased, the elders will offer Him prayers for continuous protection against diseases, cattle raids, famine, drought and another child’s death in Lokii’s life.  If Lokii then humbles himself before God always, those prayers will be answered.

 

The Elder

When Maria Nakut first saw the elder, she wondered how he could even walk on his own.  He had been hobbling past her hut and then stopped — out of breath — for a rest.  The old man carried a stick, and he hung onto it with both hands as if he would collapse without it.  He looked as thin as a sorghum stalk.  He wore a blue cloth tied around his waist and a dark blazer three sizes too big for him.  Nakut did not hesitate to invite the elder into her home.

Now, while her young children run about outside, she cooks a meal for him.  She not only pities the elder, but she also recognizes him and knows that her good deed might bring her even greater fortune.  His name is Apalorot.  He holds the power to speak with Akuj and to bring His blessings, answered prayers and even redemption to the Karimojong.

While Apalorot sits in silence, Nakut scurries from one corner to the other over steaming pots and sacks of millet and maize flour.  She doubles her efforts and intentionally makes her pace dramatic to impress the elder even though his sunken eyes never even look in her direction.

With more than 90 years behind him, Apalorot is seen by the Karimojong as sitting between the realms of life and death.  He tells of the old stories: the days when the white men, the British, had little presence and no power in Karamoja; the caravans as long as the sky of Swahili and Ethiopian elephant hunters, slave traders and merchants that passed through their lands; the battles between Karimojong and Turkana when they had few rifles.  It was in that time when Apalorot understood that he would one day inherit his grandfather’s gift to appease God’s spirits.  He would then become a link between his people and the sky, the sky being Akuj, Akuj being God.

Yet Akuj also is everywhere — in the sky, trees, mountains and rivers. The spirits are many, but Akuj is the paramount spirit.  He watches over the Karimojong and all in life and everyone goes to him in death.  The Karimojong and the ancestors roam across the sky, and, at night, their campfires can be seen as the stars shining above.

Like her relatives, Nakut believes in the righteousness of the elders.  She sees how their survival alone in such an unforgiving land reveals that they have been chosen by God.  Nakut’s mother died young, when Nakut was just a girl.  A snake bit her in the leg; the wound became infected and went gangrenous and she died.  But long before that, she had told little Nakut to always revere and fear the elders, for God has spared them for a purpose. 

The wait comes to an end, and Nakut carries a pot of thick sorghum porridge with rich ghee to the elder.  Apalorot makes no motion to thank Nakut.  He continues to keep his eyes downcast, sitting on the stool, grumbling to himself.  Nakut pours warm water through his cupped dirty hands and he washes them.  Then, he breaks a chunk of porridge, rounds it into a ball with his fingers, pushing an indent in the centre with his thumb and dips it into the ghee.  He eats voraciously.

Apalorot’s right hand mechanically passes from the calabash to his gaping mouth, and he finishes the dish in record time.  Then, he runs his buttery hand over his feet.  From there he moves to his skinny thighs, and he soon smears his entire arms and body with ghee, making them glisten in the dim light of Nakut’s shelter.  He stands up gingerly, his bent back sore from sitting so long, and he grabs his stick.

Apalorot has no words to appreciate the efforts of Maria Nakut. Then again, Nakut expects nothing in return, not even a thank you.  But, just as she reaches to pick up the emptied pot, the elder summons her towards him at the doorway.  She obeys and there kneels at his feet. 

Apalorot raises his arms over her head and intones, “Tobara ngatuk, topita, kikongkongo, eryamuunun jwi, jwi.”  (It means, “Be endowed with cattle and blessed with many children. Live long, so that we shall be meeting daily.”) In his faint but authoritative voice, Apalorot goes on to tell the woman that her family will escape disaster, famine and disease.  The long prayer goes on and on until Apalorot’s voice starts to fade, and he forces a few final words from his tired chest.

He finishes, and Nakut looks up to Apalorot’s old face.  It is riddled with crags and cracks.  She sees enough appreciation in that face and in the words he has spoken.  She knows that if he had offered her anything more, it would be an offence to Akuj.  It was not Nakut that offered this hungry man a meal, but Akuj; Akuj who is the sole provider, giver and taker of all things good and bad. 

Just as he came, Apalorot then hobbles out of the hut and goes on his way.  Smiling again, Nakut watches him go for a moment and then returns to her work, soon calling for the children.  For the rest of the day, she practically skips and dances about her home and work, her long multicoloured-skirt — decorated with silk, cotton and woollen fabric — swaying to and fro.