KASALA FOR MY KAKU Poem by Fiston Mwanza Mujila

my great-grandfather, Kaku, as we affectionately called him
had lived for a long time
he was 105 years old; 120, 134, 142, 157, 169, 186, 192
maybe even 2 centuries of age
my Kaku was such an antique
that he had stopped counting the years
he was no longer certain even of the century in which he was born
my Kaku was as old as the sun
my Kaku was as old as the flood
my Kaku, yes, my Kaku was as old as the Zambezi River
my Kaku was as old as the Mississippi
my Kaku was as old as the Danube
my Kaku was as old as the Lubumbashi-Ilebo railroad
my Kaku was as old as New Guinea (x 5)

more than once, my Kaku had wanted to die but death had boycotted himevery morning, we settled him in his rocking chair
on the veranda, facing the sun
we fed him at noon
at dusk, my Kaku was still working his jaws
then we put him to bed
the body, his body, the body of Kaku no longer responded
due to old age, he had lost his ability to move
only his voice and memory remained intact
Kaku talked without stint
Kaku retold his early childhood in Dimbelenge
Kaku expounded upon his turbulent youth
Kaku held forth on his life in the mines of Bakwanga and Katanga; Kaku, with his legendary verve, recounted the family exodus, reeled off the genealogy of Mwanza-wa-Mwanza, summoned up memories of Zaire, dilated on the first war in Shaba, evoked Lumumba, the massacre of the Katakelayi diggers, the secret agents of the Second Republic...Nestled in his rocking chair
an oceanic beard swallowing up his chin
my Kaku became a prophet
he augured Republics to come, incandescent stars, railroads connecting all points of the nation, cities drunk on light, dumbfounded populations
with the same verve, the same pleasure, the same spittle, my Kaku talked, my Kaku talked, my Kaku talked...

(laughter)
what nostalgia, what melancholy, what solitude, what anguish we, the centipedes, we writhe against this dog's life
Kaku, up above
between heaven and earth
chuckles at the rest of us
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku
Kaku