The Dying of the Light

“And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
― Dylan Thomas


“Wake up, my son! Wake up!”

T. sat up groggily and looked around. He realised, with a start, that he was not in his own bedroom in the Ridouci farmhouse in Reghaïa, but appeared to have fallen asleep on his mother’s bed. His mind was a jumble of confused thoughts, like the shards of a broken mirror, reflecting back on each other, yet making no sense.

He rubbed his eyes and focused on his mother’s face reflected in the light from the candle she was holding in one trembling hand. Her eyes glistening, bright with tears, she finally pronounced the words he had been hearing in his nightmares for the previous seven years — “A mmi (my son), your father has gone.”

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T at 16

Suddenly he remembered. Was it only twelve hours ago that he had returned from school to the bakery to find his father slumped on a chair on the pavement outside the shop? T had been surprised to find him there, as he was supposed to be at the farm. Only the week before, he had enrolled his rather reluctant son at the Lycée de Garçons de Maison Carrée, after a year’s strike called by the FLN, in which T had enthusiastically participated. He had spent that whole year working on the farm with his father.

The result was that, although he had just turned sixteen, he was already three years behind in his schooling. His father had then decided that T would sleep during the week with the other bakery hands at the bakery, located on the main square in Maison Carrée.  He would only return home to Reghaïa, about twenty miles away, at weekends.

But now, T’s father seemed not to be aware of his son’s presence. His eyes were unfocused and his waxen face was dripping with sweat. His perspiration-soaked shirt clung to his body, so that his bones seemed to poke right through his skin, like warped coat-hangers. T. looked at his father’s hands with mounting fear. They were bony and dry. He remembered when they had been strong and sinewy, tanned from working outside.

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T’s father towards the end of his life

Going into the bakery, he saw, huddled in a group, two of his father’s cousins, as well as  two of his paternal uncles. They had all had been brought down from their village in the mountains at some point or another by T’s father, to be given jobs and accommodation at the farm and in the bakery. Kabylie was becoming ever more dangerous, with the struggle for independence spreading like wildfire. By contrast, the farm was in a “protected” triangle, lying as it did between two French military bases.

A, the younger of the cousins, turned to T, and explained that the reason for his father’s presence was that he had driven all the way into Maison Carrée that morning to pick some up some syringes to use for his daily injection of insulin, as there had been none left at the farm.

Having grown too weak by this time to inject himself, his brothers had given him two injections, one after another, unintentionally or perhaps intentionally, administering an overdose. Their panic had been growing by the second on seeing his rapidly deteriorating condition.

T’s father had not been in the best of health ever since he had been invalided out of the French army reserve corps after undergoing a complete blood transfusion. We don’t know to this day what grave illness had occasioned such radical treatment, but he was never to be the same afterwards. The onset of severe diabetes seven years earlier had not helped matters. And yet he was still only forty-two.

Looking at the thin, adolescent figure standing in front of him, A. told T. that he was not to sleep at the bakery that night, but must accompany his father back to Reghaïa. Immediately after dropping them off at the farm, A. shot off back to Algiers. He obviously had a bad feeling about what was about to happen and did not want to be there at the time.

T., after staring blankly at the clouds of dust thrown up by the departing car, put his arm around his father’s waist and hauled him bodily up the curving outside staircase of the farmhouse to the front door — to where his mother was waiting. It was to be the first and the last time he would put his arms around his father. Gestures of affection between fathers and sons were not part of the austere Kabyle culture of the time.

With one pale arm slung around each of their necks, head lolling, T’s father managed to stumble into his son’s room — the brightest and airiest in the house.  They laid him carefully on the bed, and pulled up chairs to sit with him, expecting him at any moment to emerge from his coma and open his eyes like he had done many times before. They, like his uncles, had no idea that T’s father was in a hypoglycaemic coma. It is ironic to think that, if they had fully realised what was happening, a sip of sugared water might have changed the whole course of T’s life.

At eleven o’clock that night, seeing her son’s eyelids growing heavier, in spite of his valiant efforts to stay awake, T’s mother told him to go and lie down on her bed and that she would wake him if there were any change in his father’s condition. And she had been true to her word.

As soon as his mother had spoken, T’s stomach turned to ice. He stood up, swayed a little on his feet and then walked reluctantly back into his own room. He looked at his father — or at least what remained of his father. It was as if his essence had drifted away, just leaving this peaceful, sunken face and cold hands, which lay on the blanket like relics of another life. T. bent down and kissed him gently on the forehead. He then went back into his mother’s room and threw himself face-down on the bed. And tried to remember how to breathe.

To be continued…..

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