Hunting Words with My Father [Preface]

(For my father's seventieth)

One morning I burst into my father’s study and said

when I grow up, I too want to hunt, I want to hunt

words, and giraffes, pictures, buffalos, and books

and he, holding a pen and a cup of tea, said, Little Father,

to hunt words can be dangerous—but still, it is best to start

early. He waved his blue bic-pen and his office turned

into Nyandarua forest. It was morning, the mist rising

from the earth like breath as rays from the sun fell hard

on the ground like sharp nails. Little Father, do you see

him?—my father asked. No, I said. Look again—the mist

is a mirror—do you see him? And I looked again and

there was a Maasai warrior tall as the trees, spear in hand.

Shadow him, feign his movements, shadow him until

his movements are your movements. Running my feet

along the leaves I walked to where he was, crouched

like him so close to the earth, feet sinking deeper

into the earth as if in mud, turning and reading the wind

and fading into the mist till I became one with the forest.

For half a day we stayed like this—tired and hungry

I was ready for home. But my father said, I did not say

this was easy—you cannot hunt words on a full stomach.

And just as soon as he spoke there was a roar so loud

and stomping so harsh that hot underground streams broke

open like a dozen or so water pipes sending hissing,

steaming water high into the air. I turned to run

but the warrior stood his ground. As the roar

and thunder came closer, his hair braided and full of red

ochre turned into dreadlocks so long that they seemed like

roots running from the earth. When the transfiguration

was complete, before me stood a Mau Mau fighter, spear

in one hand, homemade gun in the other, eyes so red

that through the mist they looked like hot molten

cinders, the long dreadlocks a thousand thin

snakes in the wind, the leaves and grass and thorns

rushing past him. You must help him, don’t just stand

there, help him—my father implored but just as soon

as I had closed my little hands into fists, the lion

appeared high up in the air, body stretched the whole

length as the Mau Mau fighter pulled the spear like

it was a long root from the earth. The lion, midair, tried

to stop, recoiled its talons to offer peace, but it was too

late and it let out another roar as its chest crushed

into the spear, breastplate giving way until the spear

had edged its way to the heart. Dying then dead

it continued its terrible arc and landed. I waved

and the picture stood still. My father came up to me

and asked, Why have you stopped the hunt? I said

“but we killed it—I have what we came for.” I pointed

to where the Mau Mau warrior was pulling his spear

from the carcass, but my father shook his head and said

—You have done well but look closely—how can you

carry all that in a word? How can we carry that home?

It is too heavy. I laughed and said—“Father, you help me.”

But he pointed to the ground, to a steady flow of a bright

thin red river furiously winding down from the grooves

of the spear to the earth. I too pointed, unable to speak

—the beauty larger than my imagination. I was confused.

I had no words. Come, let us go home Little Father.

When you are of age you shall find the words, he said.

But always be careful—to hunt a word is to hunt a life.

Source: Logotherapy (University of Nebraska Press, 2016)