family

Growth Warrants Change

By Scholastica Memusi

Lonely in Africa. “story” by Loui Jover.

The only way Africans knew how to bid one goodbye was to hold a proper feast. As much as Wambui did not want anything extravagant, her family wouldn’t take no for an answer.

So as per the usual, the feast had to include nyama choma and a bunch of drinks and as typical Africans, if you invite people to a get-together, the bill is definitely on you. Surrounded by a table full of family and friends, she could not stop smiling, but deep inside, she felt loneliness creeping in.

What would happen now that she was moving away, would she be able to
survive on her own? Away from everyone else, new surroundings? She was used to being the noisy one in the room, but she knew where she was headed, she couldn’t be the same person. People would find her weird if she walked into a room and just burst into laughter.

She would have to give them time to accustom to her loud personality. What they wouldn’t know was that the noise she was making was just a façade, to hide the loneliness that would creep in every time she decided to keep to herself.

How was she going to survive this?

Her flight was on Sunday afternoon. The hugs were tight, the farewells touching, but as soon as she stepped on the plane, she felt empty. This new chapter was going to be difficult.

Her phone buzzed.

Mercy was calling.

“Hey quizn, I just got onto my flight. Where were you? I missed seeing you at Roadhouse.”

“I was trying to finish up an assignment. Sucks I missed out on the nyama and drinks. Anyway, go make us proud, we’ll be awaiting the graduation invitations and of course your awesome valedictorian speech.”

“I feel homesick already and I haven’t even left yet, lol.”

“You’ll ace this, you have always been the bright one.”

“Thanks love. Time to leave. I’ll holla once I’ve landed.”

“Safe flight.”

The lump in her throat kept getting bigger and bigger. A tear almost escaped from her eye but before she even had a chance to shed any, the lady in the next seat asked for help adjusting her seat belt. A welcome distraction.

An hour later, they landed in the ‘land of 1000 hills’. This was going to be home for the next year or so.

“Breathe in, breathe out. You got this. All you have to do is take life one step at a time.”

She sent out a quick text to Davies.

“Arrived safely, headed to the hostel.”

“Great! Make us proud little sister.”

“Will do. 😊 ”

There’s just one thing missing. Mum hadn’t called to confirm that her baby girl had landed safely. But how could she?

There was a horn blaring in the distance, the bus had come to pick her up. Right on cue, otherwise, she could have broken down in public while lugging around a humongous suitcase twice her size.

“Amakuru! Hope you had a good flight and are now ready for classes.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Great, let’s go then. Is that all your luggage?”

“Yeah, tried fitting everything in here coz I didn’t want to heave around more than one suitcase.”

There was no time to sit down and sob about being alone in a new country. It was time to put on a smile and blend in. After all, there was no way she could survive without friends.

******************

As the days went by and she slowly started adapting to the new schedule, she barely had enough time to look at her phone. Her friends would check in ever so often as they promised they would.

Wednesday:

“Found a house yet?”

“Yeah, was lucky to find two people who needed a housemate.”

“Great, when do you go shopping?”

Thursday:

“Found a mattress and utensils?”

“Yeah, was directed to Nyabugogo market, we even got a meko. Tonight, we are having some decent ugali for supper 😊 .”

Wednesday:

“Week one and I have 3 assignments due. What life is this?”

“Kazana mami. We are praying for you.”

Monday:

“Who invented MATLAB and why? This life is torture ☹ “

“Haha, soma, si wewe ndio ulitaka Masters?”

The days went on, the messages got fewer, the deadlines got hectic and the tears and sweat were in abundance. Was she ready to do this?

Mum was telepathic. It’s like she always knew when her baby girl was in trouble and would send a text demanding a phone call.

‘Please call me, thank you.’

“Hi, mum.”

“Hey, how is the going? Is the food any good? Is it as clean as they say it is?”

“I have eaten too much rice. I miss githeri and ugali.”

“Kwani hawana unga? Tell us what you need we’ll send it over. Can it come by bus?”

“Their ugali tastes meh. The unga here is too fine so it doesn’t come out as good. It takes longer to cook. And will you manage to send over stuff?”

“What do you mean it ‘tastes meh’? Just send me a list. I’ll get your brother to send them over.”

“Great, some decent ugali…ooh yeah and uji.”

“Are you planning on opening a shop? Sasa unataka unga ya wimbi pia?”

“It’s just a few things, unga ya ugali, ya uji and some honey as well. Ooh and Kericho Gold tea bags”

“Just send me the list, I won’t remember all these things by tomorrow morning. Plus, I am about to go to bed.”

“I will, let me finish an assignment that has a midnight deadl…”

*****************

She suddenly woke up.

She had dozed off on the sofa in the student’s lounge. She needed to get that assignment done before midnight. She sent a quick text to Davies;

“Hey bro, I need a few things sent over.”

“Cool, send me a list. I’ll try to send em before the week ends.”

“Coolio.”

She kept counting down the days to when she would be back home. This kept her going. Often, she checked her phone. No new messages, no missed calls. Life was happening around her. It was time she stopped feeling sorry for herself and started enjoying her life.

But all she wanted was a hug, someone to ask if she had been eating right, sleeping well and how her studies were progressing. Her advisor asked if she was doing ok, and she said she was.

When she was quiet, her classmates would know something was wrong, after all, she was always the loudest in the room and had this laugh that was just infectious. But when she went home at the end of an 18-hour day, all she did was curl up and cry into her pillow to muffle her sobs until she fell asleep.

It was going to be a tough year, and she did not know how she was going to survive. All she knew is that she had to keep fighting. She was not a quitter. Her guardian angel was watching.

“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.”

Scholastica Memusi is an upcoming Writer/Blogger from Nairobi, Kenya. She currently runs the blog http://www.mimimemc.wordpress.com. To read her full bio, click on the “WRITERS FEATURED” page at the top.

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What Aunt Catherine Said

Tusker Lager (Kenya). Image courtesy of roodonfood

Mum owned a pub.

It was one of those small, estate drinking joints with metallic chairs painted black and simple tables draped with branded, plastic table covers. It could be Senator Lager, Tusker or Pilsner Ice logos on the cover. Mum’s were quite old, torn in some parts to expose the rough, wooden surface underneath, but that was because she bought the already existing pub from another person. The only thing she had changed was the name of the pub to “Sparks.”

There was a counter with high metallic chairs and a display of the various alcoholic drinks to complete the interior of the pub. Njeri, the barmaid, was mostly at the counter. When she was not around, a young, skinny man who simply went as Denno, worked the counter. Njeri was particularly close to mum. She was a short, busty woman, very light skinned that it instantly reminded you of ripe, yellow bananas, with neat dreadlocks that fell up to her neck area.

Njeri loved to converse with the patrons. Whenever she opened her mouth to speak, a broken, front, upper tooth was clearly visible. I was aware of the fact that she had once been married to a man who beat her up on a frequent basis. When she had gathered enough courage, she had walked out of the marriage, her two young daughters in tow. The broken tooth would remain a constant reminder of that violent past.

I did not like going to mum’s pub on whatever errand. There were whispers I had been privy to. People said that mum was a prostitute who had given birth to three children with three different men. In the past, I would dismiss the whispers as idle gossip until Aunt Catherine convinced me otherwise. Aunt Catherine often disagreed with mum. I never quite understood the issue between them but they always argued bitterly whenever my aunt came around unannounced.

It was during one such disagreement that Aunt Catherine had sat me down, an impressionable 16 year old and told me what mum did for a living. The pub, she said, was just a cover up for mum’s trade. I never told mum what her elder sister had disclosed to me, but it was like my perception of my mother completely changed from that day.

What Aunt Catherine revealed, made me take a critical look at our family dynamics. Neither of us shared a father. I was the first born, my brother Ian was 12 and the youngest, Ciru, was just 4. My name was Dama, short for Damaris, having been named after my granny as per tradition. Ciru’s father was mum’s current boyfriend.

It was the longest that mum had stayed with one particular man, but that was because Ciru’s father had agreed to educate both me and Ian. I never knew what he did for a living, as he was rarely home and mum would quickly lose her temper, whenever you became too intrusive for her liking.

In a way though, I liked my sister’s father. I even addressed him as dad whenever he was around. He was a man who commanded respect, but would seemingly melt at the sight of an excited Ciru, jumping up and down excitedly at his arrival. He was more like a father I had never had. He also was significantly different from mum’s previous choices.

The last boyfriend that mum had was a layabout that had began leering at me. I was around ten at the time and had immediately told mum about it. Her reaction was to kick him out for good. It was good riddance to bad rubbish actually, seeing that he rarely left the house. Mum had to feed him in addition to feeding her children too.

My mother had some funny tastes in men. Being the eldest, I had witnessed several walking in and out of her life I had even lost count. One had left her pregnant with Ian and others seemingly took her for a ride before Ciru’s father came along. Relating all this with what my aunt had said, I could only conclude that she was right and that the gossipers had been right all along.

That revelation ignited in me some kind of hatred toward mum, that I had never felt for anyone else before. I concluded that she probably deserved all those men walking out on her. Many times, I wondered how Ciru’s father tolerated her. He seemed so refined to be with a woman who sold herself for money.

Running errands for mum suddenly transformed into an irritation of sorts. I sulked and dragged my feet each time she asked me to do something for her. If she tried sending me to the pub, I flatly refused. Sometimes, I could make out the look of hurt crossing my mum’s face, but my heart had suddenly hardened towards her. I no longer wanted anything to do with her and would have gladly moved in with Aunt Catherine, if possible.

“Your mother tells me you have become very rude nowadays.” Ciru’s father admonished me one evening, when he randomly came home.

I knew that mum had shared with him about my attitude and like any concerned father would, he had taken it upon himself, to get to the root of the matter.

“Is that true?” Dad now prodded sternly.

I stared at my feet and said nothing. In that moment, what Aunt Catherine had said played over and over in my head and I felt as if I could explode with the anger I felt towards mum.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you!” Dad suddenly startled me with his harshness.

“Why are you stressing your mother?!”

In that instant, I don’t know what got into me but all I remember is blurting out ,”Did you know that she was a prostitute?” and a hot slap from dad landing on my face in the process. He looked at me outraged, clicked, then got up from his chair and walked out.

I did not know how to react afterward. My cheek felt hot just as hot tears sprang into my eyes. I suddenly felt ashamed of my actions. What had I been thinking, speaking in that manner to a man who had been gracious enough to educate both my brother and I? Had I now made him change his mind about us?

Ciru’s father did not utter another word to me for the rest of the evening. I also preferred to stay away from the living room where he was likely to be. There was an eerie silence in the house. It reminded me of the silence we had met at granny’s home, the day we arrived after receiving news of her passing. Silence I had since realized, always meant that something was terribly wrong.

I wondered whether, dad and mum were thinking of an appropriate way to punish me and whether I would ever have the guts, to face dad after what I had done. It was the first time he had hit me but I concluded that I probably deserved it, with the level of disrespect toward my own mother, that I had displayed. In a way, I still felt justified for resenting her but then, thoroughly guilty for letting dad know that I was resentful of mum.

Later that night, mum came into the bedroom to talk to me. There was a visible distressed look on her face. She seemed like she had been crying earlier just from her reddened eyes. I curled away from her on the bed, determined not to speak to her but she simply sat on the edge of my bed, not saying a word.

“It’s your Aunt Catherine who told you I was a prostitute, right?” She began, after a long while of silence. There was a hint of utter disappointment in her voice.

“Look at me Dama,” Mum instructed. She was not angry. Surprisingly, gentle. Slowly, I turned to look at her.

“Did she also tell you that I was raped at 15 and that is how I got you?” Mum now dropped the bombshell.

I had not expected it. There was a ringing in my ears that would not go away. My own mother?! Raped?! Me, the product of that rape?!

“You were raped?” The sound that escaped from my throat sounded more like a croak.

“Yes. The man who raped me was Catherine’s boyfriend. She has never forgiven me for sleeping with her boyfriend. Of course that is what she thinks happened. Nobody in the family believed me.” Mum now narrated.

“Even granny?” I questioned, tears running down my cheeks.

I loved granny. My memory of her was that of a short, shrivelled woman with a ready, gentle smile for everyone. I never once thought she had any ounce of insensitivity in her but it seems I might have been wrong all along. When I had told mum that her boyfriend was giving me funny looks, she had not doubted my statement even once. Instead, she had taken immediate action.

“Yes, even your granny.” Mum now clarified. “What was she to do when Catherine was telling everyone who cared to listen that I was a slut who had slept with the man she wanted to get married to?”

“Is that why you and aunt always fight?” I asked, now gaining a new insight on the whole feud. I was suddenly filled with gratitude for my mother, for raising me notwithstanding, the circumstances she had concieved me in.

I could not help feeling utterly ashamed of my actions. All this time, I had held it against my mum yet she had actually been a victim of sexual violation, while my aunt was simply vengeful. I was now convinced that my aunt must be very evil to have twisted the truth to me in that manner.

“Partly.” Mum replied quietly. “Your aunt was right, Dama. It was the only way I could survive. After I got pregnant, I became an outcast for sometime. The man also distanced himself from my claims. I dropped out of school. I had to fend for you.”

“Your granny only began speaking to me later when you were bigger and had started going to school. Aunt Catherine for some reason, still assumes I lied and she hates me for being in this trade even though I haven’t engaged in it for years. I hope you beli…” Mum’s voice trailed off.

“I believe you.” I mumbled. “And I’m so sorry for my behavior lately. I hope you and dad can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

“Your father is okay. He just did not expect such kind of rudeness from you, but I told him that it must have been the work of Aunt Catherine and he understood. As for me, you are already forgiven.” Mum assured with a smile.

That night, before I went to bed, I took out that new pair of skinny jeans that Aunt Catherine had bought for me as a present for my 16th birthday. It was rugged at the knees and sky blue, just as I had always wanted but on this night, I did not have any desire left to wear that pair again. Wrapping it in a black polythene, I dumped it into the rubbish where it belonged.

 

 

CALLING ON WRITERS AND POETS
********
Are you a Writer or Poet?

Would you be interested in contributing to www.definitelylorna.wordpress.com, poetry of any length or a short story of between 1,500-2,000 words?

African themed stories are highly encouraged though it would equally be refreshing to read stories from other continents.

This is an upcoming blog therefore, submissions are on a voluntary basis for interested persons. Hopefully, this can change in future.

Include a short bio of yourself as well as a recent photo together with your short story or poetry and send to lornalikiza@yahoo.com.

A separate profile of the Writer/Poet will additionally go up on the blog.

Looking forward to hearing from you 🙂

Let’s Write!

The Man On Facebook (Part 1)

index

Flamingos Painting  by Michael Lee

The first time Enid went to Nairobi was after an invite from someone, who could as well have been a stranger to her on Facebook. He simply went by the initials KK.

A wealthy man by the look of things on his Social Media activity. But then people lied all the time on Facebook, so Enid wasn’t very sure that what she had been seeing, is what she would get.

She went anyway. Out of a desire for adventure, an illusion that she was in love and curiosity. This was not really the very first time Enid would be in Nairobi. Rather it was the first time she would be in the city by herself.

A 22 year old college student from the dusty town of Nakuru or Nax for short or Nax Vegas, depending on what brought you to the Rift Valley town. The home of flamingoes. She had noticed that those who referred to Nakuru town as Nax Vegas, were mostly revellers who showed up for weekend events from other towns, specifically Nairobi.

Nowadays, the flamingoes were not that many on Lake Nakuru like they had been when Enid was a kid. Plus climate change had messed up things and the levels of water had really risen in recent times, so much that the KWS Offices had been submerged. They had to put up some new structures a bit further from the main gate to the game park. And it was now simply Nakuru County. No longer Rift Valley province and Nakuru town anymore.

If Enid was to talk about her town it would be endless. It was basically the only place she knew having been born and brought up there. She even had that brown tint on her teeth. The one synonymous with Nakuru dwellers only that hers was not very conspicuous. You had to really pay attention to her while she spoke to notice the dull streaks of brown on her teeth. Nothing like some garish brown she had seen on some people, thank God.

Enid had been to Nairobi before as a kid but her memory of it was foggy. It was a traditional wedding of someone in the family. Those distant relatives that you could not recognize on the street at first glance but your parents knew them very well. It was somewhere on the outskirts of Nairobi but still Nairobi. She had seen the tall buildings and the people on the street and the hustle and bustle of downtown Nairobi.

Now she would be here on her own. KK had sent her the fare. At least he was a gentleman. But he could afford it. Meeting KK had been interesting. He sent her a friend request. She looked at his photos, could not recognize him from anywhere. As a matter of fact, he appeared significantly older. But there was something about him. How he dressed. How he took his selfies. The people he hang out with on his photos.

She had confirmed the request. That was about 3 months ago. And then the “Do I know you from somewhere?” and “You look familiar” had followed. Gradually, over the 3 months, they had gotten to know each other eventually exchanging numbers.

Then one day, out of the blue, KK had confessed to falling for Enid. She had been taken aback at first. All that time, she had assumed the conversations were purely platonic. And then he had insisted that he wanted to see her and would send her money to come.

So here she was, getting an Uber taxi to Kilimani. Wherever that was. It sounded posh though.

“What is the name of that?” Enid asked the chatty driver, when they got to what looked like a mall. On the other side of the road was a petrol station.

“Ah, that’s Yaya Center. Been here for years!” The driver readily offered. “Haven’t you been to Nairobi before?” He asked.

“Not as an adult.” Enid revealed.

“And from the way you looked I assumed you lived in the city.” It was the driver’s turn to get surprised. All that time he had been in the car with Enid, they had been talking about mundane things. Nothing to give away the fact that his client was a newbie.

“I’m from Nakuru.” Enid thought it best to clarify.

“Nakuru it is! What have you brought for us from there?” The usual question that city dwellers liked to ask those they assumed were from the village. Enid would have literally rolled her eyes, were it not for an incoming call interrupting them on the driver’s phone.

“Sawa, sawa” He kept repeating over the phone. Then once he had hang up he looked over at Enid on the passenger seat.

“We are almost at your destination.” He mentioned.

For a moment, Enid wondered how the driver knew and if it was KK who had been calling. These Uber things were very different from the bodas and tuk tuks of Nakuru that she was used to. It was KK who had actually gotten the taxi for her, after instructing her to let him know when she approached Westlands.

Enid had to ask the person sitting next to her where Westlands was. Luckily, he was a middle aged man who had spent the better part of the two and a half hour journey, peering into his newspaper pages through his glasses. He was also very helpful. Fatherly even. She had alighted at Westlands, where the Uber taxi had picked her up.

The car suddenly came to a stop infront of a big black gate. She could make out some huge buildings, with wide balconies in the compound.

“Madam, you have arrived.” The Uber driver announced.

Enid then alighted, her backpack in tow. It was only a weekend anyway and she had lied to mum that she was visiting a friend in the city.

Mum was never the suspicious type and if dad questioned, she always knew how to shut him down, if she felt he was poking his nose too much into her children’s affairs. After all, Enid had been the poster child. The one who had never had trouble at school. There was nothing to suspect, or was there? Seeing that she was meeting with a man she had never seen in person before.

As she dialled KK’s number to inform him of her arrival, Enid realized that she was trembling. From nervousness or fear or both, she could not tell. How would KK look in person? Would he like the effort she had put in her appearance just to look good for him? The newly braided hair, fitting jeans, stylish top, pedicured toe nails  peeking from the front of her open shoes?

He picked up on the second ring.

“I’m actually at the gate.” He mentioned, before abruptly hanging up. Then immediately after, the gate swung open and out stepped KK in person. He was of medium height, comfortably dressed in a T-shirt, a watch on one of his wrists, a wallet in hand possibly to pay for the Uber services, track bottoms and sandals. From where she stood, Enid could smell his cologne. It was definitely not cheap.

“Oh, hi dearie?!” He began once he was done with the Uber driver, a huge grin on his handsome face. An awkward side hug followed and Enid literally had to stop herself from showing the disappointment on her face. But what had she expected? A sensual hug out there on the street?! The Kilimani neighborhood surely looked like a well tended street, tarmacked, with the ocassional cars driving past. She also noticed that it was quiet.

Just the ideal place for the wealthy to reside.

“Welcome! Welcome! It’s so nice to see you! You must be tired!” He was rambling as he ushered Enid into the compound. It was now Enid’s opportunity to scan the new environment. A wide parking lot. Two storey houses that looked very spacious even from the outside. Clean, quiet, a pavement covering the entire compound, two vehicles parked at the entrances to what she assumed were the houses of the owners. A security guard lazing about inside his small wooden post by the gate.

Surely, KK must be swimming in money.

She found herself wondering how his house would look like as he led the way, into one of the two storey units, up a flight of stairs. There was a child of about 4 or 5 struggling to get his small bike down the stairs on the upper floor.

He looked like a mix of Black and White with his brown skin tone and a head of curly, blondish hair. Enid decided immediately that he was a cute child and would have readily helped him with his bike, were it not for a harsh voice that suddenly interrupted them.

“No, now is not the time to ride your bike!” A slender woman admonished, appearing at the door. She gave a disinterested look at Enid before stepping out in a maxi dress that hugged her petite figure, barefeet, with long dreadlocks falling over her shoulders.

“What did we say Jason? No bike riding in the evening. Come into the house.” Her voice was now gentler, as Enid followed KK into his apartment.

“Those are my new neighbors.” KK was now saying. “The lady is Jamaican married to a Briton. They moved in just last month.”

“Oh,” A gasp escaped Enid’s throat. Everything about KK sounded so foreign. She had never really felt it in the course of their conversations but now that she was here, she could literally feel it. Back home in Nakuru, it was rare to have foreign neighbors and especially, people who came from far of countries such as Jamaica.

When they said that Nairobi was cosmopolitan, perhaps this is what they meant. Your next door neighbor could just be from anywhere in the world.

There Will Be Better Days

Google Images

I remember the day it became evident to us that father could lose his job. He came home from work, packed the company’s land cruiser in its usual spot, walked into the house, not a single word of greeting to us and headed straight to the bedroom.

We had seen this coming although we had held onto hope. Hope that perhaps the real culprits behind the missing funds would be caught and that father would be exonerated.

It was always something to do with money. Money could easily make you lose your job. Money made people decide in an instant that you could not be trusted. And yet money was always being stolen in government offices.

The real culprits would go scot free but there was always that clueless person who would be used as collateral damage. And more so if their signature appeared somewhere. Father would not have escaped this seeing that he handled the company’s funds.

That evening was the last father would come home with the land cruiser. The land cruiser that my siblings and I had grown so used to. The one that always got our classmates green with envy, whenever it picked us up from school or dropped us off at school, on those rare occasions, when father wanted to be the model parent, who ensured his kids got to school safely.

Not that we had trouble getting to school on other days anyway. We used paid transport to and fro. A private van that mother had settled on. So the land cruiser doing what should have been the school van’s job, was actually an added luxury. One that we relished and made sure to rub into our school mates’ faces, how our father was the Head of Accounts in a government owned, procurement company and we were accorded such perks as a result.

That evening would also be the last we would also reside in the company’s spacious 3 bedroom house. I hear father was told by the disciplinary committee handling his case, that he should be thankful they were not taking any legal action. The only things they needed from him was, to surrender the keys to the land cruiser and vacate the company house as soon as possible.

It’s funny, how quickly life can change. Our once neighbors who cheerfully said hi to us now wanted nothing to do with us. They pretended not to be interested in us while we packed our household belongings onto a lorry we had acquired for moving. I’m sure behind their sheer curtains, they could not fathom missing the action playing out before their very own eyes.

In the work environment, there always has to be someone who thoroughly covets your job and I know this was no different in father’s case. One of the wives in the neighborhood, might have been whistling to herself in the kitchen, all the while knowing that her husband, might be the one touted to take over father’s job.

*********

We moved into a modest neighborhood. One we could afford. It was hard for us to adjust. Being the eldest, I could not help wondering what father had been doing with the salary he had been earning at the company all this time. Of course children are not supposed to question their parents, but that still did not keep me from thinking about it.

From a large 3 bedroom house, we were now living in a tiny 1 bedroom house. Things were tight. Most of our household stuff, we were forced to auction, just to fit into this new place. We were lucky that father had been wise enough, to set money aside for our education, up until we finished high school so we could still go to the same school. But the school van was now gone.

We simply could not afford it and matatus suddenly became a necessity. Our school mates who had once undoubtedly, endured torturous moments of us bragging to them about our father’s job, must have surely been having the last laugh.

Mother was a housewife and father was now jobless and we were not sure for how long. Especially with his tainted image. The thing that must have broken father the most was probably, flipping through the back pages of the Daily Nation and chancing on an unmistakable photo of his, stating that he was no longer an employee of the company.

His cellphone rarely rang nowadays. Nobody wanted to be associated with a thief who had stolen from a government company. Sometimes, I could hear father lamenting. He questioned the unfairness of his dismissal, wondered how he could still be struggling if he had indeed stolen the funds and how ungrateful his employers were despite the years of service he had rendered to the company.

Mother only made sympathetic noises on such occasions afraid to say something that might agitate him further. But when she was alone in the kitchen and I crept up slowly, carefully not to alert her of my presence, I could hear her sniffing by the sink, sobbing quietly.

Life can surely deal you the hardest blows. Father had once been a respectable man who drove himself to work, dressed in well ironed suits, dined with top government officials, was trusted with the company’s money and insisted on conversing in English, now reduced to a shadow of his former self, who now resisted the very idea of leaving the house.

It was up to mother to think of how we were going to survive.

********

I remember the day mother met one of those Network Marketers who pitch business opportunity ideas of sorts to you. She came home in the evening, a glint in her eye like she had seen the light. Efforts to get father to join her in this promising venture were fruitless. He seemed disinterested. Eventually, he snapped and left for the bedroom. That is where he always retreated when it was evident he could not deal with the issue at hand.

We were left in the cramped living room, wide mouthed. 3 innocent faces, looking at their mother who was seemingly our only remaining hope. It was the first time father had openly snapped at mother but given the circumstances, nothing really shocked us anymore.

“Don’t worry, there will be better days.” Mother had assured with a smile and we had believed her.

*********

Soon after joining this new business venture, laden with grand opportunities, mother insisted I accompany her to one of the regular meetings they had. She figured that since I would soon be 18, the legal age for registration into the business, there was no reason to keep me in the dark about that which she was now into. After all, if I joined, we could double the income and live even a better life than we once had.

Disobedience has never been my thing so I eventually gave in.

It was on a Saturday afternoon when I was not at school and the room was packed with eager individuals, all with a purpose  to improve their lifestyle. The one presenting was dressed in a suit complete with a tie. I found this odd being a weekend but in the course of the meeting, I would come to the understanding that this is how serious entrepreneurs ought to always be dressed.

If you wanted to become rich, you had to be visionary. In how you dressed, looked and spoke. The presenter spoke of trips abroad, cars and houses owned by those who had attained the highest levels in the business, how the business had transformed him and his family, what opportunities lay ahead, how much we needed to take care of our health…By the time he was done, I was convinced that mother had joined what I considered a fraud.

They were asking for a lot of money for the starter kit. Something I knew in our current financial position, we could not afford. This I tried telling mother after the meeting to which she ordered me to keep my mouth shut. What did I know? I was barely out of school.

Hurt and stunned, I did not say anything else and resisted any additional attempts to get me to attend those crappy meetings in a stuffy, hot room with a projector, showing all these luxuries you could get if you just decided to join the business.

*********

Mother would embark on pressuring father to give her the start up capital for the business. On many occasions, this quickly degenerated into a bitter exchange of words. It was the worst we had seen of our parents and we were quickly getting convinced that they were better off apart.

Eventually, father relented, possibly from the pressure of the ever pushy mother. There was no doubt that she had changed ever since signing up for that crap. Gone was the submissive and patient lady and in was a woman who demanded and pushed. So father possibly to keep the peace, sourced for the money from God knows where and gave it to her.

*********

The next evening, mother came home proudly carrying the starter kit with all kinds of beauty and wellness products. She placed it on the table in the living room and ordered us not to touch it. We did not. Then she headed into the bedroom. None of us went into our parents’ room anyways so when we heard a piercing scream coming from that direction, we instantly knew something must have been amiss.

Our first instinct was to dash in the said direction.

Right there in the middle of the room, father’s lifeless body hung from a noose created out of a bed sheet tied to one of the rafters. And like a log that had just been cut off, mother came crashing down. The sight of her husband who had just committed suicide had caused her to go faint.

*******

It has been 3 years since father passed on. Nobody talks about the business venture. Mother never got to open the start up kit. I don’t know when she will ever open it or if she has the strength to even do it. It remains in a corner of the bedroom gathering dust with each passing day, month and year.

I know she has never forgiven herself for father’s death despite all the counseling she got from the church, family and friends. She now has a job as a clerk in a law firm thanks to her previous secretarial course. It pays a couple of our bills. We still have our struggles but I was lucky to get a scholarship to university. Over the holidays, I work in the campus library for some daily pay.

Many times I think about father and hope that he is finally in a better place. Perhaps it was best for him to leave this world. This world had let him down. His family had let him down too. But I wish he had left with at least a goodbye and a reason why he felt he was better off gone from us. Maybe just maybe, it would have eased this pain in our hearts.

15.

African American Art Print Poster by Artist Sarah Jenkins

There is no doubt that religion has always puzzled me.

In the village, it was only Priscilla and I who used to attend service. Neither of our parents went to church. But we went all the same because we assumed it was the right thing to do. It also gave us a valid reason to avoid house chores for a few hours on Sunday mornings.

And if we did not feel like doing any in the afternoon, we could always lie that a church member had sent us on an errand after service. In truth, we would be lazing about by the stream, catching up with some of our other friends who might have also told the same lie, who knows.

Soon after father’s death, I once gathered enough courage to ask mother why she never went to church and her answer was curt.

“What will church help me with?! ” She had posed in response.

I knew mother was still grieving. Even if she never said it, I could see it in her eyes when she sat next to the fire most evenings after our meal, staring into nothing. No tears. Just stony eyes which ironically, spoke volumes. Our only response was to lay down our mats and go to sleep. We never knew just how long she sat there by the fire alone. In the mornings, she was always bright and early, a complete opposite from her previous solemn self.

Mother never forbade us from going to church though. On rare occasions, my siblings would also join me and Priscilla for service. Priscilla is the last born in her family so it was mostly her.

The village pastor was as dramatic as they come. He spoke of hell fire in such a threatening manner, we were left convinced that we would not escape it, as long as we did not repent and accept Jesus. He would bob around the makeshift pulpit condemning witchcraft, fornication, polygamy and all those ills associated with the devil. It was like this every Sunday. Sermons on just how real, hell fire was.

Some villagers attributed the pastor’s demeanor to the fact that, he still held it against his congregants, for failing to raise enough money to build a better church. Others thought he was truly called by God judging by a particular story about him making the rounds.The rest who avoided his church altogether, were simply not willing to give up their traditions at the prompting of a strange, short man or they saw no need to change, what they considered the norm in their lives. I believe our parents fell into this latter category.

The story that congregants of the church loved to narrate as proof of the pastor’s calling, was of one family which had been having trouble sleeping at night for a lengthy period. Every time they retired to bed, strange noises would be heard coming from the roof. As a last resort, they called the village pastor who held a powerful prayer session in the home. That would be the last of the bizarre occurrence.

If he could pray successfully against evil forces, then he was truly after God’s own heart, so they concluded.  I like to think of me and Priscilla as spectators and not very much interested in proving the credibility or none, of the pastor’s.

Here in the city, church is very different. There is a large parking lot where people park all types of cars. The church is built of stone, very spacious and aerated with overhead screens and an assortment of musical instruments for the choir and praise and worship team.

The pastors are always impeccably dressed. Their wives well put together. I’m sure if our village pastor came here, he would instantly feel out of place with his disheveled appearance and simple bicycle. The pastors here are all driving such wonderful cars. The sermons equally vary. It is not always the same thing being preached.

On Sundays, Mama Ken in her beautiful African inspired outfits will sit on the pew, next to her husband, nodding at everything the pastor says. Ken will be fidgety and would go out before service ends. Angie would have that bored look on her face. She will also eventually find an excuse to go out.

Here, it is seemingly allowed to wear trousers to church. In the village, wearing trousers as a female is highly frowned upon. The gossipy village women would not hesitate in calling you out on it. Your peers will alienate you for being openly brazen in your dressing. Your father would probably beat the living daylights out of you for bringing shame to the family.

Being the help, I’m expected to sit through the whole service. Many times, I do not really understand what is being preached. The pastor speaks in that twang’ that is very similar to Angie’s. I would rather be home sleeping after working for 6 days straight. But I know that is just but a pipe dream. Not in Mama Ken’s house. I have to be in church with them every Sunday whether I’m up to it or not.

At the end of the service, she would then gladly introduce me to her church friends as her help. She will act like she is so grateful to have me, although I suspect the real reason behind her introductions and her insistence that I attend service with them, is just to prove how Godly she is to her friends. Her church friends will in turn smile in awe, their carefully applied lipsticks glinting in the sun.

They will question why she never showed up at the cell group meeting last Sunday for her residential area, to which she will openly lie that she had to work in the afternoon. I will be there, standing in the shadows, trying to look invisible for I know that Sunday afternoons are reserved for outings in Mama Ken’s house. The ones I’m hardly included in. Never for boring church cell group meetings.

 

14.

Well seasoned banter. African Art courtesy of Pinterest

With the troubles back home preoccupying my mind, it is such a welcome relief that Abel is finally leaving the house. Angie mentioned that he will now be staying at the University hostels. Finally, I can be more comfortable. It has been such a struggle for me, working in this very same house, where a young man imagined how easy it would be to pounce on me. It has really made me question the male motive. I would rather carry on being a virgin than give in to such kinds of advances from the opposite sex.

Being 19, a lot of adult things do not make much sense to me. It is almost like being in a fog. You know that you are supposed to act like a grown up but the whole idea of being grown up is still not very clear. I wonder if my friend Priscilla goes through this too. But I have always known her as one who takes life easy. Even when teachers were openly ridiculing her at school for not performing, she took it in her stride. She never showed that she was affected by it up until the time she quit school.

Priscilla’s husband recently bought her a phone and the first thing she did was rush to mother’s and request for my number. When she called me, she sounded very excited just to get a hold of me. I asked about the baby and she said he was doing fine only that he kept her awake most nights. She equally mentioned that it was unfortunate that someone was malicious enough to steal from us.

We still do not know who took the coop and the chicken. I doubt we ever will. And then Priscilla’s credit finished. I could not call her back. I haven’t yet received my salary. The little extra I had, I sent it to mother the day she told me about the theft. Mama Ken is not the kind of employer whom you can ask for an advance. I can tell that she is very glad that Abel is leaving the house. More so because she thought me and Abel were up to no good. I wish she knew that I have always felt harassed with Abel around me.

But I should not expect anyone to understand me around here. I have since learned that adulthood entails handling some of your problems by yourself, the best way you know how to. By now you would have thought I would have been accepted in this house, but that is not the case. I am an outsider and will always be in this house. As a matter of fact, I ought to be grateful for the free lodging and food. Sometimes, when Mama Ken is really angry with me, she likes mentioning how she has provided me with a place to lay my head and food. I take it to imply that I’m the one who needs her not she who needs me although I’m very tempted to doubt this fact sometimes.

The thing with these urban dwellers is that they expect their domestic workers to always feel indebted to them, the same way uncle expects mother to feel indebted to him for getting me a job in Nairobi. They also have this weird attachment to food. An employer can lock up all the foodstuffs in the house when they are out, for some crazy reason that the help will spend the rest of the day binge eating, if the food is left out in the open.

They like to treat us as if we are greedy hyenas who cannot control our appetites. I keep hearing them giving the excuse that food is expensive yet they still get to stock up on all these luxury foods that us villagers have never even heard of. Sometimes we only eat what we are not supposed to out of innocent curiosity.

Koki, Mama Brian’s help from next door told me that when her employer is out, she makes sure that she has eaten to her fill whatever food is available. On some occasions, she also finishes up Mueni’s food, the 2 year old last born daughter of her employer’s, when the child won’t eat. I asked her why she does so and she disclosed that Mama Brian is very stingy with her food. She rarely gets full during supper. The woman’s eyes are always on her, to see how much she has served on her plate.

I did not tell her that I have my meals in the kitchen  where I have easy access to second helpings without my employer’s knowledge. Mama Ken barred me from the dinner table very early on. It bothered me for a while why they excluded me from the table until I realized just how much never ending house chores made you hungry. Now I can always choose the kitchen over the dinner table where nobody is monitoring my food intake. The employers can carry on calling it greedy, but we house helps know it is the only way we can keep our energies up, to effectively run their houses.

I know Koki always has these questions and stories for me because she likes to compare notes being way newer in the court than me. This is why I often times withhold information from her. You just never know whose ears the news would land on and I like to pretend that, I do not engage with the other house helps as per my employer’s instructions.

 

13.

“Yellow Chicken” by Franceska Schifrin

Some people seem to delight in the misery of others. That is the only explanation I can give to this occurrence.

Mother called me today morning. She said that when they went to sleep the previous night, all 4 chicken were in the coop. When they woke up in the morning, the chicken and the coop were missing. I can’t even begin to put to words just how annoyed I am. Who would do such a thing?!

Mother suspects some young men who idle in the village. They are rumored to engage in petty criminal activities but nobody seems to produce enough evidence to incriminate them. I’m sure whoever stole the chicken will fetch a good price for them at the shopping center.

Then they will pass by our homestead later on, pretending to be concerned while gloating secretly at the misery of mother. Or they will completely avoid the homestead, until when they are completely sure that their crime has been forgotten and therefore, gone unpunished. The nerve of brazen thieves! This however, is not the only problem that mother has to deal with. The other problem is uncle.

For some reason, uncle’s village wife and 3 children have been having frequent meals in mother’s house and sometimes, demand money for their various needs from her. So far, mother has put up with it since uncle makes her feel indebted to him for getting me a job in the city.

I still do not understand why mother kept this particular piece of information from me when I was home visiting. I did not see any of my cousins nor aunt near the homestead the whole duration. But as soon as they were sure I was gone, they must have resumed their previous bad habits.

I’m beginning to lose all respect for uncle. I told mother this to which she made me promise not to say anything to uncle. My mother does not like ruffling feathers. Besides, it is disrespectful for a younger one to question an older one. In a way, I feel sorry for uncle’s village wife. She has no idea that uncle has an additional wife in the city who recently gave birth to uncle’s child.

But that is no excuse for uncle to make mother feed and cater for his other family’s needs! And especially now that the chicken have been stolen and mother has lost another source of income. She used to sell those eggs that the chicken laid to her immediate neighbors. Perhaps it is uncle who gave instructions to his children to carry out the theft. I would not be surprised. Jealousy can turn anyone into a monster.

I have always thought that uncle meant well but it seems I was wrong. We did not ask him to get me a job in Nairobi. The whole idea was his. So to make mother feel indebted to him is wrong. Had I stayed in the village, I’m sure I would have found other means to help mother financially. I can make hair. I would have definitely plaited the village girls’ hair and made some money.

Meanwhile, Abel has kept his distance. After that incident from a few days back, I am still fearful of him. Today morning, he left in the company of Baba Ken. Something to do with admission at the university. Sometimes, I cannot help but question what such uncouth people are going to do there.

University is where the privileged in society go to acquire degrees and get good jobs so that they can be able to drive good cars and live in big houses in nice environments such as this one. I guess that pretty much answers my question. Abel is uncouth, but definitely privileged.

I have not shared with anyone what Abel tried to do to me. Not even with the ever inquisitive help next door. The one that Mama Brian replaced Jesca with who always wants to talk whenever she spots me outside. That girl can ask a million questions in a very short time period. If I am stupid enough to say anything about Abel to her, I bet the whole court will know within no time.

But Abel is the least of my worries as long as he does not get near me. I’m more worried about mother. Maybe she should get a dog. We used to have one in the past but our youngest is very scared of dogs. For her sake, father gave out the dog. It is times like these when I wish father was still with us. Nobody would be pestering mother. But they keep doing it knowing there is nobody to defend her.

 

 

 

 

12.

A painting depicting fear. Google Images

What is this?

Is this how attraction is supposed to be?

Is this how a man communicates his desires to a woman?

“You know I want you. I have wanted you from the very first day I saw you and I know you want me too.” Abel confessed a while back. He had suddenly grabbed me by the waist and declined to let go even though I struggled to get out of his grip. The bulge in his trousers was obvious. I could feel it on my behind and I was scared.

Avoiding Abel is becoming impossible by the day. The fact that it is always me and him in the house at daytime, makes things even worse. Mama Ken has already given me the lecture.

“Do not play innocent with me Coretta. I know there’s something between you and Abel.” She accused. “I hope you realize that Abel is my husband’s nephew and whatever is happening with the both of you will not work.”

Nothing has happened. I do not understand why Mama Ken is always on my case. I am not the one who brought Abel to the house. If she did not like the whole idea of it, she should have just communicated her displeasure to her husband.

But Baba Ken can be firm. He has this way of shutting down his wife. I have witnessed it before. On those rare occasions, I see a meek side of Mama Ken come out.

This is the first time that Abel has initiated contact. It caught me off guard. Here I was, cleaning the surfaces in the living room and suddenly, male hands were on my waist. All those other times that he got near me, it was only to make me uncomfortable or to whisper things into my ear. He never placed his hands on me.

That I have tolerated. Even secretly liked it. This however, I could not tolerate. It felt inappropriate. Like I had no right to my own body.

“I don’t want you!” I announced angrily, trying unsuccessfully to push him off me.

“You all pretend that you don’t but you do!” Abel retorted, now pressing his body into mine. This is how I could make out the bulge. The disgusting prick! I decided then that I did not want this to happen. Whatever it was that he intended to happen.

“Let go or else I will report you to your aunt!” At the mention of his aunt, he suddenly got his hands off me.

Terrified by the whole ordeal, I fled to my room and shut the door. If I had a key I would have as well locked the door but Mama Ken has denied me one. She once stated that there was no need for me to have one.

But I suspect that the real reason for denying me a key was to make it easier for her to inspect the room without my knowledge. My mother did not raise a thief so I have nothing to hide! But at that moment, for protection purposes, I pushed the bed to jam the door.

“Coretta!” Abel’s voice startled me seconds later, through the jammed door.

“Coretta!” It sounded urgent.

“What do you want?!” I demanded, still terrified. I was literally shaking.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to treat you in such a manner nor scare you.” I was not too sure if he was being sincere. No matter how much he begged, nothing would make me push the bed away from the door.

“I understand that you are just doing your job and I should respect that but sometimes, I can’t help myself. You are too beautiful and I like you…” Whatever was he rambling about?

I did not respond.

“Coretta, say something!” He pleaded.

I said nothing.

It then dawned on me that as long as Abel is in this house, I am not safe. Being the help puts me in a very vulnerable position. It’s not that situations such as these are uncommon. I have seen it happen in this very same court that my employer resides in. Husbands preying on hapless house helps and sometimes getting them pregnant in the process.

In my case, it was the nephew to the husband constantly harassing me. But I have now had it! Since Mama Ken never believes me, the next time Abel tries the same, I shall make good on my threat and instead of reporting him to his aunt, report him instead to his uncle. I know Baba Ken is more reasonable than that wife of his.

 

10.

llustration original fat chalk pregnant African woman style tribal Iemanjá – @Arkane

My best friend was beside herself with joy when I eventually gave her a surprise visit.

“When did you come?!” She demanded excitedly, offering me a seat outside her house and two ripe bananas to eat.

‘Wednesday morning.” I revealed, equally excited to see her after such a long time.

“You mean you have been here 4 days already and I didn’t know about it!” She feigned offense.

“But at least I showed up eventually!” I reminded with a laugh.

It is indeed true that Priscilla is heavily pregnant. Pregnancy has made her add a lot of weight. Her face even looks swollen and the stomach is so large now, you might think she is carrying twins.

“You went to the city and forgot all about us in the village.” She proceeded to accuse.

I knew she did not mean it. People in the village spoke like that to anyone who had been to the city. It was more of a figure of speech with a light touch.

“I did not forget all about you. I wouldn’t.” I chuckled.

Priscilla sat on a low seat directly opposite me, rubbing her stomach every once in a while.

“I tell you, pregnancy is tough. I cannot wait to have this baby.” She suddenly mentioned out of the blue. This was my cue to question her about her husband. To which Priscilla laughed and revealed that they had been dating secretly even before I left the village.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” I interrogated.

“It was supposed to be a secret, remember?” Priscilla was amused.

“But just how did you manage to get that shy guy to date you?” I insisted.

“See what Nairobi has done to you. You now call young men guy” Priscilla quickly pointed out.

I could not help it. Being around Ken and Angie must have had some significant effect on me. But I was still curious.

“So how?” I pushed.

“Let’s just say he’s not as shy as he looks.” Priscilla replied coyly.

“And were you two doing it while dating?” Before I could hold my tongue, the question had already tumbled out. There is no doubt that being still a virgin, I am somehow curious about what exactly a man and woman do together.

“Doing?” There was a sudden look of confusion on my friend’s face and I immediately regretted asking my careless question.

“Oh, forget I asked.” I tried to quickly brush it aside.

“I know what you mean.” Much to my surprise, Priscilla said with a reassuring smile. I swear I could have died from embarrassment then. Even my armpits suddenly felt damp with sweat.

“Just so you know, we were doing it.” She added cheekily. My eyes grew large.

“You were?!”

Who would have thought that Priscilla would have been engaging in that which married couples engaged in? We used to attend the village church most Sundays where the Pastor, a man of short stature, with a hoarse voice and a penchant for dull colored frayed suits, would constantly remind us of how fornication, would give us a direct ticket to hell.

Since none of our parents had the guts to talk to us about sexual activity, the Pastor’s sermons, most;y delivered in a fiery manner, were just about all the sex education we could get. And although we knew that his warnings often fell on deaf ears, seeing the ever increasing number of pregnant, unmarried village girls, we chose to refrain from that which would annoy God.

But judging from Priscilla’s revelation, I must have been the only one who adhered to the Pastor’s teachings.

“Yes. The first time we did it, I ceased to be a virgin. The second time we did it, this is the outcome.” Priscilla now disclosed, pointing to her stomach. I could not help being all the more curious at that moment.

“How is it?” I asked.

“Ah, it’s just a man panting over you for a couple of minutes and then he’s done.” It was Priscilla’s turn to get embarrassed.

“Didn’t you like it?” I was genuinely concerned.

“The first time I didn’t, but once I got used to it, it was okay.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you two were doing it while…” I made a motion of a large stomach with my hand, to mean pregnant.

“In the early stages of the pregnancy, yes.You don’t know these men Coretta. Sometimes they want it all the time and if you deny them, there are others who will willingly give it to them. But hey, the act is better explained when you experience it yourself.” Priscilla quickly explained.

“I’m even surprised that you haven’t bagged yourself a city boyfriend yet. I hear they give you girls money unlike here…” She added teasingly.

“It’s a bit hard to date when you have a strict employer like mine. Plus I haven’t really taken a fancy to anyone yet.” I informed.

I would then proceed to tell Priscilla about Mama Ken and her family. How she had once worked in an aeroplane and lived in a house with an upper and lower floor in a beautiful, middle class estate in Nairobi. I even told Priscilla  about Ken’s escapades with the girl he used to bring to the house. And about Jesca who had quit and the one who had replaced her. All the while, my friend seemed deeply intrigued almost like she could not believe my good fortune at getting to experience all this.

Indeed, I was happy to catch up with my friend. These are some of the things I occasionally missed about my old life.

* * * * *

Just before I left for Nairobi, Priscilla delivered a healthy baby boy. He had so much black, curly hair that literally covered half of his forehead and such tiny, chubby limbs. She named him Mathias, after her father-in-law.

I know for a fact that I will miss everyone in the village terribly. But duty calls and I have to return to the city. And so now, I’m occupying my seat in the bus headed to Nairobi, waiting for it to fill up.

9.

House Of Wonders Painting – Forodhani-zanzibar by Juma Hassan

The village never changes.

It is us who have been away in the city who change.

There is no doubt that I have changed.

I have been here only 2 days and some things which appeared normal to me, slightly over a year ago before I left, now look absurd to me. Take today morning, for example.

I caught two of my siblings walking out barefeet and can you imagine I scolded them. I even went as far as demanding to know where they had kept the sandals I had brought for them from the city. Before, that would not have been an issue to me. I also used to sometimes walk around the homestead barefoot.

But the city has a way of changing someone. I am not sure whether it is a good or bad thing. The looks on my siblings’ faces told me straight away that they were wondering who I was at that moment. I didn’t seem like the sister they knew previously.

Mother mentioned that I have added weight when I arrived. I know I have. I cannot even fit in some of the clothes I went to the city with. But I like how I look. I even feel more feminine. Like a grown woman now not a young 18 year old girl.

Mama Ken gave me a two week leave from work. I wish she had extended that period, but I know she cannot do without me, picking up after her house occupants.

Since it is the April holiday season, Mama Ken’s family will be traveling to Zanzibar for a week. I heard her tell her children that they have been to Mombasa so many times already. Zanzibar would make for a good change.

I only have a slight idea where Zanzibar is. Somewhere outside of Kenya.

Last year, I did not come home for Christmas. This year too, it seems I will also miss Christmas in the village. I doubt if Mama Ken can give me two leave periods in a single year.

You know, I complained about this to uncle at the bus stage as I was about to board a bus to the village, but he silenced me. This is unfair. Even uncle’s boss lets him travel home for Christmas. Why not me? This I asked uncle to which he accused me of “beginning to grow horns”. The term they use to describe a child who is getting spoilt or a wife who is suddenly changing for the worst.

I kept quiet.

However, I’m growing increasingly tired of not saying anything. It is not like I’m mute or something. I also have opinions. Why is it that uncle is the one who always gets to have the last say in my affairs?

I wanted to complain about this last fact to mother, but could not form the words to, when she showed me the developments, the money I send home has helped her do. We now even have a wooden chicken coop, 3 hens that regularly lay eggs and a big cock, all thanks to the money. Mother says that, she no longer has to work in other people’s farms and that my being in the city, has transformed into a huge blessing.

I am glad that mother feels this way. I have been a witness to her struggle after father’s death. I am also happy that my brother, the one who follows me, is also in the process of getting a secondary school education. In a year’s time, he has grown very tall, I was surprised. Nowadays, he repairs bicycles over the school holidays and gets paid for it. My other siblings are equally doing well. At least my brother and I have eased mother’s burden.

It is Priscilla, my best friend, whom I have not yet seen. I hear she is heavily pregnant now and will get a baby anytime soon. I want to pay her a visit and congratulate her in person. Mother promised to show me where she now lives with her husband.

Can you believe Priscilla married the Carpenter’s apprentice?! Who would have thought that these two had eyes for each other? The young man could barely look Priscilla and I in the eye whenever we visited the shopping center. Priscilla must tell me how he gathered enough courage to even propose to her.