Three thundering roars.
The heavily expectant woman walked in with her husband, Lenku, by her side. Lenku was clad in full masai gear, complete with a rungu. This was early morning war.
Student Sr.Mary was there to receive them at the casualty.
“Please bring a wheel chair,” Lenku barked at the orderlies. “My wife is in labour.
Sr.June, the sister in charge, looked at Lenku and understood the anxiety that the man was going through. Very few locals used the hospital facilities for delivery purposes. They preferred their TBA (Traditional Birth Attendants). The campaign to use the hospital facilities seemed to bearing some fruit.
“Is this your first baby?”
“In my tribe, we do not count children,” he replied, his eyes avoiding Sr.June’s.
The wheel chair was brought and again Lenku took charge, pushing it rather quickly to where his wife was.
“Slowly, one leg at a time,” he cooed as the wife struggled to transfer from the bench to the wheelchair. A few curious patients sympathised with her.
“She will be okay,” Sr. June told Lenku. “Please wait here as we take her to the observation room!”
“No!” shouted Lenku, holding his club as if ready to fight. “I don’t want my wife to die here. I will be with her until the baby is born.” Lenku took charge of the wheel chair and pushed it to the observation room himself. The wife groaned.
Dr. Yiapan was the one on duty. He was one of the success stories of the community. He was born and schooled in all the local schools up until university. After graduating, he had come back to serve in the missionary hospital.
The doctor came with a six students – two of them male.
“Who are all these?” Lenku asked. “This is not a film show!” he admonished Sr. June. “Go away,” Lenku ordered.
“They are student nurses and fellow doctors ready to learn and help at the same time,” the doctor assured Lenku.
“I don’t want other men seeing my wife’s nakedness. Only one is enough,” asserted Lenku with authority and finality.
They all respected the old man’s wish. The two student doctors left the room without a huff.
“A vaginal examination stat,” Dr. Yiapan instructed Sr.June.
“Will you wait inside here or outside there?” Dr.Yiapan asked Lenku.
“A warrior does not abandon his flock in time of need,” Lenku replied.
Dr.Yiapan understood and as the V.E was being done, the doctor engaged the old man in local genealogy. With the mention of each prominent person, Lenku would get excited and give the young doctor a past history of the mentioned family.
“Your father belongs my age-set,” he told Dr.Yiapan. “But he chose to chase paper lions while we chose to chase the real lions in the bush.” Dr. Yiapan knew about morans who abandoned their traditional lifestyles for the elusively ‘richer’ urban areas, only to come back to their motherland after years of toiling as night guards. They often had nothing to show for their stay in the cities and were a constant butt of many crude jokes. Lenku was no exception.
“6 inches!” declared Sr.June, giving her feedback on the extent of dilation.
The doctor explained what 6 inches meant.
“Foetal heartbeat please!” instructed the doctor as he went back to community politics. Lenku’s eyes, however, did not move from the nurse. He was invited to listen to the heartbeats.
“Doctor, there is more than one foetal heart beat,” reported Sr.June.
“What does that mean?” Dr.Lenku turned to his five student nurses.
Sr.Mary was the first one to respond. “It means multiple births – either twins or triplets.”
“Good,” the doctor responded but he was interrupted by Lenku.
“Ai? Twins?” shrieked Lenku. “No twins please. Twins are a curse!”
The doctor let out a long hooting laughter that shocked all in the room.
“Who said that? I am a triplet, all boys. One is a lecturer at the university, another one is the area MP and then there is me,” said the doctor.
Another groan from the woman distracted the group.
“Prepare theatre please,” ordered the doctor to Sr.June, “and call your twin sister for the old man to see.”
Jean, Sr.June’s twin sister, was a tutor at the Teacher’s Training College just across the road. Though twins, the two sisters led a completely separate and independent life. June was training to be a Catholic nun, while Jean was an outgoing worldly and fun loving person.
“I need you as an exhibit,” Sr.June joked.
Within three minutes, Jean and June were standing in front of Lenku.
He laughed. “Aiye, you are as alike as the buttocks of one person!” They all laughed.
Lenku’s wife was wheeled to theatre ready for procedure. Dr.Yiapan explained to Lenku that the hospital regulations did not allow lay people into the operation ward.
“Wait here. It will take about an hour,” Lenku was assured.
The procedure went on well and within an hour, three bouncing baby boys had been delivered successfully.
Lenku was called into the nursery and the moment he saw his sons, he went on his knees and cried. “Thank you God! Thank you for these wonderful people! Thank you for my wife!”
Lenku held his first son and looked into his eyes. “Oloibon Lenana, saviour of the Masai people, and warrior of warriors – you will grow up in courage and out roar all the lions in the forest!
“Oloibon Leshan – you who roars like thundering water from the sky, you will grow to outroar all the waterfalls of the world.
“Oloibon Moipei – you who roar louder than thunder from the sky, you will grow to be president of this country.”
*
The following morning just after 6am, Sr.Mary was woken up by the bleating of goats and angry shouting at the hospital gate.
It was Lenku arguing with the guard. Dr.Yiapan had just reported on duty had to go and sort it out.
“These are for you and your people for bringing in 3 warriors into the world. That he-goat, one she-goat and this cockerel are yours. The rest you will give to the students,” Lenku instructed Dr.Yiapan.
“The he-goat is called Osama. He is tough headed, brave and very clever – just like you doctor. You brought in 3 warriors at one go!” Lenku continued.
In African culture, one does not decline any gifts, however lavish they are.
“It is well, Lenku,” Dr.Yiapan accepted the gifts as he walked with the old man to the ward to see mother and children.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Cycle Of Life
Cycle of Life….
The two girls met outside Julie’s compound. Same height, same built, same age. Julie, the neater and more presentable of the two was riding her old rickety bike and had ventured outside the gate. Rule number one had been broken.
“I am going to tell on you!” Julie’s younger sister shouted as Julie’s small bike clattered outside the gate.
Julie had to brake hard using her legs on the ground to avoid hitting the girl who had suddenly appeared in front. Julie had seen the girl so many times before. She came from the neighbouring ‘kijiji’ and always joined in a group of children who hovered around Julie’s block of flats.
“Hi Julie,” the girl said in a clear voice.
“Hi,” Julie replied, surprised that the girl knew her name. Julie extended her hand and the two shook hands.
“My name is Susan,” she said, her eyes firmly on Julie’s bike.
“Do you want a ride?” Julie asked. She knew what the answer would be but before Susan could answer, Julie’s sister screamed from the balcony.
“I am going to phone mom right away and tell her you are out of the gate!” Julie ignored her sister’s tantrums. Threats, blackmails, coaxing, making up was part of their daily life.
Susan hesitated but when Julie dismounted and motioned her, Susan took the cue and mounted the bike.
“Confidence comes first. Focus on the road and not on the handle bar,” Julie instructed Susan. A group of curious ‘kijiji’ children gathered to witness the two girls. There were giggles and laughter as Susan tired her desperate best to at least ride 10 or so meters without falling.
“You can do it!” Julie’s firm assurance gave Susan hope that she could do it. After about 15 minutes of balance drills, the two decided to take a break.
“Tomorrow is Christmas day,” Susan said, sweat dripping down her forehead. “I am going to wear my new dress!” The smile and joy on Susan’s face melted Julie’s heart. For the first time, Julie noticed Susan’s tattered clothes.
Another shout from Julie’s sister brought the two girls back to reality. “Julie, mom is on the phone and she wants to speak to you!” Julie obliged and head downcast walked towards the gate where her sister was proudly holding the house phone.
“Hi mom!”
“How many times have I told you not to go out of the gate?”
“Many times mom!”
“So what are you doing outside the gate?”
Silence.
“I am talking to you!”
“Mom, I was teaching Susan how to ride a bike.”
Silence.
“And she says that tomorrow she will have a new Christmas dress.”
“Ok Julie, keep teaching her but make sure you don’t go far. I will see you in the evening!”
“Thank you mom. You are the best!”
Julie was elated. She handed the phone to her sister and managed to stick her tongue out. She was leading in the game.
Susan and Julie continued for another hour before they called it a day.
“Meet me here tomorrow in the morning. I will have something for you,” Julie told the appreciative Susan.
In the evening, Julie’s parents came with loads of shopping and Christmas presents. Julie’s eyes widened at the new mountain bike she had dreamt of having. She hugged both her parents and thanked them profusely. Julie’s younger sister got her expected full set of Barbie dolls.
“What will I do with two bikes mom?” Julie asked.
Mom knew the direction the conversation was leading towards. “You can give one of them away.”
Julie let out a loud whooping “YES!”
Julie and family settled for the evening prayers and meal as they waited for the clock to strike midnight. They sang carols and joined their neighbours in exchanging cards and gifts.
Julie did not sleep a wink. She turned and tossed in bed the whole night. Very early in the morning before going to church, Julie rode her new mountain bike to the gate and outside. Susan was waiting for her. She was wearing her new sparkling white dress. She looked like an angel.
“Merry Christmas,” Susan told Julie. She gave Julie a hug and a small hand made card.
“Merry Christmas,” Julie told her as she dismounted from her bike. “Take it, it’s yours! My mom said I could give one of my bikes!”
Susan was over the moon. She cried as she bade Julie good bye.
The two girls met outside Julie’s compound. Same height, same built, same age. Julie, the neater and more presentable of the two was riding her old rickety bike and had ventured outside the gate. Rule number one had been broken.
“I am going to tell on you!” Julie’s younger sister shouted as Julie’s small bike clattered outside the gate.
Julie had to brake hard using her legs on the ground to avoid hitting the girl who had suddenly appeared in front. Julie had seen the girl so many times before. She came from the neighbouring ‘kijiji’ and always joined in a group of children who hovered around Julie’s block of flats.
“Hi Julie,” the girl said in a clear voice.
“Hi,” Julie replied, surprised that the girl knew her name. Julie extended her hand and the two shook hands.
“My name is Susan,” she said, her eyes firmly on Julie’s bike.
“Do you want a ride?” Julie asked. She knew what the answer would be but before Susan could answer, Julie’s sister screamed from the balcony.
“I am going to phone mom right away and tell her you are out of the gate!” Julie ignored her sister’s tantrums. Threats, blackmails, coaxing, making up was part of their daily life.
Susan hesitated but when Julie dismounted and motioned her, Susan took the cue and mounted the bike.
“Confidence comes first. Focus on the road and not on the handle bar,” Julie instructed Susan. A group of curious ‘kijiji’ children gathered to witness the two girls. There were giggles and laughter as Susan tired her desperate best to at least ride 10 or so meters without falling.
“You can do it!” Julie’s firm assurance gave Susan hope that she could do it. After about 15 minutes of balance drills, the two decided to take a break.
“Tomorrow is Christmas day,” Susan said, sweat dripping down her forehead. “I am going to wear my new dress!” The smile and joy on Susan’s face melted Julie’s heart. For the first time, Julie noticed Susan’s tattered clothes.
Another shout from Julie’s sister brought the two girls back to reality. “Julie, mom is on the phone and she wants to speak to you!” Julie obliged and head downcast walked towards the gate where her sister was proudly holding the house phone.
“Hi mom!”
“How many times have I told you not to go out of the gate?”
“Many times mom!”
“So what are you doing outside the gate?”
Silence.
“I am talking to you!”
“Mom, I was teaching Susan how to ride a bike.”
Silence.
“And she says that tomorrow she will have a new Christmas dress.”
“Ok Julie, keep teaching her but make sure you don’t go far. I will see you in the evening!”
“Thank you mom. You are the best!”
Julie was elated. She handed the phone to her sister and managed to stick her tongue out. She was leading in the game.
Susan and Julie continued for another hour before they called it a day.
“Meet me here tomorrow in the morning. I will have something for you,” Julie told the appreciative Susan.
In the evening, Julie’s parents came with loads of shopping and Christmas presents. Julie’s eyes widened at the new mountain bike she had dreamt of having. She hugged both her parents and thanked them profusely. Julie’s younger sister got her expected full set of Barbie dolls.
“What will I do with two bikes mom?” Julie asked.
Mom knew the direction the conversation was leading towards. “You can give one of them away.”
Julie let out a loud whooping “YES!”
Julie and family settled for the evening prayers and meal as they waited for the clock to strike midnight. They sang carols and joined their neighbours in exchanging cards and gifts.
Julie did not sleep a wink. She turned and tossed in bed the whole night. Very early in the morning before going to church, Julie rode her new mountain bike to the gate and outside. Susan was waiting for her. She was wearing her new sparkling white dress. She looked like an angel.
“Merry Christmas,” Susan told Julie. She gave Julie a hug and a small hand made card.
“Merry Christmas,” Julie told her as she dismounted from her bike. “Take it, it’s yours! My mom said I could give one of my bikes!”
Susan was over the moon. She cried as she bade Julie good bye.
Petals Of Love.
Petals of Love….
If you love someone, let them know……
Brian counted the money he had faithfully been saving for the last two months. It amounted to a cool shs.955, courtesy of missed lunches, extra chores within the house. He had never had so much money at one go.
“I am still short of some three hundred or so shillings and Valentine’s Day is just around the corner,” Brian whispered to himself. He continuously shook his head, a clear sign of desperation. He did not want a repeat of last year’s embarrassment where he received gifts from 6 different people while he dished out nothing.
Brian looked at his Valentine’s to do list: flowers, cards and chocolates for 5 people. His parents topped the list, though he knew how skeptical his dad would react with a dismissive, “Love is for the birds!” His mother and his pretty 14 year old sister would be thrilled. It’s the only thing that Brian loved about his sister: appreciation. Gifts had the unique way of bringing the best out of her.
“Which bank did you rob this time?” Brian imagined the teasing from his mom. Or, “Which girl dumped you this time?” his sister would retort. Women!
Two more people and Brian’s list would be complete. There was his class teacher – a petit, humorous and extremely beautiful person. All the boys in the class had a crash on her, though she seemed to favour the notorious Barasa.
“I wonder how old she is,” Brian mused aloud. Whatever her age, the class teacher was one person who Brian felt thoroughly deserved his chocolate and flowers.
Finally, the last name on the list was Cynthia, Brian’s classmate and heart throb. Brian had never told anyone about his love for Cynthia. If he gave her a flower or chocolate then everyone would know. If he did not give her then his heart would not be at peace. Oh, bother! His dad was right about love.
Two days before Valentine and Brian was a bag of nerves. He had resolved all the other issues except Cynthia’s. He tried all manner of disguising the problem without any success.
“Lovey-dovey butterflies!” mum teased him.
“Cupid’s broken arrow,” his sister added to the tension.
“Mr. Lover lover – bombastic!” his dad sang one of those old ragga songs that often belted out of the radio stations.
A day before Valentine’s Day and Brian’s plans were all intact. He collected the red flowers from Kariz the florist. They were all delicately wrapped in a red ribbon. “Thanks mbuyu,” Brian expressed his gratitude.
Brian then proceeded to the supermarket where he bought five 100g chocolate bars and five Valentine’s cards. The cashier winked at him, “So many women! Lucky guy!”
Brian smiled and then muttered, “Trouble my friend!” They both laughed.
The big day dawned and Brian who had not slept a wink was the first one at the dining table. He placed a card, a chocolate and a flower at each person’s eating place. He did not wait for breakfast. A quick wash of face, brushing of teeth and hurried wearing of uniform saw him out of the house in less than ten minutes.
Brian was the first one to reach school. “Have you joined our profession?” the school watchman teased him as Brian strolled into the school compound. He went to class and carefully opened Cynthia’s desk. He placed the flower and gift box inside. He also left one on the teacher’s desk.
Brian hang around waiting for his friends to come. It took another fifteen minutes before the first batch of pupils arrived abode one of the private transporters.
“Happy Valentine!” the boys mocked each other with fake flying kisses. A few brave boys offered girls flowers. This was met with loud hooting and whistles as the girls giggled in appreciation.
Finally Brian saw Cynthia coming towards the group of boys and girls. She looked stunning, the background risen sun radiating on her rotund face. She was carrying a flower and a gift box. All the eyes turned towards her. There was silence as every single boy tensed wondering who the lucky boy was going to be.
Cynthia stopped at Brian’s and with all the confidence of the boys combined, she whispered, “Happy Valentine handsome!” She gave Brian a red flower and beautifully wrapped gift. Brian did not hear the roar of approval / disapproval whatever it was. He muttered something like, “Ata wewe!” Fat goose pimples quickly spread through his body as his legs felt rubbery, his mouth went completely dry while his head spun. “Handsome! Handsome!”
They all watched as Cynthia disappeared into the classroom. Brian was surrounded by a hoard of boys who demanded a share of his loot.
A sudden scream of delight brought Brian and his goons to their senses. It was Cynthia who had discovered her gift. They all rushed in and found Cynthia holding opening her card. Tears flowed freely on her cheeks as she loudly read the poem…
I love
The sunshine in your touch
The moonlight in your smile
The stars in your eyes
The sunrise in your being
The sunset in your laughter
I love
The universe in you.
Be my Valentine…
The card was not signed.
“That was a lovely poem. Who wrote it?” the voice of the class teacher cut across the silence. All heads turned towards the teacher who had just entered the class. There was a stint of silence.
Brian gathered guts and owned up. “I did!” As the words came out of his mouth, he felt a sudden pride in finally declaring his love for Cynthia. He was proud of what he had done. He was at peace with himself. Love was in the air.
If you love someone, let them know……
Brian counted the money he had faithfully been saving for the last two months. It amounted to a cool shs.955, courtesy of missed lunches, extra chores within the house. He had never had so much money at one go.
“I am still short of some three hundred or so shillings and Valentine’s Day is just around the corner,” Brian whispered to himself. He continuously shook his head, a clear sign of desperation. He did not want a repeat of last year’s embarrassment where he received gifts from 6 different people while he dished out nothing.
Brian looked at his Valentine’s to do list: flowers, cards and chocolates for 5 people. His parents topped the list, though he knew how skeptical his dad would react with a dismissive, “Love is for the birds!” His mother and his pretty 14 year old sister would be thrilled. It’s the only thing that Brian loved about his sister: appreciation. Gifts had the unique way of bringing the best out of her.
“Which bank did you rob this time?” Brian imagined the teasing from his mom. Or, “Which girl dumped you this time?” his sister would retort. Women!
Two more people and Brian’s list would be complete. There was his class teacher – a petit, humorous and extremely beautiful person. All the boys in the class had a crash on her, though she seemed to favour the notorious Barasa.
“I wonder how old she is,” Brian mused aloud. Whatever her age, the class teacher was one person who Brian felt thoroughly deserved his chocolate and flowers.
Finally, the last name on the list was Cynthia, Brian’s classmate and heart throb. Brian had never told anyone about his love for Cynthia. If he gave her a flower or chocolate then everyone would know. If he did not give her then his heart would not be at peace. Oh, bother! His dad was right about love.
Two days before Valentine and Brian was a bag of nerves. He had resolved all the other issues except Cynthia’s. He tried all manner of disguising the problem without any success.
“Lovey-dovey butterflies!” mum teased him.
“Cupid’s broken arrow,” his sister added to the tension.
“Mr. Lover lover – bombastic!” his dad sang one of those old ragga songs that often belted out of the radio stations.
A day before Valentine’s Day and Brian’s plans were all intact. He collected the red flowers from Kariz the florist. They were all delicately wrapped in a red ribbon. “Thanks mbuyu,” Brian expressed his gratitude.
Brian then proceeded to the supermarket where he bought five 100g chocolate bars and five Valentine’s cards. The cashier winked at him, “So many women! Lucky guy!”
Brian smiled and then muttered, “Trouble my friend!” They both laughed.
The big day dawned and Brian who had not slept a wink was the first one at the dining table. He placed a card, a chocolate and a flower at each person’s eating place. He did not wait for breakfast. A quick wash of face, brushing of teeth and hurried wearing of uniform saw him out of the house in less than ten minutes.
Brian was the first one to reach school. “Have you joined our profession?” the school watchman teased him as Brian strolled into the school compound. He went to class and carefully opened Cynthia’s desk. He placed the flower and gift box inside. He also left one on the teacher’s desk.
Brian hang around waiting for his friends to come. It took another fifteen minutes before the first batch of pupils arrived abode one of the private transporters.
“Happy Valentine!” the boys mocked each other with fake flying kisses. A few brave boys offered girls flowers. This was met with loud hooting and whistles as the girls giggled in appreciation.
Finally Brian saw Cynthia coming towards the group of boys and girls. She looked stunning, the background risen sun radiating on her rotund face. She was carrying a flower and a gift box. All the eyes turned towards her. There was silence as every single boy tensed wondering who the lucky boy was going to be.
Cynthia stopped at Brian’s and with all the confidence of the boys combined, she whispered, “Happy Valentine handsome!” She gave Brian a red flower and beautifully wrapped gift. Brian did not hear the roar of approval / disapproval whatever it was. He muttered something like, “Ata wewe!” Fat goose pimples quickly spread through his body as his legs felt rubbery, his mouth went completely dry while his head spun. “Handsome! Handsome!”
They all watched as Cynthia disappeared into the classroom. Brian was surrounded by a hoard of boys who demanded a share of his loot.
A sudden scream of delight brought Brian and his goons to their senses. It was Cynthia who had discovered her gift. They all rushed in and found Cynthia holding opening her card. Tears flowed freely on her cheeks as she loudly read the poem…
I love
The sunshine in your touch
The moonlight in your smile
The stars in your eyes
The sunrise in your being
The sunset in your laughter
I love
The universe in you.
Be my Valentine…
The card was not signed.
“That was a lovely poem. Who wrote it?” the voice of the class teacher cut across the silence. All heads turned towards the teacher who had just entered the class. There was a stint of silence.
Brian gathered guts and owned up. “I did!” As the words came out of his mouth, he felt a sudden pride in finally declaring his love for Cynthia. He was proud of what he had done. He was at peace with himself. Love was in the air.
First Lady First Mistress
First Lady, First Mistress
7.48 a.m. Anne looked at the guest list for the umpteenth time. She wanted to make sure that all the members of The Club were going to be present for the workshop dubbed ‘Assertiveness is not Aggression’. She did not want any apologies; all had to attend.
Anne’s phone rang and she looked at the number on the screen. It was Judy, her legal advisor. “Are you coming for the ruling?” Judy asked casually, knowing that as The First Lady, Anne’s schedule was pretty tight and that she had neither the time nor energy to run around the congested and often confusing dark court corridors.
“No, Judy. I have to attend to this workshop. It might be the last one I am presiding over as a First Lady,” Anne replied dryly. Judy winced.
Anne’s husband, the president of the country, had filed for a divorce on grounds of nullity of the marriage resulting from childlessness. Surprisingly the case was treated as a low-key affair amongst the press, mainly out of respect for The First Lady’s effort in community service. But it was an open secret amongst the ruling elite that things were not that rosy at The Palace.
“Do what you can,” Anne finally told Judy, her former schoolmate and a personal friend of many years. Judy could not understand how a lady could give up so easily and yet conduct a workshop on assertiveness.
Some things just never made sense. Judy had tried telling Anne to settle for half the estate but Anne had been adamant; “If you can’t share the sky, why share the land?” had been her wise crack at Judy.
Anne had insisted that she wanted nothing from their 10-year-old marriage. She just wanted to be left alone to continue with her charity work. “Let him go his way, and I go mine,” had been Anne’s final words.
Anne looked at the list again. She was at the prestigious Sheraton Hotel, finalising all the details for the day. She glanced at her watch and knew that the elegant ladies were about to start trooping in.
‘The First Wives Club’ had been Anne’s brainchild. The group brought together all the top women in the country: wives of cabinet ministers and wives of the top military brass. No politicians were allowed. The group had become the conscience of the society, sometimes rubbing politicians the wrong way.
8.02 a.m. Anne looked out of the window of the V.I.P lounge, eager to see what poets and authors regaled about the world. There was no chirping of birds or crickets, no howling of the wind or the sun breaking from dark clouds. It was a dull day. Nothing to write home about. Just another day.
The phone rang again and this time the Chief of General Staff, Jairus Mango, broke the silence. “All security measures have been taken care of,” he formally informed the First Lady who did not want to gamble with the Club’s security.
“Thanks Jairo,” Anne replied, preferring to use the Chief’s pet name. She smiled and knew that Jairo meant every word of it when he said that all was well taken care of. That was all she needed to run her meeting safely.
By 9 o’clock, all the ladies had arrived in pomp and splendour, a parade of sets of new clothes, jewellery, shoes, handbags, perfume. Huge suitcases were towed into the hotel by the porters. There was excited chattering as the ladies hugged and held hands, as if they had not seen each others for ages.
The group moved to the venue of the workshop: the bunker, a place where one got lost and forgot about the outside world. The ladies were to be there for the better part of the day.
Half an hour later, Anne summoned all the women to the Temptation Hall. “You all have ten minutes to make a phone call, after which no calls will be allowed,” she announced to the attentive group. They knew the rules of the bunker; no calls could be made as a jamming device that made it impossible for mobile phones to be used had been installed.
The ladies made good use of the grace period, knowing that the next break would be well after 5pm. They all knew and accepted that as the coordinator and convenor of the workshop, Anne was the only one allowed to visit the reception area and retrieve or take calls.
Anne called Judy. “Am about to enter the court room. I will let you know what transpires,” Judy told her friend.
“Thanks, Judy.” Anne sighed and then switched off her phone. She wanted to concentrate on her workshop.
11:00 am. Anne took a stroll to the reception area. As she was about to talk to the lady receptionist, the Hotel phone rang and the lady answered in the monotone characterised by many telephone operators. Anne watched as the lady’s face darkened, prompting her to press the Fire Drill bell.
“Bomb alert in the hotel!” the lady shrieked at the First lady as she scrambled to get out of her seat. From there the hotel security team took over, shouting orders and ushering guests out of the internationally renowned hotel. It took close to twenty minutes to empty all the rooms and get the guest out of the looming danger. For some strange reasons, the alarm at the bunker did not sound, hence enabling The Club to continue with its workshop, completely unaware of the unravelling drama outside.
Anne taking advantage of the confusion moved to the V.I.P lounge, from where she watched the mayhem downstairs. People were running up and down, screaming at the top of their voices. Somehow, after the Twin Tower’s bombing, the world had become paranoid to bomb alerts. Anne picked the phone and called The Gossip, giving the breaking news.
In less than ten minutes, the hotel had been completely surrounded by the dreaded crack unit code named Fiatua. It’s amazing how they had responded so fast.
Anne’s attention was suddenly drawn to the local TV station that had ‘Breaking News’. Anne turned, alarmed at how the newsmen had reacted to the news so fast. The face of the Government spokesperson appeared on the screen and Anne sneered. Her apathy towards some of the people who flocked around her husband was well known. She was a great admirer of people who lived by their own sweat, not off others’ sweat.
The footnote on the TV caught Anne’s attention and she knew that the news had nothing to do with the hotel. “The First Couple officially divorce,” said the spokesperson, as he went on to explain about the morning landmark court ruling. The clips showed Judy walking out of the court buildings and answering all questions with her trademark, “No comment.”
11:23 a.m. Anne made her way to the bunker to join her female friends. They were having group discussions on how to handle rudeness. Anne joined one of the groups and made her contribution on the heated debate on whether or not rudeness called for rudeness in reciprocation.
“You must fight fire with fire,” an angry woman whose face was full of scars was trying to convince her group members that the only way of being assertive was by fighting back. The debate swayed to and from, the facilitator making sure that the ladies remained on task.
It was close to lunchtime when the group had their first major break, allowing the ladies to start their first informal interaction since morning. Most of the ladies were itching to make phone calls, but somehow they knew the rules and chose to abide by them.
Lunch was served in the adjacent room and the ladies had their hearty meal, punctuated by wisecracks from one of the facilitators. Time flew and before they knew it, the half hour lunch break was over and the ladies had to go back for their afternoon session.
2pm. Anne made her way back to the VIP lounge. She had left the TV on and she got headline news flashing on the screen.
“Bomb Scare at Hotel,” announced the anchorwoman, detailing how the guests at the hotel had been evacuated and taken to other destinations. The picture, clearly taken from a distance, showed the Fiatua squad looking mean and ready to do battle. The bomb-squad team was also shown going into the hotel to do their business, as they knew best. No mention was made of the women in the hotel. Either no one remembered The Club or they chose to downplay the whole incidence.
Anne made it back to the bunker, and this time the ladies had been separated into two major groups: wives of cabinets were sent to one room while the wives of the military were sent to and adjacent room. This was going to be the final session of the afternoon: how to be assertive with your spouse.
2:45 pm. Anne strolled out of the ‘Military Wing’ and went to the VIP lounge again. She flipped channels and opted for Channel 007.
“The wives of cabinet ministers and top military brass are feared holed up at the Sheraton Hotel,” the young lady intoned in an annoying fake foreign accent. The lady elaborated on how there was no news of the ladies.
Anne was about to leave the room when the announcer screeched, “Bomb blast in down town!” She turned and paid attention to all the details on how an abandoned building on Hawkers Street had been blasted, leaving five people injured. The announcer rambled on, clearly waiting for more details on the story. None came and Anne, looking tired, made way to the bunker. She did not want to alarm The Club.
The excitement and animated session that the ladies were having convinced Anne that the session was going on well. One of the ladies was talking about the meekness of her husband in the house, despite being one of the most arrogant rulers of the country. Anne smiled, it was evident that some of the ladies needed another session on humility against submission. Later.
3.25 pm. Anne moved to the next room, whispered something to the facilitator and then walked out to the VIP lounge. The same lady, the same fake accent, greeted Anne as she sat on the couch. She strained to read the footnote: “A group calling itself Okoa Nchi Yetu has kidnapped the wives of top Cabinet ministers and top military chiefs. The 40 women were last seen at Sheraton Hotel attending a workshop. No one knows their whereabouts….”
The droning went on, the lady trying to explain some background information. Anne did not listen. Her mind was blank. She stayed a little bit longer and heard that the president had convened a full cabinet and military meeting to deliberate on the matter.
Anne wondered whether or not the president considered himself married to her, especially less than 4 hours after the divorce had been publicly declared. It would be interesting to talk to her former husband and pick his brains. The problem with politicians is that there was little to pick from. Ego, yes.
Anne had seen them all: bunch of thin greedy men and a few women scrambling for the country. She knew all of them, had been to school with some, and had worked with most. Brilliant at their jobs, until joining politics where their greed and ego often overtook their commitment to most of the causes they preached. She marvelled at how some had doubled their body weight in less than a year, a clear indication of poor eating habit. Problem is that they ate everything in sight. Swines!
4:06 pm. Two hours to the end of the workshop give or take thirty minutes. Anne moved from one room to the other making sure that the ladies in The Club were having an assertive time. The groups were in the process of winding up their discussion session, after which they would meet and present their proposals and findings to the bigger group. This would take another hour, punctuated with interruptions ranging from quality questioning to people who were more in love with their voices.
Anne moved to the VIP lounge. The latest news was that the president and the cabinet were holed up in a meeting with the military chiefs for more than two hours. The TV stations had nothing new; The First Club could still not be traced. The Sheraton Hotel was still out of bounds, the security personnel staying guard.
4:40 p.m. Speeches and appreciation time often made Anne sick. It was here that people lied through their noses, while others applauded. There were three speakers lined up to deliver speeches. Anne was to pass the vote of thanks, the final moment of the day. The first speaker was the wife of the Internal Security minister, a lady who could talk for hours if not checked. Anne moved out.
“The president will deliver a statement in the next twenty minutes,” was the announcement made by the chief Government spokesperson. Anne wondered how much of it was true. She couldn’t wait for the twenty minutes, so she walked back to the bunker. The first speaker was still waffling and spewing forth emptiness. Anne shut her mind.
5.30 p.m. “The First Club has the pleasure of sponsoring its members for a week long holiday in Seychelles,” was the announcement being made by the last speaker. The ladies had earlier been told to pack their belongings since they would all be going straight to the airport after the workshop. They were thanked for being such a good audience.
6.00 p.m. Anne rose to give her final speech, the last time she would be doing so as a First Lady. No one in The Club was aware of the transition.
Anne inhaled deeply, and removed a stack of papers: her speech. The ladies looked impatient but out of courtesy to Anne, they sat up to listen.
“We have come to the end of our workshop and as you go home I would like you to ponder on the following.
“How many of you here would survive without your spouse’s cabinet minister’s jobs or military salaries and perks?” Anne posed. The question stunned all, and they sat up ready to listen.
“Imagine a scenario whereby a coup takes place and all our spouses are replaced or displaced from their current positions,” Anne continued. “Put up your hand if you will be able to bring up the family on your own and service all the loans you have taken.” No hands went up.
Anger took over and one of the ladies could not take this kind of talk. She put her hand up, ready to interrupt. Anne waved her down. It was time for a reality check.
“Part of assertion demands that we are in total control of our financial situation as we all know that there is nothing as humiliating as financial blackmail. As we go on your trip to relax, let us all keep this in mind.”
With those words, Anne declared the workshop closed. There were murmurings as the women stood up to troop back to their lockers. Anne went back to the V.I.P lounge. “The president will address the nation at 7.00 p.m.”
6.45 p.m. The excited ladies trooped outside and they were shocked to find two huge ‘Cobra’ helicopters waiting for them outside the hotel. Some noticed the increased presence of security personnel but took it more as a case of importance rather than a crisis. After all, The Club were the dream of most women in the country. None of them even noticed that the all the three mobile phone companies had no signal. “Third World,” someone said. None of them noticed the absence of Anne.
The cabinet minister’s wives were separated from the military ladies and within minutes the two Cobras were airborne carrying a group of excited women.
7:00 p.m. Anne sat at the V.I.P lounge alone, opened her handbag and removed wad of papers. It was a speech. She looked at the T.V and within minutes the man she had called her husband for ten years appeared on T.V. He looked tired and haggard, but which politician ever looked fresh?
Anne looked at the speech in front of her and waited. The president read, “My countrymen and women, I hereby resign as the president of the country with immediate effect. The cabinet, parliament and all civic bodies are hereby dissolved, effectively today.”
Anne smiled. So far, the two speeches were identical to the letter.
“I will hand over the reigns of the country to the Attorney General who will be the legal advisor to the incoming Council of Elders to be chaired by The Chief of General Staff, Jairus Mango. General Elections will be held 6 months from today. However, anyone who has ever vied for a seat in the last two General Elections will not be eligible.”
The rambling went on, detailing the road map to recovery for the battered country. Anne waited for the final nail. “You asked for your country back, and today I am glad to give you back your country. Vote wisely.”
Anne stood up and looked outside the hotel. It was close to 9 p.m. No people were on the streets as a dawn to dusk curfew had been imposed to make the transition smoother. The night was quiet and she mused at what the poets would write about such a cool and calm night. Were it a movie she was directing, she would have added some special effects: prolonged thunderstorms and scary lightning across the dark skies; eerie music and crashing drums. But this was real life, consumed in the silence of a defining moment in the history of her country.
Whoever had said that a week is a long time in politics was definitely poor at arithmetic. In less than six hours, the destiny of a country had moved from known to unknown. There were many questions that Anne wanted to ask, many people that she wanted to talk to, but for now it sufficed that she was in the middle of a great transition that would either make or break the country.
The papers would have a field day for days on end. Anne thought of one half of The Club, the cabinet minister’s wives and the shock they had received at boarding the plane only to find their spouses seated on the same plane. And what about the military women who were taken back to the barracks to be told the news. She would miss them, honestly.
Anne thought of the crazy headlines the journalists would go for to outdo each other. “The First Revolution,” or “Divorcing the Country,” or “Give Us Back our Country!” But her favourite would be “From First Lady to First Mistress…….”
7.48 a.m. Anne looked at the guest list for the umpteenth time. She wanted to make sure that all the members of The Club were going to be present for the workshop dubbed ‘Assertiveness is not Aggression’. She did not want any apologies; all had to attend.
Anne’s phone rang and she looked at the number on the screen. It was Judy, her legal advisor. “Are you coming for the ruling?” Judy asked casually, knowing that as The First Lady, Anne’s schedule was pretty tight and that she had neither the time nor energy to run around the congested and often confusing dark court corridors.
“No, Judy. I have to attend to this workshop. It might be the last one I am presiding over as a First Lady,” Anne replied dryly. Judy winced.
Anne’s husband, the president of the country, had filed for a divorce on grounds of nullity of the marriage resulting from childlessness. Surprisingly the case was treated as a low-key affair amongst the press, mainly out of respect for The First Lady’s effort in community service. But it was an open secret amongst the ruling elite that things were not that rosy at The Palace.
“Do what you can,” Anne finally told Judy, her former schoolmate and a personal friend of many years. Judy could not understand how a lady could give up so easily and yet conduct a workshop on assertiveness.
Some things just never made sense. Judy had tried telling Anne to settle for half the estate but Anne had been adamant; “If you can’t share the sky, why share the land?” had been her wise crack at Judy.
Anne had insisted that she wanted nothing from their 10-year-old marriage. She just wanted to be left alone to continue with her charity work. “Let him go his way, and I go mine,” had been Anne’s final words.
Anne looked at the list again. She was at the prestigious Sheraton Hotel, finalising all the details for the day. She glanced at her watch and knew that the elegant ladies were about to start trooping in.
‘The First Wives Club’ had been Anne’s brainchild. The group brought together all the top women in the country: wives of cabinet ministers and wives of the top military brass. No politicians were allowed. The group had become the conscience of the society, sometimes rubbing politicians the wrong way.
8.02 a.m. Anne looked out of the window of the V.I.P lounge, eager to see what poets and authors regaled about the world. There was no chirping of birds or crickets, no howling of the wind or the sun breaking from dark clouds. It was a dull day. Nothing to write home about. Just another day.
The phone rang again and this time the Chief of General Staff, Jairus Mango, broke the silence. “All security measures have been taken care of,” he formally informed the First Lady who did not want to gamble with the Club’s security.
“Thanks Jairo,” Anne replied, preferring to use the Chief’s pet name. She smiled and knew that Jairo meant every word of it when he said that all was well taken care of. That was all she needed to run her meeting safely.
By 9 o’clock, all the ladies had arrived in pomp and splendour, a parade of sets of new clothes, jewellery, shoes, handbags, perfume. Huge suitcases were towed into the hotel by the porters. There was excited chattering as the ladies hugged and held hands, as if they had not seen each others for ages.
The group moved to the venue of the workshop: the bunker, a place where one got lost and forgot about the outside world. The ladies were to be there for the better part of the day.
Half an hour later, Anne summoned all the women to the Temptation Hall. “You all have ten minutes to make a phone call, after which no calls will be allowed,” she announced to the attentive group. They knew the rules of the bunker; no calls could be made as a jamming device that made it impossible for mobile phones to be used had been installed.
The ladies made good use of the grace period, knowing that the next break would be well after 5pm. They all knew and accepted that as the coordinator and convenor of the workshop, Anne was the only one allowed to visit the reception area and retrieve or take calls.
Anne called Judy. “Am about to enter the court room. I will let you know what transpires,” Judy told her friend.
“Thanks, Judy.” Anne sighed and then switched off her phone. She wanted to concentrate on her workshop.
11:00 am. Anne took a stroll to the reception area. As she was about to talk to the lady receptionist, the Hotel phone rang and the lady answered in the monotone characterised by many telephone operators. Anne watched as the lady’s face darkened, prompting her to press the Fire Drill bell.
“Bomb alert in the hotel!” the lady shrieked at the First lady as she scrambled to get out of her seat. From there the hotel security team took over, shouting orders and ushering guests out of the internationally renowned hotel. It took close to twenty minutes to empty all the rooms and get the guest out of the looming danger. For some strange reasons, the alarm at the bunker did not sound, hence enabling The Club to continue with its workshop, completely unaware of the unravelling drama outside.
Anne taking advantage of the confusion moved to the V.I.P lounge, from where she watched the mayhem downstairs. People were running up and down, screaming at the top of their voices. Somehow, after the Twin Tower’s bombing, the world had become paranoid to bomb alerts. Anne picked the phone and called The Gossip, giving the breaking news.
In less than ten minutes, the hotel had been completely surrounded by the dreaded crack unit code named Fiatua. It’s amazing how they had responded so fast.
Anne’s attention was suddenly drawn to the local TV station that had ‘Breaking News’. Anne turned, alarmed at how the newsmen had reacted to the news so fast. The face of the Government spokesperson appeared on the screen and Anne sneered. Her apathy towards some of the people who flocked around her husband was well known. She was a great admirer of people who lived by their own sweat, not off others’ sweat.
The footnote on the TV caught Anne’s attention and she knew that the news had nothing to do with the hotel. “The First Couple officially divorce,” said the spokesperson, as he went on to explain about the morning landmark court ruling. The clips showed Judy walking out of the court buildings and answering all questions with her trademark, “No comment.”
11:23 a.m. Anne made her way to the bunker to join her female friends. They were having group discussions on how to handle rudeness. Anne joined one of the groups and made her contribution on the heated debate on whether or not rudeness called for rudeness in reciprocation.
“You must fight fire with fire,” an angry woman whose face was full of scars was trying to convince her group members that the only way of being assertive was by fighting back. The debate swayed to and from, the facilitator making sure that the ladies remained on task.
It was close to lunchtime when the group had their first major break, allowing the ladies to start their first informal interaction since morning. Most of the ladies were itching to make phone calls, but somehow they knew the rules and chose to abide by them.
Lunch was served in the adjacent room and the ladies had their hearty meal, punctuated by wisecracks from one of the facilitators. Time flew and before they knew it, the half hour lunch break was over and the ladies had to go back for their afternoon session.
2pm. Anne made her way back to the VIP lounge. She had left the TV on and she got headline news flashing on the screen.
“Bomb Scare at Hotel,” announced the anchorwoman, detailing how the guests at the hotel had been evacuated and taken to other destinations. The picture, clearly taken from a distance, showed the Fiatua squad looking mean and ready to do battle. The bomb-squad team was also shown going into the hotel to do their business, as they knew best. No mention was made of the women in the hotel. Either no one remembered The Club or they chose to downplay the whole incidence.
Anne made it back to the bunker, and this time the ladies had been separated into two major groups: wives of cabinets were sent to one room while the wives of the military were sent to and adjacent room. This was going to be the final session of the afternoon: how to be assertive with your spouse.
2:45 pm. Anne strolled out of the ‘Military Wing’ and went to the VIP lounge again. She flipped channels and opted for Channel 007.
“The wives of cabinet ministers and top military brass are feared holed up at the Sheraton Hotel,” the young lady intoned in an annoying fake foreign accent. The lady elaborated on how there was no news of the ladies.
Anne was about to leave the room when the announcer screeched, “Bomb blast in down town!” She turned and paid attention to all the details on how an abandoned building on Hawkers Street had been blasted, leaving five people injured. The announcer rambled on, clearly waiting for more details on the story. None came and Anne, looking tired, made way to the bunker. She did not want to alarm The Club.
The excitement and animated session that the ladies were having convinced Anne that the session was going on well. One of the ladies was talking about the meekness of her husband in the house, despite being one of the most arrogant rulers of the country. Anne smiled, it was evident that some of the ladies needed another session on humility against submission. Later.
3.25 pm. Anne moved to the next room, whispered something to the facilitator and then walked out to the VIP lounge. The same lady, the same fake accent, greeted Anne as she sat on the couch. She strained to read the footnote: “A group calling itself Okoa Nchi Yetu has kidnapped the wives of top Cabinet ministers and top military chiefs. The 40 women were last seen at Sheraton Hotel attending a workshop. No one knows their whereabouts….”
The droning went on, the lady trying to explain some background information. Anne did not listen. Her mind was blank. She stayed a little bit longer and heard that the president had convened a full cabinet and military meeting to deliberate on the matter.
Anne wondered whether or not the president considered himself married to her, especially less than 4 hours after the divorce had been publicly declared. It would be interesting to talk to her former husband and pick his brains. The problem with politicians is that there was little to pick from. Ego, yes.
Anne had seen them all: bunch of thin greedy men and a few women scrambling for the country. She knew all of them, had been to school with some, and had worked with most. Brilliant at their jobs, until joining politics where their greed and ego often overtook their commitment to most of the causes they preached. She marvelled at how some had doubled their body weight in less than a year, a clear indication of poor eating habit. Problem is that they ate everything in sight. Swines!
4:06 pm. Two hours to the end of the workshop give or take thirty minutes. Anne moved from one room to the other making sure that the ladies in The Club were having an assertive time. The groups were in the process of winding up their discussion session, after which they would meet and present their proposals and findings to the bigger group. This would take another hour, punctuated with interruptions ranging from quality questioning to people who were more in love with their voices.
Anne moved to the VIP lounge. The latest news was that the president and the cabinet were holed up in a meeting with the military chiefs for more than two hours. The TV stations had nothing new; The First Club could still not be traced. The Sheraton Hotel was still out of bounds, the security personnel staying guard.
4:40 p.m. Speeches and appreciation time often made Anne sick. It was here that people lied through their noses, while others applauded. There were three speakers lined up to deliver speeches. Anne was to pass the vote of thanks, the final moment of the day. The first speaker was the wife of the Internal Security minister, a lady who could talk for hours if not checked. Anne moved out.
“The president will deliver a statement in the next twenty minutes,” was the announcement made by the chief Government spokesperson. Anne wondered how much of it was true. She couldn’t wait for the twenty minutes, so she walked back to the bunker. The first speaker was still waffling and spewing forth emptiness. Anne shut her mind.
5.30 p.m. “The First Club has the pleasure of sponsoring its members for a week long holiday in Seychelles,” was the announcement being made by the last speaker. The ladies had earlier been told to pack their belongings since they would all be going straight to the airport after the workshop. They were thanked for being such a good audience.
6.00 p.m. Anne rose to give her final speech, the last time she would be doing so as a First Lady. No one in The Club was aware of the transition.
Anne inhaled deeply, and removed a stack of papers: her speech. The ladies looked impatient but out of courtesy to Anne, they sat up to listen.
“We have come to the end of our workshop and as you go home I would like you to ponder on the following.
“How many of you here would survive without your spouse’s cabinet minister’s jobs or military salaries and perks?” Anne posed. The question stunned all, and they sat up ready to listen.
“Imagine a scenario whereby a coup takes place and all our spouses are replaced or displaced from their current positions,” Anne continued. “Put up your hand if you will be able to bring up the family on your own and service all the loans you have taken.” No hands went up.
Anger took over and one of the ladies could not take this kind of talk. She put her hand up, ready to interrupt. Anne waved her down. It was time for a reality check.
“Part of assertion demands that we are in total control of our financial situation as we all know that there is nothing as humiliating as financial blackmail. As we go on your trip to relax, let us all keep this in mind.”
With those words, Anne declared the workshop closed. There were murmurings as the women stood up to troop back to their lockers. Anne went back to the V.I.P lounge. “The president will address the nation at 7.00 p.m.”
6.45 p.m. The excited ladies trooped outside and they were shocked to find two huge ‘Cobra’ helicopters waiting for them outside the hotel. Some noticed the increased presence of security personnel but took it more as a case of importance rather than a crisis. After all, The Club were the dream of most women in the country. None of them even noticed that the all the three mobile phone companies had no signal. “Third World,” someone said. None of them noticed the absence of Anne.
The cabinet minister’s wives were separated from the military ladies and within minutes the two Cobras were airborne carrying a group of excited women.
7:00 p.m. Anne sat at the V.I.P lounge alone, opened her handbag and removed wad of papers. It was a speech. She looked at the T.V and within minutes the man she had called her husband for ten years appeared on T.V. He looked tired and haggard, but which politician ever looked fresh?
Anne looked at the speech in front of her and waited. The president read, “My countrymen and women, I hereby resign as the president of the country with immediate effect. The cabinet, parliament and all civic bodies are hereby dissolved, effectively today.”
Anne smiled. So far, the two speeches were identical to the letter.
“I will hand over the reigns of the country to the Attorney General who will be the legal advisor to the incoming Council of Elders to be chaired by The Chief of General Staff, Jairus Mango. General Elections will be held 6 months from today. However, anyone who has ever vied for a seat in the last two General Elections will not be eligible.”
The rambling went on, detailing the road map to recovery for the battered country. Anne waited for the final nail. “You asked for your country back, and today I am glad to give you back your country. Vote wisely.”
Anne stood up and looked outside the hotel. It was close to 9 p.m. No people were on the streets as a dawn to dusk curfew had been imposed to make the transition smoother. The night was quiet and she mused at what the poets would write about such a cool and calm night. Were it a movie she was directing, she would have added some special effects: prolonged thunderstorms and scary lightning across the dark skies; eerie music and crashing drums. But this was real life, consumed in the silence of a defining moment in the history of her country.
Whoever had said that a week is a long time in politics was definitely poor at arithmetic. In less than six hours, the destiny of a country had moved from known to unknown. There were many questions that Anne wanted to ask, many people that she wanted to talk to, but for now it sufficed that she was in the middle of a great transition that would either make or break the country.
The papers would have a field day for days on end. Anne thought of one half of The Club, the cabinet minister’s wives and the shock they had received at boarding the plane only to find their spouses seated on the same plane. And what about the military women who were taken back to the barracks to be told the news. She would miss them, honestly.
Anne thought of the crazy headlines the journalists would go for to outdo each other. “The First Revolution,” or “Divorcing the Country,” or “Give Us Back our Country!” But her favourite would be “From First Lady to First Mistress…….”
Women Of Mass Destruction (WMD)
A brief encounter with female pirates on mv Nyumbani.
Whoever came up with the idea of supermarkets, hypermarkets, megamarkets and all those ‘matt’ – Nakumatt, Naivamatt, Tuskermatt, Karizmatt, Onyimatt etc, just has no clue what injustice she (it definitely must be a she) did to Mwanaume’s 23 year old battered, bruised and bondekad wallet – a survivor of 4 General Elections, 2 National census, 4 US Presidents amongst many more.
Closer home, within the four walls called Mv Nyumbani, fully loaded with female pirates, I find myself outnumbered in the ratio 5: 1, that is excluding the 2 family pets: the combative goggle eyed cat named Martha and the ancient, laid back mongrel of a dog called Kivuitu.
It gets worse at end month.
“Daddy, today we are shopping at Nakumatt Westgate, ya?” asks Angel, my 5 year old whose tantrums and conniving nature bears nothing close to the heavenly name she was given. Angel is also the official spokesperson of the All Girl Crew in my house and which, by powers not conferred to me by the Senate, I refer to as Women Of Mass Destruction (WMD) – of course against their knowledge otherwise I would be hysteria.
I freeze and before I can mouth a logical answer, Angel bounds off with a , “Thank you daddy. You are the best daddy in the whole world” (Aiye! Are there other daddies other than me?) Nakumatt Westgate? That is a place where shs.1000 is change and the parking space is BIG!
Off Angel goes to announce that MIA – Mission Accomplished – the enemy has been vanquished and will not be able to mount any further attacks!
A resounding and well choreographed ‘Yes!” resounds from the other room and I immediately know that there is no retreat in this. Within seconds the whole WMD troupe in to hug me for willingly conceding defeat and for agreeing to form a coalition between my battered wallet and their non –existent one! This to me is not sharing of power – this is domestic ngeta Mugabe style: what’s mine is mine, what’s yours is also mine.
“Please apply some oil on your legs,” comments 13 year old Seraphine – another misguided heavenly body who seems to find the Obama’s American accent more suitable to our local Kangemishire one!
Before I can reply, 15 year old Cherubim, an aspiring fashion mogul add in, “Don’t embarrass us in Westlands with those quodroy trousers!”
“Are we using Njoroge’s taxi or Mwangi’s?” chips in my neighbour in bed, aka Otero, captain of Mv Nyumbani who is known to be as brutal as those starring actors ‘fellows’ I watched on walk – in movies. Otero, a relentless and progressive minded WMD has overseen some of the worst crisis in the house – the most epic one being The Ngothagate Scandal which took place one morning when I woke up to find all my briefs missing – no underwear, no vest, no socks. I immediately thought of the renovations going on at the museum and that the curator must have been looking for something more authentic than Tarzan’s one piece wonder – the G-string!
“Mungu One, Wapi ngotha zangu?” I had asked immediately switching to the lingua that the tongue slides into when trouble is brewing and all manner of reason deserts you.
“Those were not briefs but distant relatives of clothing that are only suitable as fishing nets in Lake Victoria,” Otero had answered as a matter of fact. What vile!
“How will I go to work?”
Arguing with WMDs is one battle that you are guaranteed to lose. Some of the missiles fired by WMDs are worth making it to ‘Who’s Smarter Now’ and give the Swahili guru Wala bin Wala a new ngeli ya Ku-Handwa!
“Kwani ni ngotha ina do job?” Pass.
“Who will know you are bilaz?” Pass.
“Were you born wearing them?” Pass.
“So you mean I don’t ever need them?” I mumbled, though I knew I had lost miserably. This is gender inequality – how can she go to work wearing them and I go bilaz?
And I was about to lose the taxi one as well if I did not come up with a smart answer.
“Let me call the drivers,” I said as I whipped out my ten year old, heavily bandaged original toothless (blue tooth kitu gani) and colourless (infra red) Nokia 3310. If these guys knew that when that phone surfaced, Safaricom lines were going for shs.5 000 and the phones for Kshs.12 000. I had to take an emergency loan to afford a phone and a line in the days that one US dollar used to trade at shs.40 and shs.100 could buy several litres of petrol, numerous rounds of beer etc etc.
“Dad, not again,” cried Angel referring to my phone’s loud and jarring ring tone which still has heads turning but more in pity than admiration.
“Even if I am paid I cannot take that phone,” joined in Seraphine cockily.
“Hall of Shame!” cried Cherubim confidently stroking her Nokia N-Series that she bought from savings.
These are girls who were named after angels in heaven but the only time they are angelic is when they are asleep – of course minus the snoring bit.
“We shall use Njoroge’s taxi today,” I replied as I stood. “I am going to get him from the pub!”
And with that I walked out of Girl Zone.
It was not until midnight that I came back to the house with all the shopping in the same ‘matt’ paper bags found in Westgate (Si it is what is inside that counts). The angels were asleep and snoring but Captain Otero of Mv Nyumbani was not.
From a distant I heard the incessant barking of Kivuitu, that mongrel who has a penchant of sensing trouble. Tell them that we are not quitters Kivuitu. Tell them! Another bark.
The next time those Somali pirates are recruiting please let me know. But that is a story for another day.
Whoever came up with the idea of supermarkets, hypermarkets, megamarkets and all those ‘matt’ – Nakumatt, Naivamatt, Tuskermatt, Karizmatt, Onyimatt etc, just has no clue what injustice she (it definitely must be a she) did to Mwanaume’s 23 year old battered, bruised and bondekad wallet – a survivor of 4 General Elections, 2 National census, 4 US Presidents amongst many more.
Closer home, within the four walls called Mv Nyumbani, fully loaded with female pirates, I find myself outnumbered in the ratio 5: 1, that is excluding the 2 family pets: the combative goggle eyed cat named Martha and the ancient, laid back mongrel of a dog called Kivuitu.
It gets worse at end month.
“Daddy, today we are shopping at Nakumatt Westgate, ya?” asks Angel, my 5 year old whose tantrums and conniving nature bears nothing close to the heavenly name she was given. Angel is also the official spokesperson of the All Girl Crew in my house and which, by powers not conferred to me by the Senate, I refer to as Women Of Mass Destruction (WMD) – of course against their knowledge otherwise I would be hysteria.
I freeze and before I can mouth a logical answer, Angel bounds off with a , “Thank you daddy. You are the best daddy in the whole world” (Aiye! Are there other daddies other than me?) Nakumatt Westgate? That is a place where shs.1000 is change and the parking space is BIG!
Off Angel goes to announce that MIA – Mission Accomplished – the enemy has been vanquished and will not be able to mount any further attacks!
A resounding and well choreographed ‘Yes!” resounds from the other room and I immediately know that there is no retreat in this. Within seconds the whole WMD troupe in to hug me for willingly conceding defeat and for agreeing to form a coalition between my battered wallet and their non –existent one! This to me is not sharing of power – this is domestic ngeta Mugabe style: what’s mine is mine, what’s yours is also mine.
“Please apply some oil on your legs,” comments 13 year old Seraphine – another misguided heavenly body who seems to find the Obama’s American accent more suitable to our local Kangemishire one!
Before I can reply, 15 year old Cherubim, an aspiring fashion mogul add in, “Don’t embarrass us in Westlands with those quodroy trousers!”
“Are we using Njoroge’s taxi or Mwangi’s?” chips in my neighbour in bed, aka Otero, captain of Mv Nyumbani who is known to be as brutal as those starring actors ‘fellows’ I watched on walk – in movies. Otero, a relentless and progressive minded WMD has overseen some of the worst crisis in the house – the most epic one being The Ngothagate Scandal which took place one morning when I woke up to find all my briefs missing – no underwear, no vest, no socks. I immediately thought of the renovations going on at the museum and that the curator must have been looking for something more authentic than Tarzan’s one piece wonder – the G-string!
“Mungu One, Wapi ngotha zangu?” I had asked immediately switching to the lingua that the tongue slides into when trouble is brewing and all manner of reason deserts you.
“Those were not briefs but distant relatives of clothing that are only suitable as fishing nets in Lake Victoria,” Otero had answered as a matter of fact. What vile!
“How will I go to work?”
Arguing with WMDs is one battle that you are guaranteed to lose. Some of the missiles fired by WMDs are worth making it to ‘Who’s Smarter Now’ and give the Swahili guru Wala bin Wala a new ngeli ya Ku-Handwa!
“Kwani ni ngotha ina do job?” Pass.
“Who will know you are bilaz?” Pass.
“Were you born wearing them?” Pass.
“So you mean I don’t ever need them?” I mumbled, though I knew I had lost miserably. This is gender inequality – how can she go to work wearing them and I go bilaz?
And I was about to lose the taxi one as well if I did not come up with a smart answer.
“Let me call the drivers,” I said as I whipped out my ten year old, heavily bandaged original toothless (blue tooth kitu gani) and colourless (infra red) Nokia 3310. If these guys knew that when that phone surfaced, Safaricom lines were going for shs.5 000 and the phones for Kshs.12 000. I had to take an emergency loan to afford a phone and a line in the days that one US dollar used to trade at shs.40 and shs.100 could buy several litres of petrol, numerous rounds of beer etc etc.
“Dad, not again,” cried Angel referring to my phone’s loud and jarring ring tone which still has heads turning but more in pity than admiration.
“Even if I am paid I cannot take that phone,” joined in Seraphine cockily.
“Hall of Shame!” cried Cherubim confidently stroking her Nokia N-Series that she bought from savings.
These are girls who were named after angels in heaven but the only time they are angelic is when they are asleep – of course minus the snoring bit.
“We shall use Njoroge’s taxi today,” I replied as I stood. “I am going to get him from the pub!”
And with that I walked out of Girl Zone.
It was not until midnight that I came back to the house with all the shopping in the same ‘matt’ paper bags found in Westgate (Si it is what is inside that counts). The angels were asleep and snoring but Captain Otero of Mv Nyumbani was not.
From a distant I heard the incessant barking of Kivuitu, that mongrel who has a penchant of sensing trouble. Tell them that we are not quitters Kivuitu. Tell them! Another bark.
The next time those Somali pirates are recruiting please let me know. But that is a story for another day.
Scales of a Python
I was 14 when it happened. He was much older than I – must have been more than 18, but definitely not as ancient as my mum! What mattered to me were two things: first that I had managed to really really do something to annoy my mom and secondly that I had finally done it! I was a woman.
“Sasa Miss Kenya,” Soja would chide me each day as I passed the gate on my way to school. And with that I would wiggle my jelly bums sure that he was ogling with his buggy mouth. He made my day, not only because of his comments but mainly because my mom despised him.
A month went by and every girl’s nightmare of missing monthly period became a celebration point for me. This would hurt mom really bad. Me, a 14 year old girl in std.8 impregnated by a watchman! I could not wait to see the look on her face as I broke the news. Thriller at Old Trafford.
My mum and I hardly talked and when we did it was in monosyllables capable of making a kindergarten teacher turn green with envy.
“I missed my periods!”
“What?”
“You heard me!”
“How many days?”
“Two weeks.”
“Maybe it is the stress of std.8.”
“Maybe not.”
Silence.
“Who is the father?”
“Who is my father?”
Silence.
The look on her face? Manchester United soaking in 4 goals at home to Liverpool. The mascara and eye pencil seemed to discolour, of course trying to disguise the anger rising in her. I know she would not hit me. As a top lawyer and leading FIDA activist responsible for putting many men behind bars, my mom knew that the last thing she would do was to give advantage to all those hawkish men – mainly lawyers – waiting to nail her.
It took less than a week for mom to sudoku the problem and come with a solution. The 8th set of daggers in our never ending war was drawn.
Mum waited until I had just arrived from school. It was around 5.30pm and the first shock for me was to find her car parked so early in the car park. The last time mum ever came this early or to pick me from school was when I was in pre-school. She was a late person – often past midnight.
“Kuna nini?” I asked Soja.
“Sijui!” Soja had become very moody ever since he had found out that I was like that. Shit face of a man, must be a fan of Man Utd!
I walked past Soja to our flat – Number 8. Yes, mum was home with four serious looking men. They were all dressed in dark suits. Maybe they were lawyers. Maybe not.
The moment I walked in, all the four men stood to say hi to me. This I found odd.
“Have a seat,” mom ordered.
“Why?”
Mum looked at the men and they nodded having understood in less than a minute that ours was a one drawn out war.
I chose to stand thus forcing the men to standing. My mum also chose to stand, so I sat down.
“Did he rape you?” asked one of the men.
I studied him before replying, “No.”
“Are you sure?” asked the second goof.
“Were you there?”
Instinctively he raised his hand but my mum held him back. It was over. I stood up and went to my bedroom. What would they do if I did not co-operate?
From my bedroom window, I watched as my mum led the men downstairs. They briefly talked to Soja, identified themselves and then bundled him into another car. I saw my mum glance towards my bedroom. The smile on her face? Alex Fergusson, Manchester United coach, madly celebrating an obviously offside goal.
Soja was arraigned in court in record time – the following day. Mum made sure that his case was presided by the toughest of the available judges, a woman who, rumour had it, was once a victim of sexual violence.
I attended all the 4 sessions of the court case. Soja was subdued and denied any charges of having carnal knowledge with a minor. 3 witnesses, all housegirls in our flats, appeared as witnesses against Soja. They all described in great detail how Soja used to come to my house and sleep with me. I could see through the plot mum had carefully hatched. No wonder the flat had a new set of housegirls.
After less than two weeks on the dock, Soja was sentenced to 10 years imprisonment with hard labour for having carnal knowledge with a minor. Me a minor, definitely not! I was sad because Soja was sad, and, honestly, he had been very gentle with me. I would miss him.
I wrote my std.8 exams in my seventh month of pregnancy. The school had hinted at having me expelled but my mum’s reputation ensured that I was not thrown out of school.
The KCPE results were released in December and I was the top student in the province, third best in the country. Mum tried to hide me from the press but I managed to grant interviews to all the leading media houses in the country.
“Who is the father of your baby?” one bitchy journalist had asked me during the interview.
“Soja is his name!”
The following day’s newspaper had screaming headlines and pictures of me and, to my surprise and mum’s anger, Soja’s pictures as well. The look on mum’s face? Ronaldo, Manchester United leading striker, missing the opportunity to equalize with a penalty in the 93rd minute.
I delivered a bouncing baby girl at Pumwani Maternity after snubbing my mom’s help to go to Nairobi Hospital. The same bitchy journalist was there to take pictures and scoop what she hoped would be an award winning story. I named my girl Brenda Fassie.
I got my calling letter to a top girl’s boarding school in Nairobi. I wanted to stay with my baby but this was going to be one hell of a battle.
“I will look after the baby,” mum told me.
“But you are not the mother.”
“And you are too young.”
“You are never in the house.”
“And neither will you.”
“She is mine!”
“And Soja’s!”
Cheap shot but it worked. Between Soja’s mum and my mum staying with my baby, I chose my mum. Woman’s instinct.
Within two weeks I was transported to school to start life in secondary school where my reputation had already preceded me.
I started life in school on the wrong footing, avoiding all manner of men that seemed to be my mum’s liking. I hated male teachers, however much they tried being friendly with me. So I talked and laughed my heart out with watchmen, cleaners, drivers, lab technicians. I loved them and they in turn reciprocated. It was not long before I ended up in the servants’ quarters of one of the lab assistants. I rode my luck for 3 weeks before a bitchy lesbian of a prefect who was after my pussy finally trailed me to that house at night.
The end result was messy but being frog marched out of the man’s house at night in my night dress in front of the matron and the headteacher was kinda fun. The only ingredient missing was my mum.
“Shame on you,” shouted the matron.
I looked at her and cursed that she was lucky she was not my mum. But the look I gave her was enough to make her look away.
The following morning, all my bags packed, I sat outside the Principals office waiting for my mum to come. The whole school by now knew of the story and all girls were happy – some because I had been fixed but most because I had opened an avenue of love making for them.
My mum arrived early. In tow was a well dressed man, a fellow lawyer I guessed.
“What now?” she glowered at me. The look on her face? Wayne Rooney of Manchester United being red carded in the 3rd minute of an FA cup finals.
I chose to address him. “Are you my father?”
He did not answer but quickly went back to the car.
The principal heard our voices and she came out, her high heels making annoying contact with the floor.
“Come in,” she ordered us. We went in and my mum sat down. I chose to stand.
“Tell your mother what you have been doing,” the Principal’s sharp and authoritative voice opened the session. No greetings.
Big mistake, Ms Principal. When it comes to breaking mum’s heart, I will gladly sing. And sing I did.
“Yesterday I was caught fucking the school’s lab assistant at his house at night. This has been going on daily for the last three weeks!” I smiled as I talked. “But Soja is a better lover,” I added.
The Principal flinched at the F word and at the boldness with which I had openly said what had taken place. If she thought I was bad, wait till she faced my mum.
Mum’s instincts as a lawyer went into overdrive. “Where is he?”
That one caught the Principal off guard. If she thought that this was going to be a walk over, then she did not know my mum.
She fumbled for an answer before replying. “Sacked!”
“Show me the letter. Show me his house!” mum was at her best. “Or I call the police and the press right now.” The fight had shifted from me to two women who did not know how to cede ground.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yes.”
“No one threatens me.”
“I just have.” And with that mum whipped out her phone and called the police and the press telling them that she had discovered another rapist in a girl’s secondary school and the Principal was refusing to co-operate.
“Okay,” the Principal reluctantly conceded. “What do you want?”
“Two things: One she is going back now. Two, I want that man out of here now or he will be arrested in an hours time.”
My face fell when I realized that mum had again outwitted me and what had started as a celebratory lap of honour had turned into a trot of despair
“Go back to class,” the Principal barked at me, more out of anger with mum than with me. I looked at mum with venomous eyes. She smiled smugly. Paul Scholes of Man Utd had just tripped the referee.
I went back to class and to the dorm. I became an instant hero amongst the students, though I had made powerful enemies with the prefect body, the teachers and the Principal. The students were happy because I had proved that it was possible to get certain forbidden services in school. Low cadre male workers were suddenly a targeted species. The men certainly did not mind.
Drama filled years accompanied me in my four years in secondary. Games of hide and seek became the order of the day as the administration tried its level best to frustrate me out of school. For my endless clashes with the management, I acquired the nick name OJ of the Tahidi High fame. I broke all manner of records in school: academic, sporting, moral, and disciplinary. All. Rackets involving credit cards, bread, phone calls revolved around me. I even made sure that three quarters of the girls had condoms in their suitcases. Just in case the craving struck. Black T-shirts donning the words Pussie Katie – Sharpen your Claws sold like hot cake.
The most notable, however, was when I was dared by some classmates to bed the Principal’s hubby. I took on the challenge but only if each Form Four student placed a bet of shs.1000. They did and I walked away with a cool shs.120 000.
I finally wrote my KCSE exams and the day I cleared from school is the same day I cleared from home. Accompanying me was Brenda Fassie, my 4 year old bundle of joy.
Mum was furious that I was moving out without a job or any means of survival. I laughed as I packed my earthly belongings to go and start life on my own. After all I was 18, an adult by the country’s laws.
“I hope you know what you are doing,” were mum’s last words as I walked out of her house to nowhere. I had rented a one bed roomed house on the outskirts of the city, courtesy of one of the many benefactors that I had drawn up when at school. The look on her face? Rio Ferdinand, captain of Manchester United, scoring the winning goal in the 89th minute – an own goal!
I enrolled for a law degree – more to fight mum in the courtrooms than anything else – at a private university. I grew. My daughter grew. My fights with mum grew. Her organization CAR – Castrate All Rapists – was the rave of the town with women giving them all the necessary support. I took the opposite direction. I decided to track all the women who had brought up cases against rapists. The results were astounding: more than 40% of the cases were fake and customized to get the organization a name. This became my secret weapon and I did not act yet. I made my dossier ready to strike as an advocate.
Within three years, I had completed my degree course, courtesy of my brilliant mind and my more brilliant body. One more year at School of Law and I would be a fully qualified lawyer. My dossier was getting fatter. My daughter had also grown and, more worryingly, had started asking searching questions about her dad. I told her the truth.
“Can we visit him?”
“One day.”
“Today is one day.”
“Okay, but let me call the prison authorities first.”
“Okay.”
And with that I bought me some time. Brenda’s teachers had started complaining about her behaviour at school.
Finally I qualified to be a lawyer and my first stop was at the CJs office. I was turned away but I told the secretary that I would be back.
My fights with mum moved to the courtrooms. I passionately defended anyone that she prosecuted. The press picked up the fights and before long we were daily on the front pages but more for the wrong reason. Each of us had her own team of paid journalists.
It is during this time that I unleashed the CAR report. The dossier was so big that it had to be serialized for 7 consecutive days in the dailies. It made comprehensive and interesting reading. Men in the country, especially Parliamentarians, were up in arms about the report. The CJ and AG called for the investigation of CAR. I gloated in victory.
A week after the CAR’s storm had subsided, I got a call from an unfamiliar number. The voice, however, was very familiar.
“Sasa Miss Kenya.”
Silence.
“Poa Soja. Uko?”
“Outside your office!”
That sent me scampering outside to see where he could be. I saw him, a thin and emaciated man. He held out his hand and I gave him a big hug. I invited him to the office and we talked endlessly about many things, though I noticed some discomfort in his speech. Then he landed the bombshell.
“I want my baby.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“She is also my baby.”
“Western Kenyan men do not leave their babies.”
“Kenyan women do not leave their babies either!”
“Will you give me the baby or not?”
“How much did she pay you?”
Silence. Guilt.
With the help of security, I threw him out of my office. It took me some time to realize that he had actually been released on my mother’s influence and paid to come and ruffle my life. Two against one. Man Utd had managed to pocket the referee, two linesmen and the match commissar!
The fights grew nastier and bitchier. I decided to go for the men she was dating. I vowed to sleep with all, and I mean all. My first strike was Mike. He played hard to get and I became more demanding. He must have tipped my mum about my moves because, one day mum called me. The ring tone? Everybody Loves Kung Fu Fighting.
“What?”
“We need to talk.”
“We are.”
“Be serious.”
“Why?”
“Us.”
“Time?”
“6 pm L’Grand.”
Click.
I had 3 hours to sharpen my claws. Today I would tear her once and for all. She would regret ever trying to meet me face to face.
Time crawled. I paced up and down the office looking for something to do. Finally at 5pm, I could no longer stand the tension. I closed shop and walked to L’Grand, a casual 15 minutes stroll. I was there at 5.20pm and was shocked to find my mum already there. She was alone in her trademark skirt suits. I was in my trademark dirty jeans, graffiti laden T-Shirt and dirty sneakers. My hair was creatively dyed in 3 different colours.
I pulled the chair opposite mum and turned it towards myself. I sat.
“Hi,” she muttered.
“Hi,” I growled. She was taking red wine, so I ordered a cold Tusker simply for the reason that they did not have chang’aa or busaa.
I lit a cigarette, because I could not light a roll of bhang. The No Smoking sign did not bother me. Rules were made to be broken.
“I was 14 years old when I conceived you,” she started. Her voice was softer than I had ever heard. I lost my balance. Maybe it was a strategy to lure me to a trap.
“It was during an estate party of teenagers only. Drinks, drugs and sex flowed freely during this party. The owners of the house had traveled abroad leaving two teenage boys, 15 and 17 in charge.
“All the teenagers in the neighbourhood heard about the party and all made a point to attend. I had no problem attending as I practically lived alone – mum was always away doing business in Dubai.”
Mum’s face? Half time at Old Trafford, Theatre of Dreams.
This was the longest mum had ever spoken to me without rude interruption from myself. And it was the longest I had ever paid attention to her. I was still looking for the catch in her strategy. So far, none. Mine was still defensive Manchester United formation of 1-10 - 0.
“There was this room upstairs that was an invite only. I decided to go and see for myself. At the door, I met Ali, the 17 year old host of the party. He ushered me into the room and locked the door.
Pause. Mum sipped her wine. I was a bag of nerves now. This was interesting. How come in all these years I had never heard even a rumour of my mum’s life as a teenager. I looked at her straight into the eye and I saw pain.
“I entered the room and there were like 6 boys and 5 girls. I was the 6th girl, thus making it a perfect match. The boys came and undressed me while the girls, who were all stark naked and high, sang some raunchy songs for me.
“Everyone slept with everyone. More boys and girls came into the room until I lost count how many we were. This went on until morning. I don’t know how many boys I slept with. All I know is that I couldn’t walk for many days.” She smiled and I found it hard not to smile at the thought of how sore one could get for overindulgence.
Another pause. Another sip.
“I missed my periods and so did many other girls my age.”
“ ‘Terminate it’, my mum ordered me.
“I refused, mainly due to my earlier catechism drilling that abortion is murder. I was the only one amongst the six girls who did not terminate. One girl even bled to death in the process.
“My mum cursed me, called me names for bringing shame to her household. I was sent upcountry to stay with grandmother and transferred to a school next to grandmas.
“I delivered and left you with grandma and went to a boarding school.”
A longer pause before I realized that we both were crying. I wanted to turn my chair and hide my tears but I just could not move. I could not believe what I was hearing. I tried to say something but the dam in me could not just stop. Mum went on.
“So, I do not know who your father is and each time you asked me that question I would feel foolish that I must be only woman in this world who does not know the paternity of her child. But one of the teens that day is Mike. He could be your father!”
That hit me hard. I was actually hitting on someone who could possibly be my dad. Suddenly the barriers fell and I fell empty. All these years I had not been living, I had just been fighting mum and whatever project she undertook. My life had revolved around bringing down what she put up.
I looked at mum and for the first time I noticed her beautiful smooth skin. At 43, mum was a real beauty of a woman. I stretched my hand across the table and she wrapped her hands into mine. She cried. I wailed for all the emptiness in me. We remained like that for a long time.
It was way past midnight when my phone rang. I was on my second glass of wine, having switched to what mum was taking. The ring tone and I knew it was Brenda Fassie.
“Hi Brenda!”
“Mum I am 14 today!” She sounded drunk. I could hear voices and loud music in the background.
“Where are you?”
“At home with friends,” she slurred. A broken glass, a scream and the phone went dead.
I told my mum what had just transpired. We quickly cleared the bills and hit the road hard. That would take another hour or so to get there. I tried calling her back but she was off air. Even the house girl’s phone was off!
Mum and I took almost an hour to get to my place, which she had never been to. The gate was shut, must be another sleepy head of a watchman. I hooted. Nothing. I hooted louder. Still nothing. I tried calling my Brenda or the house girl but still no response. Finally we came out of the car.
“I will climb over the gate,” I told mum.
“Be careful.”
And I did climb over the gate and went to the watchman’s hut. He was there dead drunk and dead asleep. I removed the key from his pocket, opened the gate, parked the car and locked the gate. I took the keys with me. We walked to the back door of the kitchen. It was open. The smell of alcohol and marijuana was strong in the air.
“Brenda,” I called softly. No response.
We went to her bedroom and found a group of about 8 naked teenagers lying all over the floor. Some were on top of each other. It was a sight straight from a horror movie.
I found Brenda. She was totally gone. I slapped her three times but she did not move. Neither did the others. It was a sorry sight. I could not take it and burst out in tears. Mum comforted me as we looked for the teenagers’ clothes. We covered them and then sat there to wait for them to regain some sobriety. My mum and I kept vigil. We talked at length about men and I was impressed by her knowledge of men’s weaknesses.
By morning, they all had sobered up to a reasonable degree. I watched them each leaving embarrassed to have been caught with their pants down. Brenda was finally left with my mum and me. Defiance was written all over her face.
“What was all that about?” I asked her.
“Celebrations.”
“What for?”
“I missed my periods”
“What?”
“You heard me!”
“How many days?”
“Two weeks.”
“Maybe it is the stress of std.8.”
“Maybe not.”
Silence. The look on Brenda’s face? Fabregas of Arsenal scoring his hat trick against Manchester United hence condemning Manchester United to their first relegation in a century.
Sigh.
Another season. Same game. Same players. Same rules. Different levels.
“Sasa Miss Kenya,” Soja would chide me each day as I passed the gate on my way to school. And with that I would wiggle my jelly bums sure that he was ogling with his buggy mouth. He made my day, not only because of his comments but mainly because my mom despised him.
A month went by and every girl’s nightmare of missing monthly period became a celebration point for me. This would hurt mom really bad. Me, a 14 year old girl in std.8 impregnated by a watchman! I could not wait to see the look on her face as I broke the news. Thriller at Old Trafford.
My mum and I hardly talked and when we did it was in monosyllables capable of making a kindergarten teacher turn green with envy.
“I missed my periods!”
“What?”
“You heard me!”
“How many days?”
“Two weeks.”
“Maybe it is the stress of std.8.”
“Maybe not.”
Silence.
“Who is the father?”
“Who is my father?”
Silence.
The look on her face? Manchester United soaking in 4 goals at home to Liverpool. The mascara and eye pencil seemed to discolour, of course trying to disguise the anger rising in her. I know she would not hit me. As a top lawyer and leading FIDA activist responsible for putting many men behind bars, my mom knew that the last thing she would do was to give advantage to all those hawkish men – mainly lawyers – waiting to nail her.
It took less than a week for mom to sudoku the problem and come with a solution. The 8th set of daggers in our never ending war was drawn.
Mum waited until I had just arrived from school. It was around 5.30pm and the first shock for me was to find her car parked so early in the car park. The last time mum ever came this early or to pick me from school was when I was in pre-school. She was a late person – often past midnight.
“Kuna nini?” I asked Soja.
“Sijui!” Soja had become very moody ever since he had found out that I was like that. Shit face of a man, must be a fan of Man Utd!
I walked past Soja to our flat – Number 8. Yes, mum was home with four serious looking men. They were all dressed in dark suits. Maybe they were lawyers. Maybe not.
The moment I walked in, all the four men stood to say hi to me. This I found odd.
“Have a seat,” mom ordered.
“Why?”
Mum looked at the men and they nodded having understood in less than a minute that ours was a one drawn out war.
I chose to stand thus forcing the men to standing. My mum also chose to stand, so I sat down.
“Did he rape you?” asked one of the men.
I studied him before replying, “No.”
“Are you sure?” asked the second goof.
“Were you there?”
Instinctively he raised his hand but my mum held him back. It was over. I stood up and went to my bedroom. What would they do if I did not co-operate?
From my bedroom window, I watched as my mum led the men downstairs. They briefly talked to Soja, identified themselves and then bundled him into another car. I saw my mum glance towards my bedroom. The smile on her face? Alex Fergusson, Manchester United coach, madly celebrating an obviously offside goal.
Soja was arraigned in court in record time – the following day. Mum made sure that his case was presided by the toughest of the available judges, a woman who, rumour had it, was once a victim of sexual violence.
I attended all the 4 sessions of the court case. Soja was subdued and denied any charges of having carnal knowledge with a minor. 3 witnesses, all housegirls in our flats, appeared as witnesses against Soja. They all described in great detail how Soja used to come to my house and sleep with me. I could see through the plot mum had carefully hatched. No wonder the flat had a new set of housegirls.
After less than two weeks on the dock, Soja was sentenced to 10 years imprisonment with hard labour for having carnal knowledge with a minor. Me a minor, definitely not! I was sad because Soja was sad, and, honestly, he had been very gentle with me. I would miss him.
I wrote my std.8 exams in my seventh month of pregnancy. The school had hinted at having me expelled but my mum’s reputation ensured that I was not thrown out of school.
The KCPE results were released in December and I was the top student in the province, third best in the country. Mum tried to hide me from the press but I managed to grant interviews to all the leading media houses in the country.
“Who is the father of your baby?” one bitchy journalist had asked me during the interview.
“Soja is his name!”
The following day’s newspaper had screaming headlines and pictures of me and, to my surprise and mum’s anger, Soja’s pictures as well. The look on mum’s face? Ronaldo, Manchester United leading striker, missing the opportunity to equalize with a penalty in the 93rd minute.
I delivered a bouncing baby girl at Pumwani Maternity after snubbing my mom’s help to go to Nairobi Hospital. The same bitchy journalist was there to take pictures and scoop what she hoped would be an award winning story. I named my girl Brenda Fassie.
I got my calling letter to a top girl’s boarding school in Nairobi. I wanted to stay with my baby but this was going to be one hell of a battle.
“I will look after the baby,” mum told me.
“But you are not the mother.”
“And you are too young.”
“You are never in the house.”
“And neither will you.”
“She is mine!”
“And Soja’s!”
Cheap shot but it worked. Between Soja’s mum and my mum staying with my baby, I chose my mum. Woman’s instinct.
Within two weeks I was transported to school to start life in secondary school where my reputation had already preceded me.
I started life in school on the wrong footing, avoiding all manner of men that seemed to be my mum’s liking. I hated male teachers, however much they tried being friendly with me. So I talked and laughed my heart out with watchmen, cleaners, drivers, lab technicians. I loved them and they in turn reciprocated. It was not long before I ended up in the servants’ quarters of one of the lab assistants. I rode my luck for 3 weeks before a bitchy lesbian of a prefect who was after my pussy finally trailed me to that house at night.
The end result was messy but being frog marched out of the man’s house at night in my night dress in front of the matron and the headteacher was kinda fun. The only ingredient missing was my mum.
“Shame on you,” shouted the matron.
I looked at her and cursed that she was lucky she was not my mum. But the look I gave her was enough to make her look away.
The following morning, all my bags packed, I sat outside the Principals office waiting for my mum to come. The whole school by now knew of the story and all girls were happy – some because I had been fixed but most because I had opened an avenue of love making for them.
My mum arrived early. In tow was a well dressed man, a fellow lawyer I guessed.
“What now?” she glowered at me. The look on her face? Wayne Rooney of Manchester United being red carded in the 3rd minute of an FA cup finals.
I chose to address him. “Are you my father?”
He did not answer but quickly went back to the car.
The principal heard our voices and she came out, her high heels making annoying contact with the floor.
“Come in,” she ordered us. We went in and my mum sat down. I chose to stand.
“Tell your mother what you have been doing,” the Principal’s sharp and authoritative voice opened the session. No greetings.
Big mistake, Ms Principal. When it comes to breaking mum’s heart, I will gladly sing. And sing I did.
“Yesterday I was caught fucking the school’s lab assistant at his house at night. This has been going on daily for the last three weeks!” I smiled as I talked. “But Soja is a better lover,” I added.
The Principal flinched at the F word and at the boldness with which I had openly said what had taken place. If she thought I was bad, wait till she faced my mum.
Mum’s instincts as a lawyer went into overdrive. “Where is he?”
That one caught the Principal off guard. If she thought that this was going to be a walk over, then she did not know my mum.
She fumbled for an answer before replying. “Sacked!”
“Show me the letter. Show me his house!” mum was at her best. “Or I call the police and the press right now.” The fight had shifted from me to two women who did not know how to cede ground.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yes.”
“No one threatens me.”
“I just have.” And with that mum whipped out her phone and called the police and the press telling them that she had discovered another rapist in a girl’s secondary school and the Principal was refusing to co-operate.
“Okay,” the Principal reluctantly conceded. “What do you want?”
“Two things: One she is going back now. Two, I want that man out of here now or he will be arrested in an hours time.”
My face fell when I realized that mum had again outwitted me and what had started as a celebratory lap of honour had turned into a trot of despair
“Go back to class,” the Principal barked at me, more out of anger with mum than with me. I looked at mum with venomous eyes. She smiled smugly. Paul Scholes of Man Utd had just tripped the referee.
I went back to class and to the dorm. I became an instant hero amongst the students, though I had made powerful enemies with the prefect body, the teachers and the Principal. The students were happy because I had proved that it was possible to get certain forbidden services in school. Low cadre male workers were suddenly a targeted species. The men certainly did not mind.
Drama filled years accompanied me in my four years in secondary. Games of hide and seek became the order of the day as the administration tried its level best to frustrate me out of school. For my endless clashes with the management, I acquired the nick name OJ of the Tahidi High fame. I broke all manner of records in school: academic, sporting, moral, and disciplinary. All. Rackets involving credit cards, bread, phone calls revolved around me. I even made sure that three quarters of the girls had condoms in their suitcases. Just in case the craving struck. Black T-shirts donning the words Pussie Katie – Sharpen your Claws sold like hot cake.
The most notable, however, was when I was dared by some classmates to bed the Principal’s hubby. I took on the challenge but only if each Form Four student placed a bet of shs.1000. They did and I walked away with a cool shs.120 000.
I finally wrote my KCSE exams and the day I cleared from school is the same day I cleared from home. Accompanying me was Brenda Fassie, my 4 year old bundle of joy.
Mum was furious that I was moving out without a job or any means of survival. I laughed as I packed my earthly belongings to go and start life on my own. After all I was 18, an adult by the country’s laws.
“I hope you know what you are doing,” were mum’s last words as I walked out of her house to nowhere. I had rented a one bed roomed house on the outskirts of the city, courtesy of one of the many benefactors that I had drawn up when at school. The look on her face? Rio Ferdinand, captain of Manchester United, scoring the winning goal in the 89th minute – an own goal!
I enrolled for a law degree – more to fight mum in the courtrooms than anything else – at a private university. I grew. My daughter grew. My fights with mum grew. Her organization CAR – Castrate All Rapists – was the rave of the town with women giving them all the necessary support. I took the opposite direction. I decided to track all the women who had brought up cases against rapists. The results were astounding: more than 40% of the cases were fake and customized to get the organization a name. This became my secret weapon and I did not act yet. I made my dossier ready to strike as an advocate.
Within three years, I had completed my degree course, courtesy of my brilliant mind and my more brilliant body. One more year at School of Law and I would be a fully qualified lawyer. My dossier was getting fatter. My daughter had also grown and, more worryingly, had started asking searching questions about her dad. I told her the truth.
“Can we visit him?”
“One day.”
“Today is one day.”
“Okay, but let me call the prison authorities first.”
“Okay.”
And with that I bought me some time. Brenda’s teachers had started complaining about her behaviour at school.
Finally I qualified to be a lawyer and my first stop was at the CJs office. I was turned away but I told the secretary that I would be back.
My fights with mum moved to the courtrooms. I passionately defended anyone that she prosecuted. The press picked up the fights and before long we were daily on the front pages but more for the wrong reason. Each of us had her own team of paid journalists.
It is during this time that I unleashed the CAR report. The dossier was so big that it had to be serialized for 7 consecutive days in the dailies. It made comprehensive and interesting reading. Men in the country, especially Parliamentarians, were up in arms about the report. The CJ and AG called for the investigation of CAR. I gloated in victory.
A week after the CAR’s storm had subsided, I got a call from an unfamiliar number. The voice, however, was very familiar.
“Sasa Miss Kenya.”
Silence.
“Poa Soja. Uko?”
“Outside your office!”
That sent me scampering outside to see where he could be. I saw him, a thin and emaciated man. He held out his hand and I gave him a big hug. I invited him to the office and we talked endlessly about many things, though I noticed some discomfort in his speech. Then he landed the bombshell.
“I want my baby.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“She is also my baby.”
“Western Kenyan men do not leave their babies.”
“Kenyan women do not leave their babies either!”
“Will you give me the baby or not?”
“How much did she pay you?”
Silence. Guilt.
With the help of security, I threw him out of my office. It took me some time to realize that he had actually been released on my mother’s influence and paid to come and ruffle my life. Two against one. Man Utd had managed to pocket the referee, two linesmen and the match commissar!
The fights grew nastier and bitchier. I decided to go for the men she was dating. I vowed to sleep with all, and I mean all. My first strike was Mike. He played hard to get and I became more demanding. He must have tipped my mum about my moves because, one day mum called me. The ring tone? Everybody Loves Kung Fu Fighting.
“What?”
“We need to talk.”
“We are.”
“Be serious.”
“Why?”
“Us.”
“Time?”
“6 pm L’Grand.”
Click.
I had 3 hours to sharpen my claws. Today I would tear her once and for all. She would regret ever trying to meet me face to face.
Time crawled. I paced up and down the office looking for something to do. Finally at 5pm, I could no longer stand the tension. I closed shop and walked to L’Grand, a casual 15 minutes stroll. I was there at 5.20pm and was shocked to find my mum already there. She was alone in her trademark skirt suits. I was in my trademark dirty jeans, graffiti laden T-Shirt and dirty sneakers. My hair was creatively dyed in 3 different colours.
I pulled the chair opposite mum and turned it towards myself. I sat.
“Hi,” she muttered.
“Hi,” I growled. She was taking red wine, so I ordered a cold Tusker simply for the reason that they did not have chang’aa or busaa.
I lit a cigarette, because I could not light a roll of bhang. The No Smoking sign did not bother me. Rules were made to be broken.
“I was 14 years old when I conceived you,” she started. Her voice was softer than I had ever heard. I lost my balance. Maybe it was a strategy to lure me to a trap.
“It was during an estate party of teenagers only. Drinks, drugs and sex flowed freely during this party. The owners of the house had traveled abroad leaving two teenage boys, 15 and 17 in charge.
“All the teenagers in the neighbourhood heard about the party and all made a point to attend. I had no problem attending as I practically lived alone – mum was always away doing business in Dubai.”
Mum’s face? Half time at Old Trafford, Theatre of Dreams.
This was the longest mum had ever spoken to me without rude interruption from myself. And it was the longest I had ever paid attention to her. I was still looking for the catch in her strategy. So far, none. Mine was still defensive Manchester United formation of 1-10 - 0.
“There was this room upstairs that was an invite only. I decided to go and see for myself. At the door, I met Ali, the 17 year old host of the party. He ushered me into the room and locked the door.
Pause. Mum sipped her wine. I was a bag of nerves now. This was interesting. How come in all these years I had never heard even a rumour of my mum’s life as a teenager. I looked at her straight into the eye and I saw pain.
“I entered the room and there were like 6 boys and 5 girls. I was the 6th girl, thus making it a perfect match. The boys came and undressed me while the girls, who were all stark naked and high, sang some raunchy songs for me.
“Everyone slept with everyone. More boys and girls came into the room until I lost count how many we were. This went on until morning. I don’t know how many boys I slept with. All I know is that I couldn’t walk for many days.” She smiled and I found it hard not to smile at the thought of how sore one could get for overindulgence.
Another pause. Another sip.
“I missed my periods and so did many other girls my age.”
“ ‘Terminate it’, my mum ordered me.
“I refused, mainly due to my earlier catechism drilling that abortion is murder. I was the only one amongst the six girls who did not terminate. One girl even bled to death in the process.
“My mum cursed me, called me names for bringing shame to her household. I was sent upcountry to stay with grandmother and transferred to a school next to grandmas.
“I delivered and left you with grandma and went to a boarding school.”
A longer pause before I realized that we both were crying. I wanted to turn my chair and hide my tears but I just could not move. I could not believe what I was hearing. I tried to say something but the dam in me could not just stop. Mum went on.
“So, I do not know who your father is and each time you asked me that question I would feel foolish that I must be only woman in this world who does not know the paternity of her child. But one of the teens that day is Mike. He could be your father!”
That hit me hard. I was actually hitting on someone who could possibly be my dad. Suddenly the barriers fell and I fell empty. All these years I had not been living, I had just been fighting mum and whatever project she undertook. My life had revolved around bringing down what she put up.
I looked at mum and for the first time I noticed her beautiful smooth skin. At 43, mum was a real beauty of a woman. I stretched my hand across the table and she wrapped her hands into mine. She cried. I wailed for all the emptiness in me. We remained like that for a long time.
It was way past midnight when my phone rang. I was on my second glass of wine, having switched to what mum was taking. The ring tone and I knew it was Brenda Fassie.
“Hi Brenda!”
“Mum I am 14 today!” She sounded drunk. I could hear voices and loud music in the background.
“Where are you?”
“At home with friends,” she slurred. A broken glass, a scream and the phone went dead.
I told my mum what had just transpired. We quickly cleared the bills and hit the road hard. That would take another hour or so to get there. I tried calling her back but she was off air. Even the house girl’s phone was off!
Mum and I took almost an hour to get to my place, which she had never been to. The gate was shut, must be another sleepy head of a watchman. I hooted. Nothing. I hooted louder. Still nothing. I tried calling my Brenda or the house girl but still no response. Finally we came out of the car.
“I will climb over the gate,” I told mum.
“Be careful.”
And I did climb over the gate and went to the watchman’s hut. He was there dead drunk and dead asleep. I removed the key from his pocket, opened the gate, parked the car and locked the gate. I took the keys with me. We walked to the back door of the kitchen. It was open. The smell of alcohol and marijuana was strong in the air.
“Brenda,” I called softly. No response.
We went to her bedroom and found a group of about 8 naked teenagers lying all over the floor. Some were on top of each other. It was a sight straight from a horror movie.
I found Brenda. She was totally gone. I slapped her three times but she did not move. Neither did the others. It was a sorry sight. I could not take it and burst out in tears. Mum comforted me as we looked for the teenagers’ clothes. We covered them and then sat there to wait for them to regain some sobriety. My mum and I kept vigil. We talked at length about men and I was impressed by her knowledge of men’s weaknesses.
By morning, they all had sobered up to a reasonable degree. I watched them each leaving embarrassed to have been caught with their pants down. Brenda was finally left with my mum and me. Defiance was written all over her face.
“What was all that about?” I asked her.
“Celebrations.”
“What for?”
“I missed my periods”
“What?”
“You heard me!”
“How many days?”
“Two weeks.”
“Maybe it is the stress of std.8.”
“Maybe not.”
Silence. The look on Brenda’s face? Fabregas of Arsenal scoring his hat trick against Manchester United hence condemning Manchester United to their first relegation in a century.
Sigh.
Another season. Same game. Same players. Same rules. Different levels.
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