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.