My Special Woman

It has never been this dangerous being a Kenyan. Those ‘hakuna matata’ songs that we used to sing alongside the road in primary as we waited for the area DC to come to some prize giving ceremony are over. Fatal carnages claim lives on Kenyan roads such that as a nation we have accepted it as normal. Don’t start me on the illicit brews that kill in proportions that even make Al shabab blush. Now that I’m talking about Al Shabab; grenades, bombs and explosions have become kitch and fad. There used to be something sophisticated about terrorism. Terrorists would target places where they would be substantial damage. Places which really matter. Places like the US embassies and the Westgates of Nairobi. But Paradiso? Paradiso seriously? I mean who bombs a guy who uses ten bob as fare from Town to Githurai? I never thought a time would come when I would ever say this but the truth is that I miss the old man, Kenyans could use a little bit of the Nyayo iron fist right now.

Vigilantes and arsonists reign supreme in our villages. And don’t forget that besides this, you still got diseases like diabetes, cancer, malaria and HIV/AIDS to contend with. And sure enough twenty one women still have to die daily while giving birth. And did I mention the alleged ‘poachers’ who now hunt for humans in Mombasa?

I’m sorry if I scared you.

But truth is things are that bad.

With all this darkness and cloud of uncertainty, there are still people who make the world a better place, people who encourage you to ignore the minuses and concentrate on the pluses. People who make the little differences that matter. Soldiers on the warfront. Intelligence officers thwarting numerous terror plots and sometimes paying the ultimate prize. Men of the cloak giving hope to the nation and interceding for us. These are our real heroes even though they will never get personal recognition for their efforts. Mzee Varaq salutes you.

But today is all about celebrating a special woman, the most special woman in my life actually. My mother.

Where do I begin in celebrating Regina nyar Kano miyo ma ungwana? 

You know when I want to feel like a bull I narrate my lineage. I say am Ouko son of Aseda, son of Okombo, son of Alwanda, son of Midumbi, son of Ongodo, son of Sipul and it goes on and on until we get to Uncle Barry ,to Baba and then to the great father of all Luos Ramogi Ajuang. However, when I want to feel fulfilled I just say I am Wuod Aruji. Wuod is Luopean for son and Aruji is the pet name my mum goes around with.

That woman begot three daughters and one son. Wait, you think that’s supposed to make me special or something? Then you haven’t met my mother. Looking back I think I should have been the rebellious teenage sons. Those who have lungs darker than nimbus clouds from too much marijuana smoking. I’m just kidding. Trust me I won’t have been alive to write this blog and the cause of my death won’t have been cancer. She made me cram the food chart at class one, algebra in lower primary and the vowel sounds even before I got to school. In school it was either you be number one or number one. 

You people watch Nikita and think that woman is awesome just because she can throw two arrows simultaneously and hit a target. People have done better. By people here I mean Aruji. She could throw two umoja slippers at you and one would hit your kisogo as the other hit your back. 

That woman was super keen. She would know you haven’t showered the whole day and just keep quiet. She would wait for bed time before narrating your mistakes. At that moment it’s pretty obvious that once the arresting officer, investigating officer, judge and jury found you guilty there was no leniency. You had to serve hard time.

When you made a mistake you feigned sickness and slept early hoping that by the following day everything would have been forgotten and we would be one happy family. Being a health worker she would give us panadol or any other drug depending on the symptoms. That’s why as much as it was important to be seen as sick; being sick sick would be catastrophic on many levels. It would mean you get an injection or one of those bitter antibiotics. Maybe that’s why these painkillers don’t work on me now. So very early in the morning, you’d tip toe your way from bed, quietly do your things and rush to school on an empty stomach. Not because there was no breakfast but because breakfast was kept in her room and you want to awaken a sleeping lioness lest she wakes up with the wrath of the gods.

Of course she won’t let you go to school like that. Sometimes I wonder if that woman slept. After reprimanding you for the attempted breakout you would start eating with yesterday’s cold supper. After all it was cooked for you and Aruji can’t be wasting good food now can she?

There were things that I used to look forward to. One of them was rego. Rego is going to the posho mill. Well, it wasn’t fun being a boy and doing what was considered a girls job in a kikapu. Oh yes, Aruji insisted on the basket. However it had its perks. When you went to rego there was usually the loose bobs that remained as change. This was the only moment that you were actually allowed to keep change so long as it wasn’t substantive amount. So a rego errand was like hitting the financial gym. And obviously I got a chance to buy sugarcane and still have plenty more to buy Akuon akuon mandazis. You remember them?

So there was this day in class two when I came back from school and said I don’t wana go back to school anymore. There are times that your perseverance just reaches a critical point and you just break down. School was becoming really tough. See there was this guy in my class called Jesse. Jesse was a huge heavily built boy who’s hobby was frightening little boys. And boy did he excel in this art of terror. He was a scary fellow. His hands were rough and cracked after years of making bricks in the swampy areas of Siany. Jesse was everything. He was the class prefect, he was the monitor, he was the bell ringer, he led PPI programme. For those of us who went to public schools you’ll remember that PPI classes were supposed to be a serene moment of prayer. But not for Jesse. He used to act as choir master and you had to sing and bang the desks loudly failure of which……..

Jesses dint have any reason to terrify you. But for me he had a special vendetta. I was a nerd and nerds obviously are first targets. But his major problem was Zee. Now zee was a Cinderella right from a fairy tale story. She had those cute little ponies on her hair and everything about her was perfect. To cut a long story short, as much as we had a natural vibe going on, (I’m still my father’s son remember­) Mtemi Jesse did not approve. This guy was talented in making people’s lives hell. He had that catapult that he could use to throw stones at your ass. I remember I used to carry uji for my big sister who was in upper primary and thus left home early before uji was cooked. You know watu wa upper ni watu busy sana. Jesse not surprisingly discovered this and could gluttonously gulp my sister’s uji up to the last drop. Looking at him helpless, terrified and in disbelief, tears would play in my eye as I wondered what I would tell my sister at break time. Telling on Jesse was needless to say inviting trouble.

So I went back home and said let school be. That woman grabbed my hands and asked me to take her to that boy. The grip was so tight that one would think I would escape. In hindsight I think I would have. C’mon this is a family of giants who were heavily built from years of mjengo and my mother was just a tiny woman who used a pen and a syringe to make a living. I mean who would want their mothers ass kicked? When it became clear that she was determined to pursue this suicidal course of action I decided to take her through the longest of routes; across the swampy Siany, across bridges made of stones and log bridges. I even passed her through the haunted forest. Oh yes, this was the forest where the mangoes got ripe and went uneaten for fear of juice turning into blood. Please remind me to tell you the story of the haunted forest another time.

Three quarter of an hour later after whirling around, my tired feet were starting to feel the pinch. Her dynamo did not seem like letting off any steam. I had almost forgotten that she used to walk all that distance from kotieno to the market in Oyugis to and fro. During that time there were no vehicles playing that route apart from one on Friday in the evening. Too bad her strong body has been tested and weared by a richman’s disease.

Back to Jesse.

We finally got to their home and after some slight altercation with their dog we were allowed into the compound.

You should have seen her. She resembled a lioness whose curb had been withdrawn from her.

That was a superwoman. That was my mother.

She asked me to stay outside while they talked with Jesse’s parents inside.

After a while they came out and Jesse timidly promised never to harass me gain.

There’s no greater feeling on earth than knowing that somebody will fight for you. That you not alone. That somebody will fend off all harm coming to your way. That you loved. That you cared for.

While on the way back home it suddenly hit me that this protection won’t last for long. That tomorrow I’ll face Jesse. Alone. I was frightened. I expected some major retaliation worse than his pilipili spiced canes. You know you can’t raid a mafia territory and get away with it. Rumors had it that his elder brother was actually the local mafiaso.

The following day he smiled at me. Not those confusing half smiles he gave to throw his enemy off balance. He said I just misunderstood the whole thing.  C’mon how does one misunderstand you grabbing his sister’s uji, or hitting you with a catapult. I couldn’t stretch my luck. I knew that was the closest to an apology I was ever going to get. We became the best of friends. They had these huge mango plantations and every evening we used to disappear up in the trees. And when the following year, I moved to an academy, Jesse moved too. Atoza is one of my best friends now. The only thing I may have against him now is that he is a Chelsea fan.

Did I mention that my mother is a farmer? She prefers to call it food creation. Nothing makes her proud than having enough for us. Holidays meant hard work in the farm harvesting groundnuts and maize. The work could get laborious, monotonous and very tiring but Aruji won’t accept anyone to leave until the work was done. Obviously you couldn’t pull ‘the I’m sick excuse’ unless you are Aluoch. God bless that sister. Lady has major acting potential. This work apart from teaching us how to feed ourselves, taught us the value of teamwork, the strength of togetherness, the spirit of endurance and persevering. That woman taught us that whereas the sun will come and burn you, if you remain focused you’ll get the harvest home.

She likes telling Tehzeen, ma cute niece that she shouldn’t forget that her grandmother is a farmer and she should thus eat to her full. The little girl is just two years old and I’m scared for my big sister who lives on top of some ghorofa in NaxVegas and has no farm.

Last year I went to see her in hospital at Aga khan. I’ve never seen her that sick. I was surprised and scared. She could see it despite my attempt at a cool demeanor. It’s going to be okay, she said. And it did.

Sometimes when life just becomes hard I call her and she tells me she’s praying for me, for all of us.

She gives strength when you feel discouraged, reprimands when you cross the line and makes you laugh when you need to. She pushes us to be the best we can ever be. For her our dreams are valid.

She’s the kind of woman who talks to her son about girls and healthy choices; love and condoms.

She’s the type of women to remind a son that he shouldn’t forget to go to church and pray.

She’s the only person who calls me Bobby.

She’s my mother.

She’s my hero.

Happy mother’s day Min Macky, you the best.