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If a fly flew in my vicinity without first seeking consent from my PA, I would slap the hell out of its useless thorax and rush to the sink to wash my hands clean. I would then wipe them with the curtains hanging on the door because that is what we do in a bedsitter or sometimes on our mother’s favorite curtain- then fold the sleeves of my sweater up to my throat, pick up my pen, and write and tell you all about it. You wouldn’t hear the end of it.

My mum called a few days ago to tell me how her rooster of hens was doing, like you know you cannot have a conversation with a Luhya, and they fail to give you intel on the chicken. So as is the norm, I would engage in that conversation more with my heart and less with my mouth. Swim in the pool of humor and even get drowned while at it because of how deep it goes at some point. With all that said and done, ok mostly said, you better be sure as hell the next ears that conversation is falling on are your own. Aside from Chapo and beans, the next and most immediate affair you guys fall on is gossip. I wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving any detail out. That is what I love to do. Tell you how the hens cackle at the sight of ugali when the door is open for them to go out and socialize. An engagement that ensures we have eggs laid that evening, while we lay in the comfort of our billets. It’s one thing to have me slap the life out of a fly but my mother’s chicken, please no interference should come close to those. She drove down like a nail, the point that she also has her eyes stuck on the TV like everyone else currently. And she subtly stated that she is up to date with how you guys are doing your things out there. She said she is proud and when you’re done, she will ensure the chicken is separated from its neck, roast it over a three-stoned fireplace, and send it for you guys to feast. She promised not to pack the neck and the legs, she’ll throw those to the dogs. She loves all of you guys, because that’s what mothers do, love everyone because everyone her child’s age is her own too.

So be rest assured I will be here to tell you about all of it. I will be here to hang myself out to dry. And when the well from which I draw runs dry, be convinced I will dig another. And I will come and rant and tell you how hard it is to be the one that always has to decide what you’ll eat, how you’ll prepare it, and afterward do the dishes. It is sickening for crying out loud.

The parental guidance compliance doesn’t allow me to let you in on a few other things, including where I was last weekend. So, when the right time presents itself, you will know all about it because if I walked into an empty and unoccupied room, I’d stare at the wall until the writings appear.

~

Maya is complaining that she can’t keep waking up every day at the crack of dawn to go to school, a school which by the way she doesn’t even like to begin with. She is so fed up with having to shower early every morning and can only tolerate this until Wednesday, anything past that is a no. So, I was having a small conversation with her, and she is quite shy, and I didn’t mind, considering her age. However, the neat braiding on her head makes her look pretty and outstanding you would think she is a woman in her teenage years except she is barely four. The words haven’t been able to come out of her mouth perfectly, so she is still finding her way around that. She likes having mandazi and tea for breakfast, at least that is what she tells me, and I am obligated to believe her because the last time I tried questioning whatever she presented before me, she threatened to not let me in on her personal life. Yeah, going by this attitude, I’m afraid the existence of this personal life is not mere allegations but fact.

They grow up so fast. You leave them for a minute to fetch their bottle of warm milk and they are not crawling but instead supporting their weak legs with the nearest table. They have this weird wiring in them that makes them imagine that the minute they turn four they have private lives that nobody should invade. She wants you to shut the door behind you whenever you leave her room. They even want to be called by their actual names, not the alias you hand them in innocence and as a sign of your attachment to them while they hang on from your back supported by a leso with colorful fabric written ‘ujana ni moshi’. She feels like she shouldn’t be showering in the open air anymore, she wants the privacy of the bathroom like her elder sister Jill. Hold onto that name for a second, will you? Make a mental note of that name because I don’t want to introduce Jill prematurely into this conversation. She is one hell of a human being, so I want to save it for a little later because that’s what you do with young women of her type. They are like the last piece of cake you only save for dessert. You do not preempt their existence anyway, because they magically appear. We will save her for when the time is best because just like the final piece of the puzzle, she is better off placed last. She is the ultimate card that wins us the gamble—the final play on our chessboard before we call checkmate.

Complaints, several of them, mainly comprise Maya’s early school life in, what they call, the playing room. That’s CBC for you. I mean during my days it was baby class, nursery, and that kind of thing. It was easy for both the parents and their kids. At least the parents knew what we were on while at school. Right now, the names they call them are comparable to what philosophers are pursuing in their master’s degrees. The syllabus stresses being hands-on and it’s proving to be overly engaging, kids shouldn’t be that engaged, they should be left to play around and waste their time, and whoever wastes their time the most, well good for them. She is always complaining about one thing or the other. So, believe me when I tell you Maya is always looking for a reason not to have that school attire on her. Whenever her mother wants her up as early as 6 am she pleads, she asks to savor a little slumber while Jill showers. Jill is her fallback plan on almost everything, I mean what are big sisters for?  It just hit me that I have, in an indiscipline and condescending manner, thrown the phrase ‘during my days’ which is quite uncalled for considering I haven’t even broken my voice and my shoulders not yet broad enough. My heartfelt apologies, shall we soldier on, nonetheless? The elders have flagged me to proceed.

Do you know how often Maya looks forward to occupying her section of the desk at school? Yeah, you guessed right, not quite. She alleges that the desks are too uncomfortable for her little ass she would prefer to have her mother ask the teacher if she can allow her to bring the chair at home over at school because at least it allows her a certain degree of comfort. Before she crawls into her sheets every evening, she requests that her chair be packed side by side with her snacks so that when she is up the next morning aside from carrying just the books, she is sure she is strong enough to carry the chair along with her. That way she can place one leg on the other while she tries to comprehend the ABCs.

She is not a big fan of those nursery school rhymes, she wasn’t for the better part of the initial days going to school because you know, who wants to give up the bosom of their mother and dive right into the cold in the name of attending class and embracing the fact that it comes with its cross to bear. So, whenever she feels like it, she sings them back to her mum in the evening and whenever she feels overwhelmed altogether, she would rather make inquiries that go something like “Kwani leo haupiki?”

Kids can crash your self-esteem. They are good at it. They know how to yank the rug from under your feet. They are cold as ice while they make specific remarks. And when you think you’ve had enough, Maya hasn’t thrown a side eye your way. Boy, is she not savage? Last I asked why she doesn’t color her coloring books nicely she threw a stare at my face that suggested something like; Ok so who said I’m perfect? I love how she rolls her eyes, not similar to how you guys roll from one end of the bed to the other while doing God knows what, no not that kind. She does it with the flare of a matchstick. So much effort is concentrated on ensuring she makes a statement with the design that her mouth folds under her nose while on this eye-rolling spree. Last I checked she was trying to do that thing with her tongue women do when you call them out in public.

“Ks ks, Sasa mrembo.”

(And then that thing they do with the tongue you would think they are trying to swallow it while slapping it on their teeth simultaneously.)

Whenever I’m being a pain in the neck, she quickly rushes to my mother and points towards my direction while referring to me as “Huyu mtoto wako”. My mother is there listening while I’m being thrown under the bus and my reputation is tampered with maliciously. My mother thinks this is funny, so she bursts out in laughter, except she is not ready for how many pieces of chicken I’m preparing to serve from the bowl that evening.

So, at her small and insignificant age, she has things troubling her. She has issues here and there that are giving her sleepless nights. Sometimes she can’t seem to understand why things are the way they are and true to this fact, she questions them a lot. She finds it odd that she has to go to a different school from her elder sister Jill. She insists that while the bus picks Jill, she could as well hop in and go together with her, and they can bask in the sun while engaging in murmurs over lunch break.

“What did mum pack for your lunch?”

“Whatever is in my tin is what is in yours,” Jill, in her usual disgust, retaliates.

“You should have seen how she pulled me out of bed this morning. It’s like I’m not her child anymore. She handles me like I’m some piece of twig being snatched from the branch of a tree. I wouldn’t be surprised if she packs me bananas for lunch.”

She hates bananas this kid.  You know what else she hates?

You wouldn’t guess.

Boys!

The idea of the existence of boys irks her to the core. Of course, I included those at the back who are asking.

The first encounter she had with a boy wasn’t a rosy one, things started on the wrong foot as popular opinion would have it. Aside from not even finding the words to narrate how school went, she had all the words in her to express her disappointment and disgust for this gender.

So, she was sitting in class, sitting pretty as usual on the desk that makes her ass feel some type of way. Then this boy sitting next to her somehow hit her while trying to take away her newly acquired crayons. He left a dent, one that she looks at very keenly in the mirror every morning before she leaves for school and tries to do that thing they do with the tongue. My editor is saying it’s called chewing. Yes, she chews her tongue while looking at the dent on her face. She feels like she had a chance to put the boy in his place but blew it. She had an open window of punching this boy right back in the face, but she can’t seem to understand what made her back off.  She is pissed off at how a boy, just a small boy managed to leave a scar on her pretty face.

When she was narrating this ordeal, I was breathing fire because I could see the rage in her eyes. The tears were dangling in her eyes; if she blinked, they would drop. So the thought of a boy hitting my favorite niece, the apple of my eye didn’t sit well with me. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to get dressed very early the next morning and be the one that opened the door for this boy so I could look him straight in the face and ask him whether that was how he was brought up. I wanted to be the first to make an appearance in that class and look at him straight in the eyes until he pisses his pants from fear. I wanted to be there so that he understood the lengths I would go to move mountains for Maya. The thought of him roaming the world freely and living his best life while my baby girl was looking at herself in the mirror and second-guessing that pretty face of hers made me want to take a swing at him, so he also has to wake up early enough to stare at his face on that mirror before he leaves for school. There is no way boys are brought up like that, to hit girls’ faces and walk scotch free. No way! So while she was there thinking whether I was even listening, I was lost in thought, I was dumbfounded at how all boys do is leave scars on beautiful girls. They start with their faces and soon it’s their hearts. I wanted that animal tamed, and I wanted to be the proverbial shepherd accustomed to the sole undertaking of ensuring he toed the line.

He deserved to be shown his place that men can only be gentle, not ruthless like he was proving to be. He had no right whatsoever to lay his filthy hands on this beautiful woman. Not at all. There was no way such behavior was being condoned at school. If there’s anywhere his hands belonged is in his dirty pockets. Not on my niece’s face.

Out of anger and rage, I decided we had to make a statement. So I plucked a page from an exercise book and wrote a note to the teacher.

“I’m not sure whether you’re operating a park or a school. But it has come to our attention after a slight investigation that it isn’t the latter. And I’m not sure whether there are students there or animals. The thought of insecurity should not be brewed in my mind, and at no point in time should I feel the safety of my child compromised. So before we can swarm into the school like bees and stop you from running your daily activities, please make sure animals are sent to where they belong and the school is left to purely consist of students who are ready to learn with their hands near their bodies, not on their fellows faces.”

Regards,

Signature.

Karushi Ogolla.

I am being dramatic. This isn’t what I wrote, it isn’t even close to what I’d have written because I’m reading it out loud, and it sounds too lenient. But I wrote it and put it in her backpack in the rare zipper. I placed it there so that when she could read it, she would at least be sure I would go to the end of the world to ensure boys kept a safe distance from her. Her mum went to school the next morning, and we all loved how she turned the tables upside down if they had any in their offices. We loved that it was made obvious that should a stray hand land on Maya, they would be regrettably digging an early grave for themselves. They had to know that should it occur to them to entertain any mediocrity of such kind, they would dance to the tune of our music. I hope among the several things Maya misplaces, this little love letter of mine isn’t one of them. She should keep it where she keeps her love and trust for her big sis, close to her heart. This is comparable to me going down on my knees to have her on my side. I hope she never rolls those beautiful eyes at me whenever she comes around to reading that letter. When she is old enough, I hope she is the one who makes sure my cup of tea is presented before me immediately after I set foot in the living room. I hope she reads that and greets me with both her hands as a sign of respect. If she doesn’t then she doesn’t because you know kids are kids.

It is becoming unbearable for her as the days go by. She feels like this school thing is a high input low-reward activity. She is putting so much into it. She is investing so much considering her KPIs are nothing more than mere notations, meeting expectations, exceeding expectations and what have you. She can’t bear the thought of being that consistent and all she has to do is color with her crayons and present the work to the teacher. So together with the boys who can’t keep their hands to themselves are the things that give her sleepless nights.