Death returns my husband

I would never wish anyone ill. But when Beatrice died I was glad. OK, let me explain.

I have lived a quiet life, listened to my mother's teachings faithfully and went to Sunday School regularly. In school I heard the bigger girls talking about their exploits with boys, whom they let, or whom they froze out. I had no idea what these phrases meant. Daudi was a tall athletic boy, whom I liked very much. He liked me a lot and would spend time with me, sometimes helping me with Mathematics homework, while I did the same for his English. He did not have the rough ways of other boys in our class. Some of them tried to grab me, but I fought them off; I had no idea what they wanted to do after grabbing me like that. Some tried to touch my growing breasts, but so clumsily that it was painful. Daudi never did these things to other girls, and certainly not to me. Perhaps this added to my liking of him.

He took me on a picnic to Rowallan Camp. He told me to prepare snacks, while he would handle drinks. You may think that unfair but that was our relationship. At other times he would pick the more difficult task and let me off the hook. It never caused any comment. Though I heard my mother telling my sisters off for being seen with that boy or the other, she seemed to have a blind spot where Daudi was concerned.

That day dawned bright and beautiful. The birds sang in the trees. I put on a light dress that played in the wind, because I was feeling so gay. At Rowalllan, we found a good quiet spot under an old tree. We spread the Masai blanket on the thick, green grass and put our basket at one edge.

We could never stop talking. I was telling him how my mother used to punish us if we did not do as she ordered. He brought humour to those tales, as to the ones about his own growing up.

"You know Beatrice Karago? Her mother used to bring her to our home while she was still young. Yet my sister was so much younger than Beatrice."

I replied that I have never really trusted Mrs Karago. "Whenever she meets me, she somehow manages to find something unkind to say. Even when she is only telling me to retie my belt, if it had become loose."

"She has never stopped the kiddie talk she used to give about Beatrice getting married in our home. What kind of talk is that when we were still primary school kids? Whenever she visits my mother she has to bring her daughter along. What could her motive be?" he wondered.

"Maybe she still believes you will marry her. That could be why she does not like me, thinking I am a rival to her daughter."

We moved away from such unhelpful topics and enjoyed the rest of our day out.

One day in the new term, there were screams in the Karago homestead. "Thief, thief!" People rushed towards the home, to find Beatrice's mother pointing inside the banana plantation. "That girl was stealing my daughter's clothes from the line. And they were still wet; I had just finished washing them!"

"Which girl?"

"The short one with a loud voice," she replied sharply.

"The Kimani daughter or Rahab's daughter?"

"That single mother has never taught her daughter manners!" Mrs Karago said in a shrill voice.

"Where is she now? What clothes was she wearing?"

"Do I know? She is capable of changing now that she has been caught."

"Where were you at the time?" another neighbour asked.

"I was rinsing the last ones, socks and towel, when I saw a shadow. When I lifted my eyes she was running into the bananas. I am sure it was that unworthy woman's daughter!"

The said thief was never found but my mother's name had been mentioned. Nobody ever accused me or my mother directly, but again nobody was sure that Mrs Karago had actually seen anybody.

On Christmas Day, the parish minister came to baptise, receive new members and to confirm those who had completed the catechism classes. Beatrice, Daudi and I were among the number to be confirmed that year.

It had been a gruelling one. The catechist was an old man from Rungiri. "Who is God," he would ask the class. If we did not reply immediately he went down the rows with his cane slashing right and left. "Do you have boiled heads? Did we not learn that last week, eh?"

Every lesson was followed by a verbal test much worse than those questions in lesson time. He asked five questions, and although there were nine of us children that year he seemed to expect all of us to answer yet he had not asked enough questions. I now think, with my adult outlook, that he was not qualified to do that job, but there was nobody else who could be found. So he employed these brutal tactics to hide his lack of ability.

During the confirmation service it was his job to call out names of candidates to come to the front so that the minister could perform the sacrament for that group. One year there was a fiasco when he called out the names of those to be confirmed, when the minister expected the baptismal candidates to come first. He had already baptised three before the error was spotted. The catechist was about to hit at the three. "Why did you come before you were called?" He remembered too late that he only brought his cane to class, but the whole congregation could see he had bungled that one.

On being confirmed, we attended our first Holy Communion. It felt so sublime, with the words the minister spoke before breaking the slice of bread that stood for the Body and lifted the goblet of wine, proclaiming it as the Blood. Sitting with adults during this service made Christmas very special for all of us. As we went home we even tried to walk like grownups!

Beatrice did not finish her second term in Form Two. She was found to be pregnant. Her mother knew who the father of the baby was, she declared. In those days it was unheard of for a girl to be pregnant while still in school. So Beatrice was summoned before the church elders. When asked to name the guilty party she only continued to cry. Her mother was on a bench outside the church and had to called in.

"Mrs Karago, do you know who did this?"

Her answer was ready on her lips. "That Daudi, who likes the company of girls, as you all know. I found them hiding in the maize plantation doing these wicked things." And she broke down in apparent shame and anger.

The elders, who had seen Daudi and I together from an early age, tried to recall seeing him with any other girl, let alone Beatrice, and could not. Yet they could neither vouch for Daudi, nor find another to take the blame. They ruled that the two must be married, and quickly, to avoid the scandal spreading. Poor Daudi was given no opportunity of defending himself, but instead found himself the butt of his parents' wrath.

"You have ruined two school careers at a single stroke!" his father railed at him, unaware of the pun.

The wedding was a small affair not many wanted to be seen at and did not draw much attention. Daudi was thus shackled. I could think of no way to rescue him, apart from eloping with him, but we had no money and no destination in mind. In this unfair way to the altar my beloved was dragged.

I was left to deal with that painful fact. He was taken. I was all alone in the world.

My mother tried her best to find foods she knew I liked, but my appetite had deserted me, snatched from me along with Daudi. I hardly felt hungry except in the mornings when I woke up. Even then a double slice of bread or a piece of sweet potato was all I could handle. For the rest of the day I went about my chores like an automaton.

I withdrew from my friends, unable to endure their pitying looks. I did not want to hear another word of sympathy. They said they understood what I was going through, but surely that is nonsense! How can anyone understand my feelings for Daudi, with whom I had shared so much of me? How can anyone know that I feel as if a hunk of me had been cruelly cut off with a blunt knife?

I went to church only for the sake of doing so, because it had become so much a part of my habits. I drew no pleasure from the singing; the preaching sailed right over my head. When people said that God is good, kind and understanding, did they know what they were talking about? Where was He when my love was being stolen away? Is He really in control of the world? Or was it simply that the affairs of a woman in my place were too minor when He had churches and congregations scattered all over the globe; when He had the destiny of entire countries with their millions of inhabitants; when He had the planets and stars to keep in line; what did it matter whether a woman in a village in a poor country was loved or not? I felt disconnected from all that was said in that cavernous building, yet I felt unable to stay at home on a Sunday.

As soon as it was over, in fact during the final hymn, I would slip out and away. I could not bear to stand around having those flat, meaningless conversations and making comments in the approved lexicon of church people. I had never noticed until that moment that you were never free to express yourself in your own words among church people; if you did they marked you out as 'not belonging'. You may even find that people started to avoid you as they considered that you 'had lost your testimony', or 'had lost your faith'! Since I was already 'en outre' I did not feel it mattered very much.

Three weeks of this and I suddenly sat up in bed late one night. 'Where is the family we talk about so much at fellowship? Why has nobody bothered to find out what is happening to their 'sister'? I felt even more alone and isolated. I considered buying a sachet of tablets and swallowing them in the dead of night so that I would only be found in the morning, all cold and stiff. I began looking up into trees inspecting branches for their suitability of holding my weight as I dangled below, kicking the last of my miserable life away.

My mother became worried when my cheekbones stood out on my face, the skin stretched and shiny over them. My clothes hung on me as if I had borrowed hers, who was four sizes bigger! Low intake of food, constant worry, and lack of sleep were exacting a heavy toll on my body. Yet I was powerless to arrest the decline.

I hit upon a solution very early one morning after a night of tossing and turning all night. I would move away from home to a distant town and start a small business. I would take the money my mother usually left with me to buy stock for the week on a Saturday. With that in hand I would have enough to do all I planned. The growth of that business would depend solely on me, but I had observed my mother at it all these years. Once having reached that decision, my spirits lifted. I even asked mother for second helpings that last night I spent with her.

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

Two months later found me in a roadside kiosk which had a back room where I slept, cooked, bathed, and washed my clothes. My entire livelihood had shrunk into this small space whose total area, shop and home, would have fitted into my bedroom at home. I had a small number of customers and had mastered which provisions 'bought' which others. My mother had unwittingly taught me those skills as I observed. Even I was surprised at how much I had absorbed.

Jack supplied me with bread and cakes. I noticed that he stayed longer than others when he made his delivery. I liked his banter, yet he had his serious moods. One night it hit me that in some vague way he reminded me of Daudi's finer points. When I tried to pinpoint them I found myself stuck in a mire. I abandoned the analysis, and took him as he came. The next Sunday, at church (see, old habits die hard) I noticed him at the front being commissioned as a PCMF (a men's fellowship) member. Why had I never noticed him at church before? Surely he had been here for a year or more for him to have been passed for that commissioning? I began seeing him more frequently at church.

Since he came to make one of his deliveries on Saturdays, our parting shot, after I had paid him became," See you tomorrow!" And we surely would. Sundays, when I could spend time with him, became the high point of my week.

He took me on a picnic! It was a perfect day two months or so since we had met, the sunshine so bright, and the ground so green with fresh growth. Sure, it was not the same as Rowallan Camp that we had in the city but I had with me a man who loved me as much as, if not more than, Daudi. I wondered how they were, Beatrice and Daudi. But not for long, lest I fall back in that pit of despair.

One evening the following week I took the brave step of inviting Jack to my little shack after work. He normally closed in the afternoon, nearly all his deliveries being made in the morning session. I had made a special dish with fish for us, a first for me. I hoped he would like how I had made it, unused to fish as I was. He must have eaten very well made fish as he belonged here.

He enjoyed my meal so much and he made me laugh with stories like those he had told me on our picnic. I so much wanted his hug as he left a little after nine o'clock. I hoped he would be safe.

"Do you want me to spend here? I would have to curl myself into a sufuria!" He could be outrageous sometimes!

I was relieved to see him on his regular delivery run two days later, and to know he had got home safely.

Another time he invited me to supper at his place. He told me we would cook together. We did and it was great fun. It was nine before we finished eating, and then he refused to let me go home so late at night. "I will sleep on the floor while you can have the bed. Its OK."

I hit the roof. "No way! I'd rather walk in the dark until I get home than let you sleep on the cold floor!" So we shared his narrow bed. Like any normal warm-blooded male he wanted to touch me, and I, so hungry after all these months, let him. We ended up making love, clumsily since we both were novices. I wanted to try again and see if I could improve it for both of us, so he fucked me again in the morning. He 'delivered' me on his bicycle early enough for me to open for my morning customers.

I could feel his cock between my legs all day, and when I went to bed that night. This was beyond where I had gone with Daudi, he whom I wanted to regard as having died.

My life had taken a new course which I was enjoying very much. I wished my mother could see me now. I felt sure that she would be proud of me. But something stood between us: money. Small wonder that she had not wanted to look for me. She would have been tempted to take me to the police for stealing from her. Knowing her, she must have decided to shut me out of her system to stop the conflicting emotions of wanting to hand me over, but remembering how much she had gone through for me. It had no doubt kept her awake at night, as it had me too.

Two months into my new life, disaster struck. Jack, on a morning run to collect new stock, had been run into by a matatu crossing his path. He had been cruising downhill at quite a speed himself, so he had no chance. He was pronounced dead on arrival. I cried and cried throughout the week it took before his funeral. I cried at church, seeing him lying in that coffin in that deep red PCMF blazer, not six months old yet.

After the burial, I went home with tears clouding my eyes. I do not know how I escaped being hit by a matatu or a bodaboda. I crawled into bed and did not eat, wash, or even open the shop for two days.

I am devastated. I do not know where to turn. If there is a God who is good, why does He punish me like this, yet I see others who do wicked things going on with their lives? Jack is dead. Never to walk this earth again. How will I live again? Surely this time I must do something, anything! Those malaria tablets, or hang from a tree. This is more than I can bear!

But when I missed my periods for the second month running (the first one was while Jack was still alive, and I bided my time before telling him) the whole picture changed. I could not bring myself to harm an innocent being because of my own despair. It would be unbelievably selfish, I thought. So I carried my baby to full term.

My business had continued to grow during all this time. From among my customers and members of the district fellowship I had made a number of friends. Jacqueline came to help me at the shop when I was getting too tired near the end of the pregnancy. She, with Rose helped me out after delivery and while I nursed my daughter.

The girl was so beautiful that sometimes I would sit looking at her and a customer would need to call out a second time before I realised their presence.

When Grace reached school-going age, I felt a tearing apart. She would find new friends and think less of me. But that did not happen.

I was at the supermarket one Sunday afternoon after church. Grace was admiring dolls and toys as I shopped.

"Esther! What are you doing here?" I spun round in alarm.

Then I relaxed on recognising Martha, a former classmate of mine. We jumped into each other's arms, embracing tightly.

"I should ask you what you are doing in my hometown!" I said when I had got over the surprise.

"I am working with the local branch of NCBA, since week before last. You don't know how refreshing it is to see a familiar face at last!"

We chattered like magpies in the supermarket, our shopping almost arrested. She told me of news from home, and I told her how I had fared since I left. She completely understood my reasons for leaving, but she looked at me with some disapproval about my method. I was seized by shame that I could never take her home, to see my very humble dwelling when she had done so well for herself since we had last seen each other.

Finally we let go of each other to finish each our shopping, after sharing our contacts. Through the next weeks, we met often for coffee, two women with a common background. By a stroke of fortune she had Daudi's numbers with her, which she let me have freely. I sent him an sms that evening, hoping that it would not cause domestic turmoil.

"Hi Daudi! I hope this finds you whole, happy and healthy!—Ess"

Very early the next morning, after I had tortured myself endlessly about the tsunami I had probably caused, I heard a beep. It was a message. Hands trembling I reached for the phone and opened it, hoping it was from him. It was.

"Oh, what a lovely surprise! I am so happy to hear from you!"

A ping pong of messages ensued, in which we updated each other since we were parted by force, based on a lie. He offered to come and visit me the following weekend, but I could not let him. That would surely rank as emotional unfaithfulness to his wife. As usual he listened to me.

Over the next few months I became so well informed of happenings back in the village, from Martha and from Daudi, that I felt a pang to return home. I was already a successful trader in my own right, and though I did not have the comforts that Martha could afford, I felt I could stand on my own. But thoughts of my mother stayed me.

What would she do when I suddenly appeared? Would she embrace or shun me? Would she report me to the police or would she avoid me? I did not have the answers to these questions, but I knew that I would never have them until I got off my ass and went home. This dithering went on for the better part of a year. The fifth anniversary of my flight drew near.

"I am sorry I have not been in touch for more than a week. I have been tied down." Daudi wrote. He had indeed lately fallen silent and I had registered the fact with some part of my brain. Being busy with my work, I did not bring it to the forecourt of my mind and ask pertinent questions. I texted back this information, sanitized for his benefit.

He shared that it had been a very sad week, as they had a funeral.

"Who died? Do I know them?" I asked.

"Yes, very well. Beatrice." I stared at the screen for long seconds almost like I was in a dream.