What goes around, finally comes around (Part 2)

By CLIFFORD OLUOCH
Published October 28, 2009

I delivered a bouncing baby girl at Pumwani Maternity after snubbing my mom’s offer to have me deliver at Nairobi Hospital. The same stubborn journalist (or is it paparazzi) was there to take pictures and scoop what she hoped would be an award winning story (gossip to be exact). I named my girl Brenda Fassie, an obvious pointer to my admiration for the late controversial South African song icon.

I was admitted to a top girl’s boarding school in Nairobi. I wished I would stay with my baby or anyone would but for my mom!

“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. However, given the choice between Soja’s mum and my mum staying with my baby, I chose my mum. At least she could provide the basics comfortably. Woman’s instinct you may call it.

Within a fortnight, I had started my life in secondary school where my reputation had already preceded me.

High school began on a wrong footing. I steered clear of all manner of men that my mum would approve of. I hated male teachers, however much they tried being friendly with me. 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 nosey prefect finally trailed me to that house one fateful night.

The end result was a bit messy but I have to admit that being frog marched out of the man’s house at night in my night dress in front of the matron and the head teacher was peculiarly exciting .How I wished my mum was around!

“Shame on you,” shouted the matron. I looked at her and cursed that she was lucky she was not my mum. The following morning, all my bags packed, I sat outside the Principal’s 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 adventure for them to explore too!

My mum arrived early. In tow was a well dressed man, a fellow lawyer I guessed. “What now?” she glowered at me.

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 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 making love to 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 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.”

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 to class now. Two, I want that man out of here now or he will be arrested in an hour’s 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.

I went back to class and to the dormitory. 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 detailed 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 cases. None of the rackets involving credit cards, bread and phone calls lacked my involvement. I even made sure that three quarters of the girls had condoms in their suitcases by supplying them the same! Just in case the craving struck.

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 bedroom house on the outskirts of the city, courtesy of one of the many benefactors that I had drawn up when at school.

I enrolled for degree in law – 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 especially among the women. I decided to take on mum where it would hurt her most. Bring her organization down! I tracked down all the women who had brought up cases against alleged 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 but I did not act just yet. I kept scheming; fattening the dossier!

Within three years, I had completed my degree course, courtesy of my brilliant mind and more so, 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.”

That 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 on the daily front pages but more for the wrong reasons. 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 MPs, 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.

The fights grew nastier and even went right below the belt. 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.

“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.”

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.

“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 in the room.”
“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 were both 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 found myself speechless!. 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 was 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.”

I climbed 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.

Sigh. Another season. Same game. Same players. Same rules. Different levels.

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