“Hurry up, boy. We’ll be late!” My mom’s voice came from outside our compound. The compound was made up of more than thirty iron-sheet houses, arranged in five rows by six. Here was the house that had given me my first taste of life. It was a place where secrets were few; what happened in one house could be heard by all of the neighbours.
I had never seen my father, and my mom never liked to talk about him. I once complained about every other child getting to have their fathers around once in a while, and some of them were even present all the time, but mine never showed up. “What are you lacking?” she had said. “Is there something I’m not providing for you to spark these conversations? Don’t you dare ask me again about that man. Ever!”
“John! Don’t make me come back there, because I might just slap you through our neighbour’s house. Don’t try me,” she roared. Her voice echoed around the compound.
“Mama Johnny, why don’t you put your voice down a bit, we’re trying to get some sleep. Some of us just came back from work and our night just got started,” Obaya said with a towel wrapped around his waist. Obaya worked as a night security guard for a supermarket here in Kawangware. He didn’t like to be called a watchman. He was a security officer.
“Baba Otis, this boy is testing my patience. When will I get to open my kiosk and cook tea? My enemies have succeeded today!” she clicked bitterly. “John, if I come in there, you won’t like what I’ll do to you.”
I was looking for my boot. I had the right one, but the left boot wasn’t anywhere to be found. My mom bought them for me last year for Christmas, and I loved them immediately, white Jordan 3s. I got ladies turning their heads when I put them on with my blue jeans and a black polo shirt I picked up at the open market for thirty shillings.
Today our neighbour’s daughter from block three was going to be close to the place where my mom worked. Her name was Elizabeth Wangechi. She was unlike any other girl I had met. Her mind was bursting with creativity and her hands moved with a magical touch—she could paint heaven with a pen or pencil. She was different from the other girls I knew. Her superpower was her voice. She sang pop songs with a beauty that was ethereal, and I imagined the angels dancing to her voice.
This “daughter of the people”—her family was Kikuyu—was blessed from head to toe, with shapely legs built like the trunks of a savanna baobab. Cute luscious lips and long hair. I must say she had a blessed itina, or backside, and small pointed breasts like cupcakes. I’m a man of culture: I’d listen to a woman if her backside jiggled, and yes, she caught my attention the day they moved in. I knew from the start that she was meant to be mine except that she was still sixteen.
Her mom had a kiosk not far from where my mom’s kiosk was. She was in form two. As for me, I had finished my primary eight three years ago and scored 289 marks out of 500. Due to our poor financial situation, which had us by the neck, I had to stay at home and help my mom out at her kiosk. While other kids were in classrooms, holding pens and books, my hands were greased with cooking oil and wheat flour.
Defeated and disappointed, I emerged from the door, wearing a trench coat, with a thermos and jugs in my hands. Signs of frustration showed on my face, and my mom stood there with both arms akimbo, looking at me with an expression that said “I could beat you like a dog.” I lowered my head, so as not to look at her directly.
“What were you doing in there that kept me waiting for the whole day? If you tell me ‘nothing,’ I’ll beat you to death and surrender myself to the authorities. What could’ve been more important this morning than going to open the only thing that has been feeding us?” Her expression now said, “I’ll beat you up.”
“Mom, I couldn’t find my boots, the ones you gave me on Christmas Eve. I wanted to wear them.” I looked down. I never look into her eyes when she’s angry—that would warrant a direct ticket to God himself. I’m the son of a woman, as they say.
“My friend, can you pick up those things and move that excuse of a body out of my sight before I do something I might regret later. Nyonyonyonyonyo, nonsense!” she said while sarcastically mimicking me.
We headed out into the wet and foggy April weather. I was bitterly cold, despite the fact I was dressed like the Undertaker. It started drizzling a few minutes before we could catch the bus, and my mom kept complaining throughout the journey. After fifteen minutes, we alighted at the bus stop and proceeded on foot to the kiosk. I started to thank God for not finding that one boot, because if I had worn them, washing them would have been a problem. The place was muddy and soaking wet, so no one was wearing anything white.
It was a humble kiosk, but it held so much hope for us. My mom started to rearrange things in the corner, while I was busy lighting the firewood. When the fire was lit, I placed a sufuria on top of the fire and poured water into the sufuria, added five litres of milk, and then added the tea leaves. This is a popular tea around here. Construction workers especially love it.
“I hope you are not cooking water instead of milk tea? Have you put enough milk in that sufuria?” my mom asked while cleaning the cups. One thing about her is that she cleans everything in the evening and packs it up so well that she doesn’t need to wash it again in the morning.
In the evening, we washed everything and packed it up, and we headed home. I felt so bad that I didn’t get to see Eliza in her mom’s kiosk despite passing by numerous times. I decided that I’d text her at night. I used my Nokia 1120, which I had purchased second-hand at the local market for three hundred shillings.
“Kijana, kuna nini kwa hiyo simu? You’ve been staring at it for some time now, is everything okay with your phone?” my mom inquired.
I returned to my senses, feeling somehow happy and a little bit sad. Truth is, I wasn’t able to fall asleep after texting Eliza. She had sent me a message: “I couldn’t come to help mom today because my stepdad keeps making inappropriate comments about my body in front of his fellow workers and that embarrasses me. So today I decided to stay home.”
I knew her stepfather had feelings for her but I had no proof, and I wasn’t about to interfere with their family affairs, though I was betraying my conscience. I kept thinking about him, and how to help Liz. Two days ago, she told me that this same man sensually touched her buttocks, and it had me thinking how a grown man would do such a thing to a sixteen-year-old girl. This kind of betrayal would break the family apart if her mother were to learn of it.
“Hakuna, Mom. I’m just texting with Eliza,” I said.
We had chatted over SMS throughout the holidays last December, and since then I made sure that she was still dancing to the rhythm of my words. I had been sending her love poems and even songs. Everything was so smooth, we both knew why we were texting each other. We would chat until around 2 a.m., and sometimes I even fell asleep while texting.
I knew if I wanted Eliza wrapped around my finger, it would be a piece of cake. I’m a ladies’ man. I just had to make her see that I could be a better man, even though I hadn’t had the chance to go to high school. I just had to make her see how unique I was.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t stop fantasising about her. I had never felt this way about anyone. “Is this love?” I asked myself, while staring at the ceiling. The raindrops fell on the iron sheeting, making a pleasant rhythmic sound that usually lulled me into a deep sleep. But tonight I just lay there fully awake. I pictured Eliza running her hands through my hair, talking to me, kissing and touching me. It was surreal.
The next evening, when we came back from the kiosk, I started preparing supper: sukuma wiki, or kale, fried eggs and ugali. At around 8 p.m., as we were having our supper, there was a knock on the door.
“Hawa majerani na kuomba kila kitu. Ni nini anataka kuomba sai?” Mom complained that our neighbours were getting used to borrowing things from us and she was tired of it.
I went to the door with a piece of ugali in my hand, and to my surprise it was Eliza’s mom and two police officers in uniform.
“Afisa, ni huyu kijana. Take him away!” she commanded bitterly, pointing at me. My jaw dropped. What did I do wrong?
My mom stepped in, breathing heavily. “Take him where? What has my son done to you, Mama Eliza?”
“Young man, you’re under arrest for raping an underage girl. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say will and shall be used against you in a court of law. Give us your hands, or we will arrest you forcefully.”
I was dumbfounded. I didn’t know what they were talking about. That morning I had met Eliza behind a construction site, and we kissed until her stepfather caught us and told me to leave. I had left Eliza standing there with her arms crossed behind her, looking at the ground.
“Officers, there’s been a mistake,” I exclaimed, trying to defend myself. My mom stared me in the face as if she had seen a ghost.
“Mom, you have to believe me. I didn’t rape that girl.” I pleaded with her but her expression was cold and distant, as if I wasn’t there next to her. The officers grabbed me and threw those cold handcuffs on my wrists. The whole neighbourhood was outside, watching the scene. Some of them were murmuring, while others stared at me in disbelief. I didn’t see Eliza anywhere. As I was led away from the compound, I looked back, hoping my mom would chase after me, but she didn’t.
Before we reached the gate, a scream rattled the compound, followed by curses. It was my mother. “I thought I brought you up well, a son with manners. I didn’t know you were going to be like your father. The son of a rapist. I should have aborted you rather than keeping you and watching you become a rapist. What did I do to deserve this kind of punishment from God?” She wept sorrowfully, not for mercy but out of regret.
I never knew I was a product of rape. My mom had endured so much trauma just to give me a chance in life. I finally understood why she never mentioned that pathetic man’s name, and now I had been accused of the very thing that he had done to her. My heart sank when she said she should’ve aborted me. If only I could convince her that I didn’t do it. But who’d believe me now, when the only person who could clear my name was nowhere to be found? God knows where her mom was keeping her.
I was led away by the two officers and thrown into their Land Cruiser, and that was when my struggles began.
