“They walked just behind a lady who wore a tight pair of white shorts with a loose t-shirt that exposed her juicy heavy breasts which swung uncontrollably; sometimes rhythmically…she had trained hard to perfect this style of wobbling the well rounded twins on her chest…”

….will I ever forget!!…

I sat on the ground near our old bamboo gate and stretched my thin legs as I chewed on a  succulent sugarcane. “Malaika” our emaciated donkey grazed cheerfully at a distance. She had earned me 40 shillings that morning for carrying my neighbor’s bed to the market in exchange for 7 tins of maize. Times were hard… I thought.
Our four roomed mud house stood strategically in the middle of the compound. It looked… well, habitable even after years of withstanding heavy rains that had substantially taken away its beauty, if at all there was any. The iron sheets were totally brown and rusty. They leaked in torrents. One had to switch positions every now and then when it rained for it was almost impossible to tell whether you were outside or inside the house. We smeared cow dung on its bare back as often as we would; to cover those conspicuously huge gaps.

I slept in the kitchen which served as a home for our 3 stubborn goats, 17 chicken and a crazy rooster that woke me up at intervals during the first days of its crowing. Surprisingly, I slept comfortably near the fire on an old Mat and a tattered blanket to shield me from the devilish cold of the wee hours. We were poor. Poverty was our family name. Once or twice in a year we risked and bought a quarter a kilo of meat…it is sad that our 6 cousins insisted on visiting us on this particular days, even when they had plenty in their homes.

So, when my father got a job in Nairobi… we danced 2 nights off as we had joined the elite group of village cool kids whose fathers worked at the big city. We were convinced that poverty would soon be a thing of the past. We announced to anyone who dared to listen, that Mzee would soon leave to gather and assemble richness. On the day of his departure, we drained all our savings to ensure that he left with 4kgs of maize floor rounded up in a tattered and dusty rucksack. And so he left…that was 9 years ago.

We were all shocked when we heard that he had been seen in various bars in a high-end suburb called Kawangware. Gossipers informed my mother that he frequented these joints with a young brown mamacita who often wore tight clothes that revealed her pressing voluptuous booty. She was particularly known for her carelessness in walking which intentionally wafted the booty left right and center…sending onlookers into a trance. A distant uncle, who had traveled to Nairobi and back, reported that my father was well known among night clubbers especially for his generosity in dishing out money. He had been spotted dancing closely behind this lady until there was no space whatsoever left between his genitals and the ladies’ “fundamentals”. Once or twice we almost fought the supposed naysayers and refused to admit that a family man of high morals, the one we all knew could be tempted to even look at a lady, when he had a loving wife at home…

Yes, i know my mum had lost some of her beauty. Years of hardship and toil had stolen her tender beauty…But, she remained the best mother in the whole world. Didn’t she at times go out and borrow even 2 cups of maize meal just to make us porridge for supper? When we lacked school fees,didn’t she beg the headmistress to allow us sit in class albeit for 2 weeks a term? Who sewed our clothes 16 times, patching up parts to make a covering? Didn’t she buy a razor blade for shaving our heads when the barber charged 5 shillings(which was too much anyway)…no one can leave such a lady! My father was no exception and so I thought.

My father did not come back that year, even for Christmas…not even the next. He appeared the 3rd year in March.
When he entered the compound from the upper gate, I was seated outside eating a succulent sugarcane….malaika grazed at a distance.
I saw two brown kids, smartly dressed in blue jeans and white t-shirts which matched immaculately. I envied them when I looked at my old shorts which I had personally made by cutting my elder brother’s trousers. I wanted the clothes. I wanted their smiles. I was still lost in thoughts when I noticed that they perfectly resembled my father! Their big noses would not be mistaken to have come from anywhere else…so distinct were their huge sharp teeth.

They walked just behind a lady who wore a tight pair of white shorts with a loose t-shirt that exposed her heavy breasts which swung uncontrollably; sometimes rhythmically…she had trained hard to perfect this style of wobbling the two twins on her chest… I observed her well-built muscle legs and immediately concluded that they had originated from Vihiga county. She wore dark goggles and chewed carelessly as she mumbled a few things to my father who was walking just closely; holding hands. They approached. I sat confused…

Just then, my mother appeared from the other side of the house and met face to face with “these people”. I looked into her eyes. I have never seen my dear mother confused, sad, annoyed, thoughtful and broken-hearted. As her tears rolled down her cheeks, the flood gates of mine opened up. I cried more than her. I cried for her…just then, as an enraged bull, I catapulted myself from the ground and swung a blow at the woman. It caught her squarely on the face…my father turned to tackle me.


  1. why would anyone beat their stepmother for nothing? if anyone should be beaten it is the father because despite his knowledge of the poverty back at home, he went ahead and took another woman. the woman is completely innocent and in fact you were supposed to welcome your step brothers instead of looking at them with a sneering eye. watoto wa siku hizi mmelaniwa sana

  2. Above all…this article is among the best, wow this what i have been longing for…so great with sequence and perfected linguistics…congrants


Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here