Chapter Two

Like a clockwork, every morning, Mwalukundo came out of the house and the birds scattered and the neighbourhood cats ran away. His police uniform, a relic of a bygone era, had wrinkles and buttons that seemed to pop like rebellious popcorn. It looked like you could almost hear his seams protesting in pain as he struggled to put his pants on.

His shirt, a blue that has long since faded to a dull indigo, clung to him like a second skin, accentuating its bumps and contours with the tenacity of his ex-lover's clinginess. But despite the humorous spectacle he presented, Mwalukundo was seen as wearing an authoritative uniform, as if daring anyone to question the legitimacy of his uniform or the importance of his role in the community.

One particularly memorable morning, Mwalukundo was making his daily rounds when he encountered a sight that will forever go down in the Kunde's history. There, in the middle of his backyard, a flock of stray chickens wreaked havoc, chirping, and pecking anything within hoeing distance.

With the solemn demeanour of an experienced policeman, Mwalukundo began his action, his trusty handcuffs glinting in the sunlight. However, when he tried to imprison the winged refugee, chaos ensued. Feathers flew in all directions and chickens scattered like roaches.

Discouraged, Mwalukundo followed his chicken with a slipper in hand, back and forth. After a series of dramatic twists and near-misses, Mwalukundo finally managed to hand down his "fugitives". And with a rattling chorus, Mwalukundo continued his patrols as a beacon of justice in a world gone mad with disaster.

As the day progressed and the sun dipped lower on the horizon, Mwalukundo decide to pay a visit at Mama Pima's place. With the seriousness of a seasoned sheriff, he requested his usual ration of Mbangara, a strong local beer said that was brewed from the historical Mwashina tree. The Mwashina after making the life "healing brew" was also used as a washcloth. Those who were privileged enough to enjoy its pleasure, were easily recognisable as their skins shown and never suffered the fear of dealing with wrinkles.

As the night wore on and the drinks flowed like water from a broken dam, Mwalukundo found himself in an awkward position: His wallet was as empty as the politicians' promises. He ignored Mama Pima's increasingly threatening gaze and tried to calmly get out of the situation. But Mama Pima was not to be taken lightly and her steely gaze cut through Mwalukundo's courage like a hot knife through butter.

As the night fell Mwalukundo managed to stumble out of Mama Pima's compound, numbed by the potent mixture of mbangara coursing through his veins.

With each unsteady step he wound his way down the dusty road, his vision fading away and his thoughts sinking into the haze of oblivion. The night air whispered a lullaby, lulling him into a false sense of security as he trudged along, his eyelids drooping with each passing second.

Finally, unable to resist the sleep-inducing sirens, Mwalukundo succumbed to the inevitable and collapsed like a sack abandoned by the roadside. There, as he watched the starry sky, he snored softly. His snores mixed with the gentle rustle of the night breeze as the world went on around him, oblivious to his sleeping form. And so Mwalukundo fell into a dreamless sleep, the taste of Mbangala on his lips, the rhythm of his snoring so deep that it challenged the night frogs.

As the first light of dawn painted the sky gold and pink, the peaceful stillness of the morning was broken by the loud singing of Mwalukundo. It was Habel Kifofo's song, Niwapo;

Were mwana nede mpata,

Mwai Wakesho nikamzera,

Mwai nemkundedenda,

Mevea miaka idadu,

Nikamzera dilowuane.

My child let me tell you,

I got a lady named Wakesho,

And I told her, "I love you,"

She said no problem,

After three years,

I told her, "Let us marry".

Blurry-eyed and dazed, I stumbled to the window and caught the sight of my mother walking angrily towards the road to approach Mwalukundo. Her normally calm demeanour was marred by the constant singing, and she became like a lioness defending her territory.

With righteous indignation, she confronted Mwalukundo and demanded that he stop disturbing the peace of our modest abode. But instead of heeding her request, Mwalukundo reacted as virulently as a snakebite, hurling a storm of insults.

And amidst the chaos of bark and thorns, the morning sun rose high in the sky, casting a surreal glow on the unfolding drama. Mwalukundo's reply cut through the morning air like a blade, his words dripping with malice and contempt.

"What right do you have to come near me? "He spat, his voice a venomous hiss. "A woman who can't even keep a husband has no business meddling in my affairs when her life is at stake!" The words hung in the air like a foul odour, each syllable a sharp blow.

"And who do you think you are?" My mother asked.

"The man, you should approach with respect," Mwalukundo answered.

"A man! A half a man you mean," my mother thought to herself.

My mother was used to these types of compliments. Despite the sharpness of his words, she refused to give in, her determination as unyielding as the granite beneath her feet. She turned around and walked away, ignoring Mwalukundo's mean words like grains of sand on a beach in the wind.

She knew that gossips were as heavy as the feathers of a storm. But how could she have changed her fate? Her father, Mzee Mwabili, who was known for his wisdom, but perhaps even more so for his unique approach to "family planning".

At his old age, he gathered his younger offspring and distributed them, like mangoes, to his older children. If Mzee Mwabili didn't have a penchant for randomness, this decree might have seemed sensible enough.

On that fateful day, as his children waited for their fate, he brandished his bamboo stick with all the authority of a shepherd tending his flock.

"You," he said, gesturing briskly, "go with your sister Chao.

" And you," he punched the air with enthusiasm, "will go to your cousin Juma.

When it came to my beloved mother Prijitah Wakesho, Mzee Mwabili declared with a twinkle in her eye and a laugh.

"Wakesho will now be in the care of her uncle, Mwakulegha! May God bless his soul.

And so, Wakesho was left in the care of her uncle, whose main skill was devouring large quantities of ugali rather than the delicate art of raising a teenage girl. From that day on, their home became a theatre of the absurd, with Mwakulegha attempting to navigate the treacherous waters of adolescent melodrama, armed only with his trusty pot of stew and a repertoire of dubious jokes.

As Wakesho began her journey into womanhood under the tutelage of her round-faced brother, she found herself only with the option of marring a forty-year-old man (Mombo), as she was always left alone without care or protection. At the age of sixteen she had her first daughter, Eva and years later Agnes and Nelly.

As the years passed, Mombo's midlife crisis hit like a hurricane, leaving poor Wakesho clinging to the rubble of a once strange but strangely functioning marriage.

It was as if the lure of the new had seduced him like a siren's call and soon he was bidding farewell to his little wife and setting sail for new shores, leaving Wakesho to ponder the mysteries of love and the whim of fate.

As soon as Mombo divorced Wakesho and send away without her daughters, he found himself caught up in the amorous embrace of another woman, Khadijah. As the rumour spread through the village like wildfire, Wakesho could only shake her head in bewilderment and marvel at the sheer audacity.

But amidst the heartache and betrayal, Wakesho discovered new freedom in her younger brother's, Mwakoma, household. It was freedom from the bondage of a marriage born of whim and folly. She found herself a new lover and bore my bigger brother, Mwabili.

But even in the sight of new love, motivated by her mother's love and fortitude, Wakesho decided to bridge the gap between her and her beloved daughters Eva, Agnes and Nelly. As she approached the threshold of her former home, she was greeted not with open arms but with the cold, unyielding gaze of her ex-husband, Mombo.

His eyes flashed with a poisonous mixture of anger and resentment, and his face contorted into a mask of anger as he blocked her path with iron determination born of cruelty. Wakesho pressed forward, undaunted by his threatening presence and undeniable spectre of violence that loomed before her eyes. Just then, Mombo's hand shot out like a viper and grabbed her wrist in a heavy grip.

With a savage growl, he hurled fierce insults at her, his words laced with venom and with a quick, brutal movement, he raised his hand high, a glint of malice in his eyes, and delivered a devastating blow to her legs.

The sickening sound of her bones crunching echoed through the air like a gunshot. Wakesho staggered to the ground, stunned by the onslaught. Her body was torn with pain and she struggled to understand the cruelty that had happened to her. And as Mombo stood over her, a wry smile on his lips, she realized that the road to her salvation would be long and arduous, a journey full of danger and uncertainty.

As if the universe was on her side, Mombo, my resilient mother's disgraced ex-husband, died just a year after the brutal encounter that left her devastated but unyielding. Rumour has it that his death was as strange as his life before it, shrouded in a cloak of mystery and shrouded in an eerie glow of irony.

Mombo was always a reckless adventurer and is said to have embarked on crazy plans to traverse the treacherous depths of nearby forests in search of elusive riches.

Armed only with misplaced ambition and a healthy dose of arrogance, he ventured into the wilderness, ignoring the dangers that lurk within. But fate seemed to have a wicked sense of humour. No sooner had Mombo had barely set foot on the forest floor than the disaster struck with the force of lightning. Whether it was a vengeful rage or simply the cruel hand of fate remains speculation, but one thing is certain: Mombo's ill-fated expedition ended in tragedy.

Some people whispered of great beasts that lurked in the shadows, snapping their jaws with terrifying precision as they grabbed the helpless prey. Some spoke of the treacherous terrain that enveloped the victims in a deadly embrace, engulfing them in a mix of chaos and despair.

However, among the whispers and speculations, one thing was clear, Mombo met his end in a manner befitting the absurdity of his existence, leaving behind a legacy marked by folly and tragedy.

My mother heard the news. But there was no time to grief or to be happy. My brother's father, Mwawasi, tied to observing culture and the weight of responsibilities did not stick long and again my mother found herself alone with the need to provide for my elder bother.

Time went by very fast and seven years later after her unhappy marriage to Mombo collapsed, my mother still faced the harsh reality of being a single mother and although she did not give up, her heart was heavy with the weight of her responsibility.

With a young son to take care of and the spectre of uncertainty looming on the horizon, she struggled to make ends meet and her days become a whirlwind of toil and confusion. My biological father, a man with fiery passion and boundless energy, crossed paths with my mother in the most unlikely of circumstances.

Younger than she and driven by her restless spirit, he was drawn to her side, offering her comfort amid her tribulations. But as fate would have it, the spark of friendship soon ignited a flame of passion, fanned by the searing heat of desire and the intoxicating rush of forbidden love. In a moment of reckless abandon, my parents succumbed to the intoxicating temptations of the flesh. Their union was a collision of desperation and desire that would change the course of their lives forever.

And I was born into this world - a mistake- born of passion and necessity, a testament to the unpredictable whims of fate and the irresistible charm of love's embrace. But as news of my impending arrival spread through the village like wildfire, my father's initial excitement turned to paralysing fear. He thought of what society would say about him. How would the community embrace the fact that him a youthful and promising boy had fathered a "mature woman?"

His youthful courage was also no match for the impending burden of fatherhood. Fearful of the responsibility that loomed on the horizon, he warned my mother of ever speaking about their forbidden love, leaving my mother to weather the turbulent waters of nursing a newborn alone.

With heavy heart and iron determination, determined to build a future for herself and her growing boys, regardless of the obstacles that stand in her way, my mother was glad of the one gift of being in her brother's compound. She thanked the heavens for the home she had and praised God for her brother. And so out of the sincerity of thankfulness she decided to name me, Mwakoma, after her beloved brother.

It was a blessing to own such a lovely name. Despite it being from my uncle, it also meant the end of her childbearing. Yes! I was to be the last born as her "dreams" were to be fulfilled through me. But lucky her! Because mine were unsure as I didn't know my biological father.