Chapter Four

I was roused from my sleep by the rustling of fabric. I blinked away the remnants of sleep and stared blankly at my mother, who was neatly packing her clothes into sack at the foot of the bed. Mwabili lay stretched out next to me, his drooling a sign of heavy sleep. Mwabili, my mother and I shared a bed and clung to the same thin blankets.

The once pure white mattress had long since been replaced by a dull brown colour from having to deal with young mischievous boys. The bed itself a relic of better times was now a creaking, groaning vessel barely supported by the weight of our dreams. It threatened many nights with rebellion, its wooden framework protesting back and forth but eventually it would give in and fall like a defeated fortress. In the middle of the night, when the world was lost in a dream and the bed frame was lay broken, we became masters of improvisation. Too lazy to think about repairs during the witching hour, we just adjusted, shifted our weight to the sturdiest corner and continued sleeping as if nothing had happened.

Mwabili and I transformed our humble abode into a flooded wonderland. Together waterlogged the "God forsaken" mattresses one by one. The quaint little room, barely large enough for the sleeping three musketeers, had experienced the worst of smells. Night after night, as the moon cast a silvery glow over our humble abode, my brother and I baptized the mattress with our urine. Our mother who was not immune to the trials and tribulations of raising children, with a heart as big as the ocean itself, she weathered the storm in soggy sheets with a grace that no sea captain could match.

Every morning, as I rose from my watery cocoon, the night dawned with a symphony of creaks and squeaks, my clothes clinging to my skin, she dawned with a smile on her face. She never once complained of us soaking the clothes under the bed. Our clothes, including hers, were placed under the bed. First because we did not have a closet or a box and second because they also acted as a supporting mattress. And our clothes proved the mess of our night's adventures as waves of urine washed them.

Seeing my mother fold these clothes neatly into the sack, my heart sank like a stone in a river as I knew what this meant. It was another chapter in our heart-breaking story. Another man would be moving in and out of our lives like a fleeting shadow. The weight of these realization hung in the air and I felt suffocated with resignation and sadness.

"How many times have we seen this ritual, this dance of hope and sadness? How many times has our mother tied her dreams to the promise of a better tomorrow, only to see them crumble like sandcastles in a flood?"

I feel a tinge of sympathy for her, a single mother who carried the burden of two worlds: the world of work, where she worked tirelessly under the unforgiving sun and the world of family, where she strived to the fullest. I felt it. A day's job, digging people's shambas, barely making ends meet to put food on the table and clothes on our unhealthy bodies – it was a relentless cycle of survival, a fight against an enemy so terrifying you couldn't see it .In the end, the same cruel choice always awaited us – eat or drink, cloth or educate, live or just exist.

I watched with a heavy heart and tearful eyes as my mother made another silent sacrifice. For in a world where love was a luxury and stability a distant dream, she had no choice but to cling to the fleeting promise of her companionship, no matter how ephemeral and false. I couldn't help but feel the weight of our collective despair weighing on me, threatening to swallow me whole.

With heavy hearts and weary souls, we trudged down the dusty road toward an uncertain future, heavy burdens on our shoulders. Every step felt like a mile, the weight of our few possessions pulling us along like an anchor in a sea of despair. Our sacks hang at our sides, their contents merely a reflection of our shattered reality. They are knee-length to Mwabili and I and seemed to mock us.

It was not just the physical weight of our belongings that was taxing us. It was the weight of our own bodies, twisted and deformed by the cruel grip of malnutrition. Our once flat stomach now protrudes like a bloated belly. Not because food was plentiful but because it was scarce, a grotesque testament to our struggle to survive.

As we passed curious onlookers, in the market, their eyes were fixed on us like daggers, a silent condemnation of our poverty and misfortune. It was as if our very existence was a marvellous spectacle, as if our struggles were on display for all to see. The cruelty of their gaze cut deep, cutting through the thin veil of dignity we cling to so desperately. Every time they looked, our situation seemed even more dire and every time we saw a pitiful gaze, our spirits sank.

But amidst the sea of blame and contempt, a hint of defiance flickered in my mother's eyes, a quiet determination to rise above the waves of misfortune. And we carried on with our heads held high, refusing to be reduced to mere pity and ridicule.

Our new mother's husband home was built with care and precision. The home featured solid brick walls, each telling a story of resilience and craftsmanship passed down through generations. A fence made of intricately woven wire mesh surrounded the property. It appeared to blend seamlessly with the surrounding, offering a glimpse of the lush surroundings beyond. Nestled in this protective embrace, the home exuded a sense of calm and belonging.

"This will be our new home," my mother boasted with a glimpse of hope in her eyes.

Large and proud, this building was truly is a testament of its strength. All around the house, green banana trees sway in the breeze, their broad leaves casting dappled shadows on the ground below. Their presence not only provided a food source but also acted as a natural air conditioner, cooling the air and providing a respite from the heat of the day. A sense of warmth and hospitality surrounded us as we stepped through the gate into the courtyard. The scent of earth and the sweet scent of ripe fruit combined to create a symphony that enchanted our senses.

An old man, dressed in simple but dignified clothes, emerged from the house and moved slowly and carefully, with steady grace to where we were standing with amusement.

As he reaches out to his guests, his eyes, framed by a mesh of fine lines etched by time, shine with a quiet warmth. His presence radiated calm and security, as if the air around him supported the weight of his benevolent spirit. Despite the age etched on his face and the slight slump in his shoulders, there was an undeniable strength in his demeanour that came not from physical ability but from resilience.

With each step towards us, the old man's smile grows wider, filling the space between us with an aura of true hospitality and goodwill. His voice, like rhumba rhythms, resonated with such tenderness that you could not believe the depth of his empathy and understanding.

"Karibu,". The words roll off his tongue like a melody, a warm invitation to share the warmth and hospitality of his home.

The interior of the house also reflected the harmony between tradition and modernity. Handcrafted furniture and colourful textiles pay homage to rich cultural heritage, while modern amenities provided comfort and convenience. Around every corner of the house there were echoes of a promising future.

The next few days were the best. We missed the end of year exams but that was none of our concern. Our new father, Mr. Mwakitawa, as I came to learn was a retired chef. As days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, the bond between Mr. Mwakitawa grew stronger and stronger each time we spent time together.

What started as a simple exchange of greetings in the morning evolved into heartfelt conversations filled with laughter, wisdom and mutual respect. The old man's quiet strength and gentle guidance served as a guide during my uncertain times. He told the story of his own childhood, the stories of triumph and hardship woven into his lived experience. One evening, as we sat together under the vast branches of a baobab tree, the old man's words took on a solemn tone about the importance of education

"You have a bright future ahead of you," he said with clear conviction in his voice. "But it's up to you to take advantage of the opportunities that come your way. Education is the key that opens the door to a world of endless possibilities," His words resonated deep within my soul and inspired me.

My age, just a nine-year-old, was not enough to grasp all his wisdom. What I loved about him was his love for Rhumba. Every evening, when my mother was deep set in preparing our supper, Mwambili, Mr. Mwakitawa and I, sat under a tree and listened to Mwanedu FM. One famous song was our favourite;

As days passed, my friendship with Mr. Mwakitawa continued to blossom but little did I know what fate had in store for us. Mr. Mwakitawa was a great subsistence farmer. He planted cassavas, maize and sweet potatoes. But one thing was bound to destroy the friendship I held with him. My stomach!

Mwabili and I, with stomachs as karais, quickly developed an insatiable appetite for cassavas. When Mr. Mwakitawa was away in his daily endeavours, Mwabili and I tricked our mother into cooking a pot full of cassavas. Our mother from all the love that she held for us conspired. And through this we were about to lead her into another bottomless pit.

But as our eating habits became bolder, our newfound penchant for cassava soon became a cause for concern. It was a day like any other in Mr. Mwakitawa's household, when he walked in the compound steaming of anger. He had run out of patience with the constant demands of two young boys and an exhausted mother.

On that fateful day, as the sun hung low in the sky like weary travellers, storm clouds gathered over our heads and cast a shadow of terror over us. It started with a simple reprimand, then a harsh word here, a raised voice there and finally, like a dormant volcano erupting in anger, our "new father" unleashed his pent-up anger on our mother.

The blows fell upon her like the sound of a hammer, each a painful reminder that in his eyes we were an unwanted burden. And as I watched in horror, my heart torn between fear and righteous indignation, I knew I could no longer call this place home. I thought of standing to help her but what could my small bonny body do? I looked over to my brother. He too was frightened. It was not once or twice that we had fell into this situation. What had made us think that this man would be different? Had our own fathers abandoned us too?

My mother drew me closer with her trembling hands and her tear-stained cheeks, strengthening her resolve with the fire of her maternal instinct. There was no time to say goodbye. Anyway, who would we be telling goodbye? The man who had turned into a beast only because he saw us a burden? Or to the healthy-looking cassavas in the garden? At least for them there would be a will. But there was no time!

There was only the urgent need to escape the wrath of a man consumed by his own demons. So, we fled like refugees at dusk, with the sacks on our backs and the weight of shame on our souls. Streets that were once familiar and welcoming now loomed before us like gavels of judgment. Whispers of gossip and accusations echoed in our ears.

I knew it. Deep in my heart and soul. Yes! What the whispers were about. I knew it and it pained me. It pained me deep into my veins and I felt it upon my chest. The neighbourhood judged my mother and painted her with the brush of madness and possession.

"She's crazy," they said, their voices dripping with the venom of ignorance and fear.

But in the midst of the cacophony of accusations, a ray of hope appeared when one day, Uncle Mwakoma, with a heart as big as the African savannah, he saw the damage the rumours had done to my mother and vowed to end my mother's suffering once and for all. Armed with a bag full of dreams and a few notes, he embarked on a journey of salvation in search of the elusive sorcerer who is said to have the power to heal troubled souls.

The search for him was fraught with danger and uncertainty but he pressed on, driven by his determination to bring light to the darkness that shrouded our family. Weeks passed like grains of sand in an hourglass and at last the news of his return reached our ears like a whisper on the wind. And there, my mother, stood before us like a phoenix reborn from the ashes of despair, her eyes shining with her newfound strength and her determination.

The villagers were astonished at her transformation and they waggled their tongues in disbelief at the sight of a woman who was once thought to have an incurable disease.

"She has changed," they whispered, their voices laced with awe and grudging admiration. "She was cured."

Unfortunately, that respite did not last long. Like stubborn weeds in a gossip garden, the rumours soon began to sprout again. They whispered of regression, of a woman possessed by an evil spirit that could not be cast out. Thus, my mother found herself once again plunged into a sea of distrust and contempt and her newfound hopes crumbled upon the rock of doubt and mistrust.

Back home, was no sight to rejoice. That night we clung to our thin blanket in empty stomachs.

"Tomorrow, we will visit your aunt, Mama Wachia."