Chapter Seven

Nature, that mischievous puppeteer, molded me like clay in the hands of a potter. Before I knew it, I towered over my previous self and my shoulders became wider to support the weight of my newfound height. The dems too noticed the change and everywhere I went they send smiles to my direction. I had become a sight to behold but that change too came with its flaws.

It was not grown body that settled on the lips of the neighbors and women in the market place nor my amazingly unique face but my uncanny resemblance to our dear neighbor. Mr. Ali Mwakosi!

It was more subtle, but equally undeniable. Whether by some cosmic trick or pure coincidence, my every step mirrored his footsteps, as if his mind was tracking my every move. It's not about looking in the mirror that I knew about this, for unfortunately, we were not blessed with such luxury. It was through the whispers dancing in the air like a mischievously.

"Oh, Mama Pendo, did you see that? The resemblance is uncanny!"

"Shut up! He might hear you. But honestly, it's like watching Ali himself."

"Did she really think she could hide it? The boy walks just like him, it's so obvious."

There was no need for any 'elders" to sit down and explain anything to me, no need for any woman to whisper in my ear, the truth dawned on me like a thick mist over a hill at dawn. Ali Mwakosi was my biological father! It hit me with a weight that pinned me to the ground, leaving me to wrestle with a barrage of questions swirling around like leaves in a storm.

"Did he care about me?" I wondered.

Did he care about me, I often wondered, during those times of hardship when I had no choice but to seek refuge at my sister's place? When life at home became an unbearable burden and my Mao, God bless her soul, struggled to put food on the table, let alone support my education. Did he spare thought for the son he never acknowledged as I trudged away from home, shoulders heavy with the weight of unspoken words and unshed tears?

And what of the advises that followed me like a shadow, urging me towards a path paved with uncertainty and sacrifice? When my primary school days came to a close and the neighbors murmured that I should forego the traditional route of high school and instead seek solace in the halls of a polytechnic. That it would be easier for my mother. Did he watch from afar as I, walked in nothing but bare feet and a pair of torn shorts, embarked on the journey to ACK St. Bartholomew High School, with only hope as my guide and faith as my protector.

Did he know of the despair that ate at my insides as I sat before the bishop, my spirit bruised and battered, pleading for a chance to pursue my dreams? When I looked into the bishop's eyes, depleted of life yet ablaze with determination. Did he sense the desperation that coursed through my veins like wildfire when I made promises of unwavering dedication and tireless effort to my education? Did he ever hear the silent plea for validation, for recognition that set from within me?

Yes, its selfish but ever think of me when the heavens seemed to split and the bishop placed that precious acceptance letter into my trembling hands. Did he rejoice with me as I miraculously wore that Form One uniform? Did he share in the elation that ran through my veins like a tsunami, washing away the doubts and fears that had plagued me for so long?

Did he understand the importance of that moment, the culmination of years of perseverance and determination, as started the path of my future? What of the countless hours I spent immersed in books, devouring knowledge like a famished man at a feast? Did he witness me approach every concept, every sentence, every equation with passion, knowing that my success was not just a desire but a necessity, a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.

That time when I realized that I was on this path alone, when Mao came to school, dressed in a simple leso and clutching jembe in her weathered hands. When my classmates laughed and mocked me. I do not think so…

And what about those days when even the simplest tasks become difficult, when I lost my once strong appetite and become haggard and hollow-eyed? Did he notice when my dimples disappeared and my once full cheeks were replaced with bones. What of the shadows dancing beneath my sunken eyes, the silent witnesses to the suffering I had endured in silence? For years, he had greeted me with the friendliness of a neighbor, casual nods of recognition, knowing too well I was his son.

But what did I expect? A hug? A Christmas gift?

There was one thing I had to do to set my heart right. With a heart heavy with fear and a stone-cold determination, I decided to approach Mao and find the truth that had eluded me for so long.

She looked into my gaze with eyes as deep and unfathomable as the ocean, I braced myself for the revelation that lay before her.

"Mom," I began in a trembling voice, "I hear the rumors. Is Ali Mwakosi really my father?

A moment of expectant silence fell as she fixed her gaze on me with a mixture of sadness and resignation. Then, with a calmness that belied the storm raging inside her, she spoke the words I feared and wanted to hear.

"Yes," she said.

The voice was barely above a whisper but it resonated with a quiet force that stirred something deep within me.

"He is your father," she spoke again."

The weight of her confession fell on me like a heavy cloak, wrapping me in a cocoon of conflicting emotions.