Category Archives: Family life

White Walls 2

That night we all went home dead beat, hungry and broke. My little girl was much recovered after getting the drip; she played around and smiled at the household faces enclosed in the white walls…well except for white coat wearers. She stared at them with flames in her eyes whenever they passed by and I almost thought I saw her clinch  her wee fingers at their mere sight.

I saw detestation especially towards female doctors in heels and weaves. Weaves that blocked off one eye. Female doctors that we all prayed with baited breath that they don’t drop off their white coats. These could have possibly been their only cover from the shame of mankind. Crap! These doctors could have been the Jinxed spirits from hell!

Sprinkles some Holy water on key pads spelling unspeakable terms.

Exactly one year later, about two weeks ago, the jinxed spirit was back, this time, attacking baby’s throat. She got endless fevers and Calpol only camouflaged them, but only till one night.

It was around 10pm and we hadn’t had supper, my husband and I. He stepped out to have a word with his brother while I put the food in the microwave to warm. Pesh seemed fine, and then out of the blue went erratic. ‘Mommy, ibebe’ I picked her up. ‘Ibebe!!’ she pestered, trying to climb up my head. I got bemused wondering what other word ibebe would mean, aside from carry me. ‘Ibebe!’ I stood up. ‘Sende!’ it was dark, where did she want us to go? I wondered. I tried to show her it was dark outside, but she was too disillusioned. ‘Jane, bye bye!’ she waved to my house help, happy that we were leaving. When I turned her back and headed for the couch she got aggravated and restless. ‘Mommy, sende!’ I declined.

She went hysterical. ‘Shika nyonyo’ I tried to woo her. It failed. ‘Haya twende tulale’. Failed.

I gave up. She kept asking me to carry her yet I already had.

Suddenly she was thirsty. She demanded for water. It was put to boil immediately and brought over. It was still a little hot so I asked Jane to cool it a little.

Pesh couldn’t wait. She grabbed the glass and drained the water like her very life hang on it. We exchanged looks with Jane. It was agreed she was not well.

At that moment, the only thing I was sure of was that I was not sleeping with a little mad girl. So we rushed to hospital, again, hungry.

She was smiling all the way to hospital, stunned by the darkness of the estate. She did not ask that I carry her. She was a bundle of peace…at least till we reached the hospital.

For the first time since I met my little girl, I saw a tiny possessed woman in her. She was totally uncontrollable and the only thing that calmed her down was a sip of water I got her from the dispenser. She remembered the white coat and immediately turned and ran. Getting her into the doctor’s room for treatment is a whole blog website on its own.

So it turned out that she was on the brink of convulsing. Yes and Calpol turned out to be too baby for her. These manufacturers need to do some advancement to let us know when medication is to be used and at what age. Yes if you know anyone who works…or sleeps there, ask them to pass this message. I almost lost my daughter to an ‘F’ing  fever. And It’s not funny. I’m literary in very low moods as I punch down these words. I just realized it was because of the memories this piece gives me. I know. It looks shallow to non moms, but I promise I will try hard not to say ‘I told you so’ when once upon the future you have one for yourselves.

When you lack sleep as you watch your baby snore her dreams away, terrified that she may have a nightmare. When you call every hour  to find out how she is, to listen to her gibbering;  when you die when your house help won’t pick up her phone and when you send everyone you know to you house to find out why her phone is ‘mteja’

It’s crazy being a first time mom. I actually thought twice about taking her to the doctor. The last time I did, doc listened attentively, and then of all questions he picked to ask, it just had to be. ‘Is she your first born?’ seriously?

I know, I’ve heard it, and probably you too that when you have your first born, the directives to the house help when you leave the house is ‘Call me when she sneezes’ when you get a second child, the message changes slightly to, ‘Call me when you can’t separate them in a fight.’ And by the time you get baby number 3, you transform to ‘Call me, ONLY when you see blood!’

I have a long way to go.

So evil spirit, just in case you are also reading this blog, this is my message to you.

*Placing hand on your head in prayer*, ‘Ushindwe! pepo mbaya!! Riswa! *pouring all Holy water on you!* Na usirudi kwangu next year na hizo zingine pia!! Mannerless pepo colorless! Angamia Al shabaab wewe! Kafiri! Rudi ahera ulikotoka! * calming down*

‘This prayer oh Lord is to cleanse my house and all readers of this blog, just so I don’t chase it straight into one of their homes. Bless us all with health, wealth and wisdom. I pray in Jesus name.’

And we all say,


I now feel rejuvenated and fresh and so should you. Let’s keep praying for our families and keep this evil spirit away, especially for our children. Should you feel it encroaching your house, repeat the prayer above…um the first one and all shall be well with you. Have a prayerful week folks!

White Walls

There is a jinxed spirit we shall be praying for today.*checks again for holy water*. This annoying spirit has been making unwelcome visits to my house and forcing its shameless charisma on my family, particularly my daughter. I have been watching, hawk-eyed at its appropriateness in picking on a few months to her birthday. Damn it.

Last year it planted microbes into something she ate. She was barely 9 and ½ months old and my little girl nearly did a night shift in hospital.

Tear drop.*pulls out creased handkerchief and blows nose*

This particular sunup she woke me up at 6am…let me rephrase; I was woken up by a splatter of puke. Baby was choking on it so I immediately sat her straight and she generously puked some more on her daddy, who was startled awake too. I thought she had eaten too much.

My phone rang.

It was mom, ‘Your father is really sick.’ She stuttered, ‘His nose-bleed won’t stop. He is too weak now. Please call you mom-law to drive us there! We need to take him to hospital now!’ I didn’t think twice, I left my baby with the house help and instructed her to let me know if she continued to puke. I then woke up my other mom and we left. My husband left for work as usual. I was then a stay at home mom.

Dad wouldn’t wait. It was too much already. So he took his car and left for a nearby medical centre. He drove with one hand while the other held mom’s shawl over his nose. He had been bleeding for three days and assumed it was minor. Mom was very helpful. She watched the road as he drove and compressed her urge to cry, all the way to the centre. That’s where we caught up with them.

It was high blood pressure. They said a vein was broken up his nose and to reduce the bleeding they shoved a cotton pad with some medication up his nose. Yikes *cringes*

Back home, my little girl was getting worse. She had added diarrhoea to her activity list and couldn’t keep anything down. I was devastated. I definitely had to take her to hospital. Just as I placed water to boil, mom called again.

‘Dad is worse, we need to go back to hospital’

‘No problem,’ I quipped, ‘I’ll just dress Baby Pesh very fast and we go’

‘Hun, we can’t wait. We need to go now’

Notice, mother didn’t know why I was tagging Pesh along. I left instructions once more and called my husband, then headed out, tagging mom-in law with me. This time we went to a bigger hospital. Jamaa Mission was closest.

There Dad was taken care of well. He collapsed when the Cotton pad that had been stuffed up his nose was removed and mom thought he died. She ran out screaming.

I followed her outside and tried to calm her down. She trembled like a little girl and I could see so much pain in every tear drop. ‘I think he is dead, hun, I saw him fall’ She said as fear engrossed her. Mom in law soon joined us and I left mom with her to see if he was truly dead. My knees felt numb with each step I made as I made my way back into the emergency room. There he was. He lay weakly on the bed, his eyes open and looking all confused.

‘Dad,’ I called as I sat next to him, ‘What happened?’ he didn’t see mom take off. ‘ she is outside.’

‘She was right here’ he explained, ‘Then I felt weak and my head was heavy. Then it went dark’ the doctor walked in.

‘Is he going to be alright?’ I was concerned. He smiled warmly and my heart eased, ‘Yes. He fell because he had less oxygen in his brain when we removed the cotton pad. See his pressure is normal now. He sweated it all out’

I touched Dad’s forehead with the back of my hand. He felt damp. ‘I’ll bring mom in now, ok?’ he nodded.

Outside I met Pesh’s Daddy. He had come over so we could take my little girl to hospital. He took mom to dad and said hi, then explained that we had to take Pesh for check up too. That was when it hit my mom that my girl was unwell- after she had calmed down.

We left my two moms with dad and left to pick Pesh. She was now dehydrated and couldn’t keep anything down, not even breast milk. We went to Mater hospital Buru buru.

It was noon and I had had nothing to eat.

At the hospital Pesh got tested for everything in the book and finally the test results came out. Bacterial infection.

‘I’m afraid we must admit her’ I was advised. ‘Why?’ I probed. ‘She vomits everything and is severely dehydrated. She won’t keep any medicine we give her down too.’  The doctor was a lady. An irritating beautiful lady who wore 6 inch heels and multi-coloured weave that hid one eye. She kept pushing the weave away as she snobbishly and unconvincingly explained why we had to do the night shift.

The conversation slowly turned into an argument when I declined admission and asked that they do everything they can. ‘If we can stop her vomiting then I believe I will do everything to get her to eat’ I argued. It then turned out that there was no medication for kids below 1 year of age which meant that she still would have to do the night shift. I was getting angry and my baby needed help. Our pockets were already inflated and the ‘F’ing doctor was getting on my nerves.

After several wails and failed attempts to get baby’s right vein, she was put on IUV as the doctor left me to decide on the admission of baby.

I stood my ground.

The IUV was finally over at 8pm.

My father had been discharged and was home already. Mom, mom in-law, my sister and sister in-law came over to the hospital.

I was still very hungry and I sipped some milk I had bought for my girl. She got better after the re-hydration and stopped puking. I told the snob doctor I would not leave my girl with her as her reasoning was not valid. Then I was made to sign a form that shamelessly stated that I rejected medication. I was not moved. Suddenly medication for one year olds reappeared miraculously.

To be continued………

Milestones I wish to keep.

I make a mad dash for my house every sundown. Reason? You guessed right.Pesh. I’ve forever been on the trot back home to her anyway but when I when I realized I was still losing touch, I sped up. I had to run as she is budding faster than I can catch up. I got hit by words that I could not re-pronounce. Words that made Bulgarian sound effortless. Crap! Her words are the weirdest thing I have ever heard! The only thing that never hit me was the fact that this girl, Pesh was merely repeating what I always said to her.

Each day I’d get home to find a new word, when I had not yet learnt to comprehend the old one. The only word I heard clearly was Mama, Daddy and Tane which I could easily make out to be my house-help’s name, Jane.

At some point she garbled so many ‘words’ so fast ,I got aggravated and begged her to speak Swahili..Or English. I couldn’t catch up so I asked Jane’s help. She was at a better chance to get their nous as she spent most of the time with her. She too couldn’t make out some of them so I kept a small diary for this lesson.

Every night before she sleeps, I notice she calls out specific words. I thought she’d learnt a bed time prayer or poem and I praised God. I was wrong. She was calling out the names of all the kids in the neighbourhood.*sulk* most of her translations will make a lot more sense when revised in me.

Ussie/usss– as you all might have heard is her famous name  for the kitten, obviously corrupted from pussy…THE CAT. Not the…..*clearing throat* please let me make my point in peace here.

Uwiya–  I noticed this whenever she breast-fed and she would stop and inform me that uwiya,(milk) is on the nyonyo.

Nananya?-She always replies by repeating the last word we utter. So this goes to asking what you are doing. Sometimes she will go ahead and ask herself loudly when she is wrong and fathoms just what you’ll say.

Ibiba-I always ask her to show me a full tummy whenever she refuses to eat. Nowadays after a struggle to eat she will rub it with a smug face and complement it with a self-approving nod and announce ‘Ibiba!’

Awa-wu– I love my girl and she says she loves me back. She reciprocates this with a big hug.

Ta-taait!- Now even Ussie gets this every evening before bed. She will call Tane and Uss and wave them good night.

Siit– At first she called it Tamuu. Now she has grown up. And it’s sweet like her.

Aati–  whenever you hold a glass and the content is clear, she doesn’t care if it’s vodka. She wants it. it must be water.

Uta!- This was hard, but she made it easy as she pulls me from where I stand.

i-ia– She will pull you into the house and slam it shut, so you got to understand that she wants you to come in!

Tula!- Once I saved Uss from Pesh trying to force it to suck a lollipop. She shouted, ‘Tula!’ and poor kitty’s whiskers were sticky with sweet syrup. *yuck!*

ii-yaya– Watch out for this as it will come with a grab at your eyelids to shut down, followed by the nearest dishcloth covering your head.

sita-This was easy. The stretched arm told it all. She will offer to say ‘Taatu!’ if you don’t; that is thank you for giving YOU something.

ata!-One of Pesh’s first words. This made me realise that everything she went close to was considered a health hazard and a yelp of ‘wacha!’ was the commonly used word.

Tsamu!-this remarks that she is totally enjoying the taste. It also comes with an approving constant nod.

My little girl shocks me daily. I caught her once ,she was shaking her small behind and making steps and singing ‘saa saaa saaa leeeh!!’(sawa sawa sawa leh!) I thought I almost died. She is a genius. She can read faces and she knew I was shocked so she sang more.

I died.

I love her buoyancy and the way she makes sure to grab our attention-all of us, and then do something silly to make us laugh.  She will shout your name till your world


stops and focuses on her, then squat like she wants to pee and starts walking like a tip-toeing old man. Hilarious. I’ll make a point to catch this on video and show her on her 21st birthday. *devilish smile*

She is growing too fast! She is no longer scared of the deep frier, even when we open it’s ‘mouth’ to bite her. She still hates the potty and insists on tying a diaper on me. She still chases me up with her Johnsons powder to powder my bottom and follows me to the bathroom. She wants to peep into the toilet bowl and takes off when I flash it. She loves Tanya’s awkward ad and sprays everyone on the face with her imaginary Tropical air freshener.

She is more stunning, confident and bright and we’ll get her a fiery beast; a large pure German shepherd to keep away all of you with naughty little boys who are now ogling at her picture and making plans.


Two days after I updated the blog last week, my father called. It was Friday at about 6pm and I stood at my usual spot in town waiting for my husband. Most of the time we hook up in town and head home together, considering that none of us works in the CBD and , well it’s more comforting struggling to get home in twos, with all the rush hour baffles and irritating traffic disorder.

So dad called. “Hi Mom,” he began. He always calls me mom as I’m named after his old lady. He particularly insists on calling me, mom when he’s had one or two. “Hi” I answered.  My mind went straight to my recent post. “How are you doing?”

“Great dad, is something the matter?”

“No, just saying hi. It’s been a while and you’ve been quiet. So I thought to call you up!”

“Really? That’s nice of you. I’m doing well, just adjusting to my new job. He must have read the piece, I thought to myself. He must hate me right now for giving all glory to mom. This was torturing me. “Mom, can’t I just call to find out if you are okay?” he went on, “Of course, dad”. Dad never calls to find out how I’m doing. I do that and whenever I call him the first thing he asks is if everything is okay. He calls only when it’s important and is very brief. It always irritated him whenever we’d call each other up while in different rooms in the same house back when mobile phones became the in thing.

“Are you getting used to your new job already?”

“Yes dad it’s really nice and I like it.”

“That’s good to know. Well I’d like to hear more when you have time”

“Sure dad. I’ll make a point and come over.” The call ended and I was left in utter disbelief that made me spend the next full minute gazing at my phone. It was as if I expected the handset to provide the answers that couldn’t stop bugging my mind. It made me realize that my article somehow painted daddy black. I recalled dad’s great achievements.

When my sister, our first born was barely nine months old, mom was with child again. She had been living in shags, hadn’t finished college yet and clearly, another baby wasn’t really primed for. It got worse when after the nine months and labour bonus; she gave birth to yet another girl. Even the fact that this second girl was named after dad’s mom did not make grandma’ any happier.  Kisii tradition by that time valued boys and girls were a pure waste of time and resources. A letter was immediately drafted by my uncles and sent to dad informing him of the bad news. ‘Sorry’ it read. ‘It’s another girl. Maybe you could try again with another woman. If you like, we can find one for you!’

My father truly loves my mom. He was infuriated when he received the letter and made a point to yap us out of shags and bring his family to the city to live with him, since he was fully aware of what his siblings were talented in. We were safer with him and he made sure to achieve that. Mom then took a baby-break and went to college while dad took over taking care of us. Mark you, mum was training as a teacher and she had to board in school and that meant that we would only see her during holidays. It was not easy. Dad managed to take us to school, cook us dinner help us with homework and work shifts, though he at times hired someone to help on those days when he just couldn’t make it. To me, that counts for something.

We all went to boarding school at the age of 11years and it was nothing short of misery, especially for me. Dad had to constantly visit us in school and reassured us that he had his eyes and ears on us. Many times he was mistaken for the invited pastor whenever he’d land in so early on a Sunday morning and he’d be received by C.U officials on duty. He watched us grow and taught us girls to be like men. It was hard as we got punished the hard way but ultimately we learnt to be tough. Despite the live nightmares we had to live with at home, dad loved us so much and he always made it clear it was never about us.

He taught me to save and budget and life stopped for him if any of us got sick. Once I was down and he never left my side. He wasn’t working then so he had all the time with me. He took me to hospital, then back home and became my nurse. He made sure I took my medicines on time and made me pudding and some porridge. He only left my side when my husband, then my best friend paid me a visit. I still remembered the smile that cracked his face when I told him I felt better.

love you too princess

Dad made me realize that no matter how evil someone could be, there was always a good side to them. He is the most optimistic man I have ever met and probably the most credulous. The latter definitely cost him an awful lot. Now he leaves his trusting to God and I picked that up. I always sought for my father in my potential boyfriends and now that I’m married,  I want my husband to do the many things, my father did; kill mosquitoes, buy the meat, sleep after everyone else and even wake up in the night to check up on everyone. I know my husband will certainly not wake up at 2am and I always keep the bugs away. Either way, I would never trade this man for anything, his imperfections and all.

This Friday I’ll shoot a call his way, just to say hi.


She is the most beautiful woman in the world. She has a warm, calming smile and an energetic laugh. Like me she is conscious of what she wears and will always ask if she looks great. Not ok, but great. And she does indeed look great for a woman in her mid 40s. She has been through hell and back thanks to the unfavourable unkindness of a stranger named fate. Good thing it has made her the strongest woman I know; the greatest woman the world had been lucky to encounter; the woman I so proudly emulate. She is my mother.

She is slightly heavy with chubby cheeks and a long nose (exactly where mine came from). She loves to smile and talks a lot, unlike me. She has beautiful large eyes which dance when she lets out her contagious laugh. She is girlie and likes to fit in with her girls. She is impatient and tough when it comes to her work yet so gentle to the three year olds enrolled in her school. I once witnessed her hugging and kissing a dirty four-year old boy who found himself in her office while playing. She was excited calling him grandson while the boy blushed terribly and took off overwhelmed in the attention he gathered. I was in utter shock that made her laugh even more when I declared that I’d never kiss anyone with ripe mucus peeping from his nose and so much dust tainting his hair and face.

She is a hard worker. She managed to stabilize a school in four years when my father lost his job in 2007.She literary carried our family on her shoulders and proved to the world that it was not over for the Nyamwamu’s. She made us move into a new neighbourhood after we lost all our friends (both dad and us the kids) and managed to convince us that God wanted to show us who our true friends really were. We faithfully hang on to her every word of encouragement, especially when she convinced us that we’d be able to pay rent and our utilities with the then, days old school. She managed (she always gives credit to the man upstairs for the strength she has) but I give her credit for being the faithful, enthusiastic go-getter she is. She showed my chauvinistic father true love by teaching him to equally share ideas, money, and responsibilities with her-a woman.

She is now a director of Sibiah’s Star School, proudly named after her. She taught me administration and a little on teaching but most of all I have learnt patience and perseverance with a little strictness and perfectionism on management. She has grown rich (though she never admits it) and covers my father’s pride, respect and ego. No one really notices who foots the bill when they are together as she will hand over the cash and let him be the man. It fills her to see everyone happy and never takes credit even if it is rightly placed.This woman, my mother has become a real super woman and I always try to follow her steps. I still seek her advice and constantly want to know her next steps. She taught me to love and to be kind, though we fought a lot when I was younger (well I discovered we were so alike and tried to understand her).I lied, we both talk a lot! She taught me to cook and wash and bathe and she did the same with my other siblings, with special love for each one of us. This has now extended to her sons’ in-law. She still cares even as my sister and I are married off and always checks up on us. I respect this woman for being herself. She is atop her marriage, her school, her employees, her in-laws and her children’s in-laws. She lives the life I want to live and she wants her children to live it earlier than she did. She believes and so do I. she bears a huge burden with love in her heart and she never gives up. I want to be just like her. For me everyday is mother’s day and I call to tell her how much I love her. I remind her how great she is and make sure she feels appreciated.

My mother is the most beautiful woman in the world. She was my first contact into this world and she did a great job on me. I did have my fair share of spanks and thrashes but not once did they break me. I still fret at the thought of her painful pinches on the soft skin on my arms and thighs. She moulded me into what I have become and now smiles proudly to herself when she looks at me. “I see a lot of myself in you” she tells me, when we laugh away a shared joke. “I see my future in you” I always reply.

I am proud to be associated with her. She prayed to God for wisdom and I pray to God for her talent. My father loves her even more that despite his downfall she still tells him how he is the best man in her life. How without him, she would never be where she is. True she would never be here but to get here, she suffered. She almost lost her marriage and her son. She sacrificed her family for her in-laws and fought losing battles for them. She was hurt by the very man she trusted for security and love, and was humiliated. She wept buckets of tears for her children and her husband and spent several nights away from her matrimonial home, because of the war.

She cried to God for years to change her husband into a better man. Nineteen years passed and God turned the tables. Father ceased from being the breadwinner and looked upon mother for forgiveness. He braced himself for revenge for not being kind to her and fell sick with depression. He waited to die of humiliation and mockery, but that was not to be. God taught him that true love and respect only comes when you know where your strength comes from. He is a great man full of remorse and trying to make up. We love him for being our father, because our mother taught us so. Behind every man’s success is a woman. What then lies behind a woman’s success?

Bundle of joy

Baby pesh with daddy

That morning I woke up feeling unusually tired. I had been packing my hospital bag little by little the last one week and it had only been two days since I’d had the horrific false labor and I wanted to be prepared just in case it was time. That day, my mum-in law (a very special woman in my life) offered to take me to hospital when I woke up.  She had heard my wails despite the distance between the main house and my husband’s SQ…(My husband is the lastborn in the family and still lived in the family house). Being the first son to bring a grandchild into the family, my baby’s arrival was impatiently awaited.

Rompers, check, shawl, Check, Diapers, Check….changing clothes for me, check. Crap! I realized I hadn’t bought tooth paste, a brush and some soap. Tired as I felt I had lost confidence in leaving the house, but I loved walking so I called my brother and he agreed to walk me to the nearest convenient store. I bought the stuff and quickly returned to the house. Evening came and I still didn’t feel settled. Agitated I kept checking my bags, cleaned my lesos and walked around the house looking for something to occupy myself with. 

Suddenly, my plug flushed out and I rushed straight to the bathroom. I knew it! This uneasiness wasn’t uncalled for. What mom told me to look out for was here and I knew Baby’s arrival would be soon. I was due in 6 days but alas, not even doctors can be exact with dates!

Labor pains were progressively increasing and pacing up and down the house wasn’t doing me any good. I thought to call my sister in-law for last advise. She works in a hospital and has 3 kids. Clearly, she must know something! I thought to myself. “Start counting the minutes between the contractions.” She advised. “They usually start from 30minutes, count them down to 7minutes, and then go to hospital. I began counting…crap! They were spacing the 7 ‘f’ing minutes already! I got very anxious and poured myself a second cup of tea (I love my tea. Still do) then I called my mom. I continued pacing the house. Justin, my husband was in class. He was doing his final semester and we had agreed that I’d call him in case Baby decided to check in so we would meet at the hospital.

We rushed to hospital, though I wasn’t in a hurry myself. My mom and mom-in law were. I kept wondering how this whole experience would change my life and wasn’t sure I was ready to be a mother. I wished, for a moment, that I’d go back home and continue being pregnant till, well till I was ready. But baby didn’t care if I was ready or not. It was ready to meet me. My moms checked on me frequently as I sat uncomfortable in the back seat. I would cringe in pain and get lost in it while they listened in silence, till the pain subsided. Mom-in law was driving.

Soon I was walking into the labor ward where I was warmly welcomed by the painful cries of other to-be mothers, most of which were screams of actual delivery. This would be confirmed as the screams would die immediately a new born would begin to wail. Other pregnant women walked around aimlessly as their labor pains would mysteriously disappear after their arrival at the hospital. One asked me for a Nokia charger, which I didn’t have, and she marched out and into the next room. My two moms strangely reacted differently to my now very painful contractions. Mom-in law looked like she was in worse pain than I was. I could see her face fold till her eyes closed and she would then beg me to hang in there..I wondered how she managed four rounds of merciless torture. My other mom also went the four rounds and she looked the part. She didn’t look the least pitiful and to some point, I thought I saw a proud smile at the corner of her mouth. “How is it?” she kept probing to which I’d answer not too bad to. I told them how I’d bravely bear the pains to the end without a scream, and they both shared a knowing look. How I wish they had told me to my face what a dreamer I was. I was glad though that they were not there, hours later when I screamed my lungs so loud the doctor rushed in, thinking I was ready to push.

My husband never left my side though. He rubbed by back to my orders and was almost as exhausted as I was. I could see him struggle to hide his pain whenever I cried and he did everything to make me comfortable. He even bought me fries and chicken which I happily munched away amidst my moments in hell. He was later asked to leave so I could get yet another check up.

I was close, and doc asked me to save my energy for the pushing part, which I obviously never heeded. I screamed through the next hour I had to myself and then suddenly, I got an urge to push. I thought it was poop so I began pushing it out. Then I remembered doc saying to call out if I felt an urge to poop. So that was it? My baby was to come out like poop? I mean seriously?

I called out and he didn’t take long. He hastily prepared the tools on the bed then urged me to push. I did. “I said push!” he shouted and I did again and again and again. I was worn out and baby wasn’t out yet. “I’m afraid your baby is tearing you, so I will have to slice you just a little bit to make way.” He warned. I didn’t give a damn. I told him I wanted this thing out of me. I didn’t have any more energy left in me.

 ‘Push!’ Doc urged on. I did and felt the knife make its way through my flesh. Before I could yelp, I felt a huge release from my insides, followed by a sharp screech and it wasn’t me. The doc raised my wailing baby upside down and smiled. “It’s a girl!” He announced “Welcome to the world young lady. You are in Kenya.” He said, then quickly wrapped her and handed her to me and continued cleaning up.  It was time to spread the great news.

Triggered Explosive

I didn’t have the slightest idea what parenting was all about even when I found out I was pregnant. I used to baby sit my nephew, severally, but even this did not teach me much aside from tying a diaper the right side up and feeding an over-playful toddler. If it went too far, and I couldn’t take any more, I’d throw in the towel; take the messy child to his mother and slump him on her lap. ‘Chukua mtoto wako!’ I’d angrily say in exasperation, and be glad I didn’t have to care if he ate or not. ‘He isn’t my responsibility and after all, his mom can give him nyonyo and get this feeding thingy over with already’. I would think to myself.

I was with my husband, (who was then my boy friend) at a clinic in Buruburu, where we went to have the pregnancy test done. We had convinced each other that home test kits could be wrong, despite the fact that these very same kits were our solace when we wanted to test negative. Now that we really wanted a child we could not afford to use the ‘wrong’ test kit.

The clinic attendant handed me the results shortly and proudly announced that I had tested positive. “It’s now your duty to take care of this child” she said. At that moment, I felt the weight of impending doom fall squarely on me. My duty? My responsibility? Hell no! It was unthinkable and I did not want to think anymore.  Mixed feelings were rushing disrespectfully though me, and for a moment there, I lost control of myself. Me? No longer a young girl? Now in charge of another human being? Whoa! Whoa! Just wait right there. That was a little too much weight for me at a go. I needed some air. Outside the clinic, my husband and I kept stealing knowing glances at each other. We knew we were ready for a baby but its presence suddenly seemed unwelcome and it took me quite some time to accept my fate.

Every morning before going to work and every evening before retiring, I would pull out the result slip from my drawer in my bedroom (I still lived with mum then), read the three-sentence contents, then fold it and carefully return it to its hiding place. This went on for a month, when I finally accepted I was indeed carrying a growing human being inside me. Time dragged too slowly and I decided to occupy myself. My extracurricular activities increased since aside from long walks, I measured the size of my belly every day, wondering when it would start to show. I went from buying bigger jeans, to painfully letting go of my size 8 tops and my skirt suits began looking like they belonged to a small sister I never had.

Finally I ballooned months later. I struggled to adjust to my new walking style and spent millenniums practicing in front of the mirror before leaving the house. Kids around the estate just had to confirm my size whenever I walked past them. They would scout around me whispering into each other’s ears. They probably were betting at my time of explosion. They would gaze at me as though they were counting down seconds on my triggered atomic bomb and their playing only resumed as soon as I was completely out of sight.

At this point I ate like a pig. I craved everything edible on sight; from paw paws to pumpkins; even the groundnuts that Rasta ate to cool off his marijuana and bhang mix intake looked scrumptious to my eyes. His green stained teeth did not nauseate me even once. My favorite though was pawpaw which Pesh is now allergic to.

After a lot of impatience, time was finally up and I was almost due.  I became an ant at the last minute, scrubbing floors and almost cleaning clean dishes. I had no clue I had episodes of false labor with all with all the busy bee duties till one night at 4 am when a sharp pain sliced right through me. I was startled awake  and the first thing I checked was if I was bleeding. I wasn’t. I had slept over at my boyfriend’s place so I turned to see him sleeping peacefully to my untimely labor pains. The pains were on and off and when they were on, hell was on the bed. I writhed in pain as I turned from side to side, trying to bear them. At one point they were too much I decided to awaken the sleeping log, who mumbled something about going to hospital, then turned and continued snoring. As the pains increased, I opted to wail instead of keeping it all inside me. It reached a point where I began hitting the log, not to wake him up but to keep the pain from making me go insane; he never woke up anyway.

Suddenly at 6am the pain was no more. I was completely worked up and the only thing was sure of was that I wasn’t sure I would go through the real labor the following week, leave alone parenting. I turned to my side I fell into deep sleep.


She’s a gorgeous, sweet little girl when you first meet her. At only 1 ½ years, she’s very shy to strangers. Greet her and the closest she’ll get to you is a quick but firm handshake. Impressive, but don’t even consider picking her up as that would certainly ruin the already auspicious moment.

She’s bit chubby, with a round face and long hair. God knows, I’ve only trimmed (no cut) her hair once in her little lifetime. She’s slightly taller than most kids her age and Jesus! This baby’s got bootie!

I remember it’s the first thing my sister noticed when baby was barely days old. She was changing her on one of her visits, when suddenly she froze. “What, kwani her poop is purple?” I asked a bit alarmed. “No,” was her reply, “I’ve never seen such a tiny baby with such an ass!” We may now change the topic. 

Now, this baby is never moved by cartoons. Whenever I leave the channel on these or even animations she will either walk out on me, go search for her favorite Cedamont DVDs and shove them in my face or worse still throw me the look that plainly says ‘ Mom, can we please watch something else? Can’t you see these things are not real?’

What kind of baby hates cartoons? All kids love cartoons. Her father loves cartoons! But not her. She’d rather listen to music. This baby loves music so much she’ll dance to any tune of it, be it Citizen News, Scotts advert, Kigeugeu or worst of all bend over. The moment I caught her boogying her small self to that kind of music, I banned it from my house and Cedamont DVDs checked in.Perfect, great music sang by real kids. Not cartoons. God would never forgive me for having his child dance to Bend over for Christ sake! What will she do when she’s 20?

This little girl loves her Daddy so much. His name was the first she learnt to call. His name is the first she calls every morning when her eyes open and sadly, his voice is the only one she heeds to. I’ve gotten used to screaming my head off to no avail. It’s as if she synchronizes or overwrites my words and encodes them into bla bla blas. The only time she remembers me is when she is sick, sleepy, hungry, and wants nyonyo.  This nyonyo is what I’m banning next and soon. She obviously knows I got a soft spot for her when it comes to that, and she surely does know how to maximize on it. But there will be an end to it. I too want someone to sing my name and dance when I walk in and, well since it’s clear she is Daddy’s girl, I plan to fast, pray and sow for Project Baby Boy.

We always hide in our bedroom whenever it’s feeding time for this girl. I try to feed her myself sometimes but she will struggle to get a sip of milk from my breast and I end up smeared with her food. It’s just the other day when she realized that this nyonyo actually produces the same milk she runs away from. She will stare bluntly as it leaks in the middle of a breastfeed and informingly let me know its producing milk. So we hide. We just better hide lest this girl will get ‘sick’, and screech as though it’s war. Given a chance she will take off full speed and hide in any crack, enough to fit her. The only good thing that comes out of this ‘hide and seek’ feeding is that my husband and I get time to ourselves and ,you know, do what married couples do. We do this every other day; it’s become a part of us. This young creature has literary taken over and now rules our house! She makes it lively, dirty and cluttered with toys all over; from the entrance to the kitchen. Whenever she sleeps we take a breather, though even then we have to keep the volume down lest we awaken the little monster. In her young mind she can’t wait to wake up and get all messy all over again!

She makes our days and reigns over our hearts. She makes us experience practically all emotions; anger, laughter, sadness and happiness. She makes us children as well as adults and she permanently bonds her Daddy and me. Her name is Patience, but she will only answer to Pesh. Please meet my daughter.

How I met The man in my life

I first met my husband in my computer class…yes, and stop looking at me like that. I mean, it’s not like I knew we would end up together! Good, I see your face is calming down. So I walked in, 5min late for my first class, I definitely had to learn time keeping, now that I was no longer in high school where we blindly and faithfully followed bells. Damn! Those bells were just killjoys! Well, except when they meant class was over.
So, shy as I obviously was, I walked over to the empty desk. Crap! I could feel all those eyes, weighing down on me. Little did I know what this Man, now my husband first thought of me? As he now tells me, He thought I was a pretty girl, shy, naive and my dressing told him I had landed in straight from the village!!!
Ok, that’s enough, and you’ll wonder why did I take that in? Ha-ha! Here goes, I thought of him as one shabby, roughed up man. His shirt looked like he just pulled it right out of a bottle, free style. That made us even.
If you told me, then that I would end up with this man 4years later, I’d laugh my ass off. Smack it!