I find it strange that people use uncle and auntie to refer only to people related to them. Always belonging the same tribe. Growing up that is what we called the 3-5 extra adults we lived with at any given time for long or short periods, regardless of whether they were from Kitui, Kisumu or Pokot. Auntie Maryanne was quiet with a nice smile, while Uncle Joseph was always walking and talking. That was my thorough assessment of the newest couple to be as an 9 year old girl. My mum came back from studying counselling in America, with an album filled with the same clothes. after losing her suitcase to a garbage truck. Every Thursday an uncle and auntie would come home for international marriage counselling. They usually talked late into the night. They went to work and came back on Friday, stayed on Saturday and we usually went to church together on Sunday. It was their choice to return, but I wondered what was so complicated about marriage that we had to enjoy smaller pieces of the cake my mum baked every Saturday. Finally... the wedding weekend came close.
After many weddings we knew the drill. On Thursday every 5 minutes we would peep at the fancy cakes with icing in the fridge. Then the house would be a frenzy on Friday evening with the bride, her parents, bridesmaids and relatives doing last minute preparations and constantly checking who had not arrived. As we would just close our eyes to sleep, it was Saturday. Our Peugeot 505 would be adorned ribbons to carry the bride. An old open pickup would bring the bride’s women choir adorned with the rest of the ribbons. Another open pickup with the groom's women choir would arrive blaring a noisy horn continuously. The singing competition would soon begin on both sides of the gate. We would keep being scolded not to dirty our wedding clothes. Small gifts would be exchanged by the choirs and we would finally leave. If I was a flower girl I would be carried with the bride. If my sister was the flower girl I would go on the back of the pickup.
This time though, something was wrong. The cake came on Thursday but on Friday, no one arrived. Early Saturday morning, there was no singing. No smell of freshly fried hair. No burns from quick ironing. No horns. No mountains of bread. No fountains of tea. No hullabaloo. Yet midmorning people started arriving. I wondered whether this wedding would be joined at our home in Sunrise Estate, Embakasi. Soon the sitting room was full. So women sat on the grass in front of the house. As we helped to serve tea we tried to eavesdrop but were shooed away as children were from adult business. In the afternoon, more women came and whispered behind the house in the kitchen garden. Food was served. Those from afar left first. As evening approached those from nearby left. Only adults knew why there was no wedding that day. Uncle Joseph was nowhere to be seen. Later we overheard rumours that early before the sun came up on the wedding morning, he disappeared to Mombasa.
Evenings and mornings came as Auntie Maryanne cried and cried. She woke up and cried. She slept and cried. She did not leave her room. She stared at the wall. She refused to eat. She did not want to sleep. She did not want to wake up. She did not want to shower. She did not want noise. She did not want light. She did not want to go to work. She wanted to stay alone. In darkness and in silence. Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. My mum tried consoling and counselling her in vain. Her beautiful smile faded away. She turned into a shell. Alive outside but dead inside. People gossiped that she is mad. One day she asked us to do something. My mother overheard us repeating that she is mad and laughing at her. I tell you the thrashing we received that day... Heeeeiiii! Okwonkwo! Riswa! 1 word per thrash. ‘I. Told. You. If. Any. Auntie. Or. Uncle. Tells. You. To. Do. Something. You. Do. It. Do. You. Hear. Me?’ To date when I see someone somewhat looking like mental illness anywhere, I see & feel that belt.
The thrashing anger had been combined with the sin of finishing 4 wedding cakes. You see every time there was no adult in the kitchen, I would lift one cake carefully, then my brother would grab as much cake as he could from below. His hands were smaller than mine yet they could… and still can hold more of anything wheat. We ran outside, ate and came back to destroy any evidence. My sister did nothing but threaten us so she could eat. I was so sure she would become a politician, that one. One day, while we were busy demolishing cake 3, the empty cake 1 icing collapsed in the middle. Woiwoiwoi! We tried everything to raise it. Even stuffing a big dirty piece of sponge from below. It refused. So we finished all the remaining cake because we were going to be killed anyway. It made more sense to die full of cake. Strangely, nothing happened. So we slept with one eye open. Jumped when our name was called. And social distanced 2 meters away from any said caller.
One day I overheard my mother on the phone on our landline 792027. It was written on our gate for Teleposta repairmen and children made up songs with the numbers. 'I will take her to Mathari Hospital tomorrow morning.' she said. That was the first time I heard that name. Every week my mother would go to see Auntie Maryanne at Mathari. She did not talk about what she found there beyond 'She greeted you. She is getting better.' Yesterday I finally asked her how Mathari was then. ‘Mathari is better now. Back then it should not have been approved for any human being. The buildings were old and tired. As dreary as the nurses. The sheets were old, dirty, hard khaki which could not tear. The blanket pieces were old, torn and dirty. Just like their patient uniforms. Patients were shouted at, not talked to. Harrassed like dogs. Food was white big pieces of cabbage floating in water and a greyish block of ugali. Plates would lie unattended for days. Nobody cared if patients ate. The toilets were so so so filthy. To the society Mathari was a dumping site for the bewitched and the demon possessed. People to stay away from by all means necessary. They prayed fervently holding their Bibles to cover themselves with the blood of Jesus, as they passed it on Thika Road. They asked her why on earth she willingly took herself to the home of demons. ’Very soon you will also be mad. Possesed by those strong generational demons' they said.
Here is the link to part 2:
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