Did I break my own virginity?
And did I just ask for conjugal rights?
I should stop playing miss cheap
He says that I'm no saint coz of that one abortion I procured
Him, he was wise enough to deny being the father, and assert that he wasn’t ready to quit the bachelor's club
He is my Kenyan man
“Where the hell have you been?”
He finally responds to my repetitive knocks at the door with a deafening shout but still refuses to let me in. What on earth I’m I supposed to tell him, or what lie should I invent this time round? For the past couple of days, he has been pushing me over the edge and expecting me to be okay with it. Maybe I have become a bit lazy, kind of arrogant and somehow disrespectful, but which woman doesn’t when she is on her last trimester? I have been digging a lot of scary information from Google and if the know-it-all engine is right, then my being this kind of irate woman is a sign that I am less likely to develop postpartum depression.
He has been complaining a lot, criticising and lecturing me, flooding my mind with the same abuse I grew up with. He no longer seems to be as excited about the baby as he was a few weeks back, and just yesterday, as he was reciting his insults to me before leaving for work, he had the audacity to ask if he was really the father.
For years I have been accusing women of being naïve for sticking with men who are not worth a thing, but this day, I have come to understand how they do it, when they do it and why they do it; now that I have become one of them.
I have no job, my condition has got in the way of my dreams, and I can’t go back home for I am a shame to my family having refused to adhere to their dictatorial traditions that would have forced me to assume the responsibility of becoming yet another woman who got married because she was pregnant, and not because she found love. Here though is a man who has offered to take care of me and the baby, and so I have to be his slave, and accept that this is a man’s world, and if I don’t do as he demands, he can toss me out and bring in another in a minute.
I had woken up late; the kitchen was a mess, no breakfast for him at the table, or a clean matching shirt to wear. He was raving so mad and at one point, I got scared that he would practice his karate on my belly. I could have explained, and reasoned with him, but having never been pregnant himself, how was he to understand?
I didn’t want to spend another minute with him and as soon as he left, I sent applications to all relevant advertised jobs on the internet and, made a few calls to companies that claim to not discriminate against color, creed, gender or physical abilities. All of them promised to notify me as soon as there was an opening; which is usually a polite way of saying, 'Sorry, but judging from the number of resumes in our database, we doubt if we'll ever be in need of your services.'
Later on I had called one of the women who wake up at dawn and trek from the slums into the richer citizens homes looking for casual work. I have seen some of them arrive so early in the morning, irrespective of the weather, and sit on the cold concrete blocks outside the gate all day long hoping to get a lazy housewife offer them spare change in exchange of doing her house chores before her husband returns. My choice was a pro; cleaned and washed everything within two hours. She however had been quick to mention that she doesn’t wash anyone’s underwear.
“Sitaki kupata magonjwa.” She had said.
I let her know that she can’t get infected by merely washing someone’s clothes.
“Kwani wewe ni daktari? "
I had taken that to be rude, but sincere. She needed to respect me as her boss for those two hours she was around. A part of me nonetheless understood that it must have been hard for her; old enough to my eldest aunt, to be working for me; young enough to be her youngest daughter.
It would also have been a stupid idea to pick a verbal fight with her, and so I let her be. After all, they do a better job when left to work alone while humming some tuneless tunes than when given a chance to literally fill you in on your neighbours' dirty linen.
Everything was spotless and smelling fresh. I took time to take an afternoon nap now that the baby had been kicking so hard and regularly, and could only let me sleep when she too was resting. Long before I started dreaming, a Dru-like knock at the door had woken me up.
Peeping through the window I could see a man standing outside the door but facing the opposite direction. It was hard to tell who he was for though he looked a lot like Dru; 5.00pm was never his time to be home. He always had something more important to do in the office, or out of the office; probably flirting with girls, telling them how much in love he was with his girlfriend, that he was expecting his first child; immature girls adore such men. Or he could have been hanging out with the boys as he bragged about how he’s the man to be envied now that he had two women in his life. I always suspected that he was up to something fishy, but I never asked, and he never said talked about it.
“You are back ear…” These had been my words before I saw what lay in-front of me. I couldn't believe my eyes. Was I still dreaming, or was this real? In front of me was not just him, but him and his other complicated half; his girlfriend.
He didn’t say a word, neither did she, but she couldn’t hide her wicked smile that screamed out loud of how much of a queen she thought she was now that she had finally found her way back into his life, but as the other woman.
Just like the first time when I had seen her, she was dressed to kill; kill his respect for me and replace it with lust for her. In my attempt to emulate the woman auntie had been advising me to be, I had politely requested to talk to him in private, which he arrogantly declined saying that whatever I wanted to tell him in private could be said in the presence of his girlfriend, since we were soon going to be a family.
“I don’t want her in my house.”
“Your house?” She was fast to jump in.
“Yes, my house. You are not welcome in my house.” I had maintained.
He just sat there, enjoying watching as two women fought for him, though in reality, one of them was only interested in protecting her territory, and not his body.
“She is not going anywhere. She is my fiancée, and this is my house, our house.” He had said.
Was his decision final? I had wondered. He was rapidly turning out to be like father whose decision always remained unopposed. There is no way I was going to let myself become another victim of marital oppression.
“If she’s not leaving, then I’ll be the one to leave.” I had said before rushing to the bedroom to pick a few of my and the baby’s clothes and my minimal savings.
“Don’t be silly. You are not going anywhere.” He had told me as I walked from the bedroom to the living room.
“I am not your wife and neither I’m I your girlfriend or your slave for you to think that you can control my movements.” I had screamed back at him.
“As long as you are carrying my baby, I mean our baby, you aren’t leaving this house.” He had said as he went to lock the door and took the keys with him.
He had said our baby. Our baby. What did that mean? Was he talking about me and him, or his, mine and his estranged girlfriends' baby?
I couldn’t take it anymore. There’s nothing as humiliating as having a man humiliate you in front of another woman, a woman who’s stupid enough to fight over a man who doesn’t respect her. I dropped onto the floor and for the first time, I shed tears that I had driven away for so many years.
Like two mentally disturbed kids, the couple had gone about their business, cuddling and whispering dirty nonsense to each other before finally going to the bedroom. I pitied her, loathed him, felt sad for my baby, and stupid at myself. As the two climaxed in the heat of their magic passion, I pulled myself together and left with no idea of where I was going.
After standing for almost half an hour outside the door and pretending to not see the nosy neighbours peep through their windows in anticipation
to catch a free scene of the unfolding drama, he finally lets me in.
He looks calm, composed and somehow worried. I can still smell her, but it's clear that she has left. Or could he have thrown her out after having had his good time?
During the few days that I have been unfortunate enough to stay with him, he has proven to have the don’t ask don’t tell kind of personality. And although I may have dismissed the idea of permanently saying I Do to him, we are already acting like a normal married couple; hating each other, saying mean things to each other, never apologising and spending too much time together without saying a word to each other.
What is there to talk about anyway? How I had foolishly left a sad but comfortable life in pursuit for a happier but bumpy one?
“Have you chosen a name for the baby?” The pretty nurse examining me during my last pre-natal visit asks. Of course she doesn’t care if I have chosen a name or not, but she pretends to. It must be one of those things that she is being paid to do.
“Candace. I’ve always loved that name. Isn't it beautiful?” I tell her full of excitement. It's weird that I am being this friendly to a stranger. Somehow, I don't feel good doing it.
“That's such a sweet name, and unique too.” She says. Of course she is lying, I can tell for sure that this is the first time she's hearing of it.
“I’ve never heard of it before, what does it mean?” The nurse cleaning the side table asks. It's not right for her to be this unfriendly and sincere to the very people responsible for her having a job here. I watch as the pretty nurse gives her a cautious look, a look that confirms my assumption that she is one of the lowly paid interns who has just joined the hospital.
“It’s a holy name; I mean a Biblical name, a name of an Ethiopian queen.” I tell her. It's still surprising that I'm in a good mood.
“That’s lovely.” The pretty nurse says. The other doesn’t say a thing.
I can’t wait to get out of this bed now that I know my and baby’s health is fine. Dru rushed me to the hospital last night scared as hell. From the echoing sound of the hospital walls I could hear him demand to be told if the baby was fine, but not once did he enquire to know if the mother was also okay.
I too was scared that I may have lost the baby, or that I would lose my life. The doctors kept on examining me, asking loads of questions about my health, how I was feeling, if I had been under stress lately, had I taken any medication or if I had noticed anything abnormal with the pregnancy. All the while, the baby’s father was anxiously waiting outside for either of the two answers. ‘Everything is fine’ or ‘I’m sorry, we tried our very best but …’
He should have been in here to see what I was going through, feel my pain, and empathise with me. But out of God's punishment to Eve, it was my duty to pay for the crime she committed by enduring the pains of this pregnancy and childbirth, while he waited for tweetable news and photos to post on his social media page.
Luckily, it had been a false alarm. Had this happened in Zimbabwe, I would have been charged and fined a small fortune for having caused such a disturbing scene. 'Everything is okay, but I should keep calm, not do heavy chores or be stressed', says the doctor. Now that I am enjoying the benefits of Dru’s medical cover, I am far from worrying about the Kenyan public hospital maltreatment. I have heard of so many horrifying stories about women who have had to abandon their babies in hospitals, of have stillbirths out of the ruthless treatment they receive from the midwives.
Later on, during the early hours of the afternoon, Dru comes to pick me up. He is accompanied by his mother. A lovely woman from the outside, but on the inside, she must be an awful mother. How else would you explain her son's poor behaviour towards women, or towards the soon-to-be mother to his only child? Her presence here means two things.
She is moving in with us.
Or,
She expects the baby to be named after her.
I can’t say No to her moving in with us. Certainly, she has convinced him that she wants to take care of me and also help in taking care of the baby after she’s born, for I know nothing about babies. Soon after she’ll start wanting to control everything, from what the baby eats, to what we eat, how we dress, and who remains the queen of the house.
However, since I am not married to her son, I have every right to not name my daughter after her, or anyone else in his family.
These things are not automatic. There’s no way I am willingly going to give up the identity of my daughter just because a man had his way with me and spends a few shillings to put a roof over my head.
I will let her be her own person and have her own dreams. Naming her after someone I barely know will be like tethering her entire life around living someone else's dreams and assuming her identity. I can't let her live under the shadow of her grandmother.
“You are so pretty. With my son’s and your genes combined, I can’t imagine how beautiful my granddaughter will look like.” She tells me while forcing a hug with my belly. Her words are so sweet and warm, she reminds me of mama. Despite this, my heart fully desists from warming up to her.
‘Who compliments their son’s baby mama?’ I wonder.
Upon the introduction of two people, one always tries to outshine the other. There’s only one way of outdoing the other; learning their weaknesses. I presume that Dru’s mother is trying to act all nice and friendly so that I may confide in her, and out of I opening up, she’ll identify that one weak point that can be manipulated in order to make me do anything, or everything she likes.
I choose to be unfriendly, and she can’t get mad if I do so, because I have all the rights to blame it on my hormones.
Toddlers love it when their parents sing lullabies to them before falling asleep. The older kids have a preference for bed-time stories. I never had any of these. As a young girl, I would always cry myself to sleep after father called me names or lectured me shortly before going to sleep. Shedding those tears gave me a lot of relief, and everytime he was away; I would stay up almost all night, staring at the big dark circles moving about the room, waiting for sleep to find its way into my eyes.
In boarding school, it took time before I found a replacement to father's hypnagogia. There were those subjects that I hated, the kind of subjects that didn't make any sense and would never play a role in my future. These are the books that I would read every night under the covers, and would wake up to find a few of their pages in different corners of the bed.
Tonight, there are neither father's insults nor boring books to soothe me to sleep. I could try some alcohol, but that may drive the baby to become a drug addict. I am lazing in front of the laptop streaming black and white 1930's TCM movies, hoping that by the time baby is done butterfly swimming, I will be drowsy enough to retire to bed.
Having rained heavily a few hours ago, there is a total blackout in the entire neighbourhood. I am watching Rosemary’s Baby, one of my all-time favourite films. No pregnant woman should be allowed to watch this film, but I am doing so anyway. I wonder how it feels to have the devil’s child kicking inside your belly.
Maybe I am hallucinating, but everytime Rosemary is in pain, I too get in pain. The pains become so intense after an hour that I can no longer concentrate on watching it to the end.
Dru is away on business, or so he says, and his mother has been dead asleep since 8.00pm. I don't have the energy to call out her name, nor the strength to crawl into the bedroom where she's sleeping. I reach out for my phone to dial her number. She hangs up on me before the second ring. I dial her number two more times, and just like before, she hangs up.
I tightly hold on to my tummy while lying flat on the mat for a couple of minutes till the pain disappears. I’m scared that if I get on my feet and move a little, the pain will resume. It’s a silent night, and I’m thinking to myself that if only I could increase the volume of the computer speakers to 100%, and wait for the scene where Rosemary is screaming the lit
tle devil out of her belly, I could wake up someone.
“Oh my God, what is going on? Are you alright? How are you feeling?” Dru's mother rushes into the living room wearing nothing but her robe which is completely open in front, revealing all of her assets. Thank God it's a bit dark to have a clear view. I can’t fully see her face, but from the tone of her voice, I can tell that she is genuinely scared for her grandchild.
“What are we going to do…I don’t even know how to drive…Do you have anybody we can call…Okay…relax…just relax…take a deep breath, and hold on tight…I’ll be right back.”
She dashes out of the house and a few minutes later comes accompanied by two men whom she is still feeling in on what’s I’m experiencing, as though she possesses telepathic powers.
“I don’t know what to do, my son is away, and she is not even due…please do something…we need to get her to the hospital.”
Dru’s mother rushes to light the candles as the two men turn on their mulika mwizis to illuminate their way to where I am laying.
“Ooh no! Is this blood?” The guy holding on to my lower body asks in disgust as he lets my legs fall back on the floor. He's staring at his hands.
“That’s not blood you fool! Her water must have broken.” The guy holding my torso blasts him.
#9
Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete
Proving nature’s laws wrong
It learned to walk without feet
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams
It learned to breathe fresh air
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
When no one else even cared
©Tupac Amaru Shakur
“During the phone interview, you mentioned that you had worked with kids. Would you mind expounding on that?” The only lady in the panel asks me. She is directly sitted on my opposite side of the table, maintaining a very strong eye contact as though she wants to fall in love with me, or wants to exchange notes on who shapes my eyebrows or which eye liner I use. Had this been an interrogation, she would have been the good cop. The guy sitted on her right though would definitely be the bad cop, and the one on her other side, the neutral cop cum the keen observer.