Underneath THESE Skirts

  This is my third interview in a week. The first one had been on Monday. I could tell that I was disqualified the very moment I entered the board room. I had been late for I had to walk for over two kilometres after the Matatu conductor dropped me off before my stage for refusing to pay him more money, which I couldn’t, for what I had on me was not even enough to take me back home. I had also worn a black trouser and a baby pink blouse instead of the boring grey skirt suit, my hair was all natural yet they preferred ladies with permed hair and, of the few times that I counted, I yawned at least 5 times and ended up infecting everyone else in the room with these yawns.

  The second interview had been on Wednesday. This time round I was a lot more prepared, and walked in the interview room as though I already had a position in that company. It was during the final minutes of the interview that I realized that I hadn’t talked the talk as I should have. They had become more polite and started over-flooding their sentences with so many If’s and May’s. At that very moment, I became aware of the reality; that we would never be colleagues.

  As of today, I am ready to turn things around. This is going to be my job. It doesn’t matter whether I’ll have to tell lies to impress or over exaggerate a little. God knows that I don’t just want a job; I need one, or even two.

  “My mother passed away when I was 11 years old, and being the firstborn, it has always been my responsibility to take care of my younger siblings; four siblings.” I answer the lady.

  She sends her belated condolences, expressing how sorry she is. The bad cop guy says that he’s also sorry, but they would prefer to hire someone who has a professional motherly connection with kids, not a big sister kind of role model.

  “For the past four years, I have been volunteering over the weekends at a children's home near my home area. And, I am also a mother. I have a daughter." I tell them.

  “Now we are talking. Our preferred candidate is one who can be perceived as a mother figure by these kids before they can find someone to take them in, or adopt them.” The keen observer says as he sits upright and starts giving my CV a more serious look.

  “But aren't you a little too young to be a mother? You CV indicates that you are 22 years old, how old is your child?" The mean guy asks.

  “I believe that motherhood doesn’t come with age but with one’s experiences in life, and their levels of maturity. I could say that I have been a mother for the past 11 years, but since my sisters and brothers are not technically my children, then the right thing to say would be that I have been a very good mother for almost a year, ten months to be exact.”

  I feel like I should add more lies, but if I do, they’ll be forced to give me this job out of pity, and not based on my assumed qualifications.

  “Thanks for your time. We’ll be getting in touch with you as soon as we’re done interviewing the other candidates.” The lady tells me.

  There's some hope in her words, though not fulfilling enough, but a lot better than the usual disturbing phrases, ‘If you make the cut or, we may get in touch.’

  If they find someone, other than me, with more experience interacting with kids-and everyone I know of seems to be better with them, then they won’t hesitate to deny me this job I'm so desperately in need of.

  I momentarily hesitate to get off my seat. I want to be a part of this so bad! Not that I care about their humanitarian project that they use to siphon donations from Western sponsors, but I'm all in regarding the job, and the money. It’s time I concentrated on making me happy before even thinking of getting involved in yet another weird relationship, starting a family or being anyone's mother.

  The bad guy exchanges looks with his two colleagues before looking back at me and asking that I leave.

  Still, I don’t get off the seat. They once again exchange looks; concerned looks.

  “Is anything the matter?” The keen observer enquires.

  “Would you like to add something? Or do you have any questions for the panel, any final remarks?” The lady asks.

  “No, I’m sorry.” I get off the seat a bit embarrassed of my childish stubbornness. Reaching for the door handle I’m hit by the unfortunate thought that if I leave like this, they will be left laughing behind my back, joking about my character and even giving me a nick-name. And, whenever they are reminiscing about their interviewing experiences, they will always be reminding each other of this particular experience when a crazy girl refused to leave their office. At the end of the joke, they will wonder what ever happened to me.

  I turn back and walk a few steps towards the big desk that separates them from me. I sit at the edge of one of the chairs.

  “I deeply apologise for my behaviour. I know that you are not convinced that I can handle this job, but I certainly can. The thing is, I am not the kind of person who talks a lot so; it may be hard for me to convince you. I perceive myself as more of a doer, and my work output will prove you wrong. All you have to do is give me a chance."

  There are a few moments of silence before the bad guy breaks them with a,

  “I’m not convinced.”

  He then adjusts his chair and starts swaying from side to side.

  They let me have the job!

  It's my third day at work and I'm doing the usual rounds to get acquainted with how things run in this place as I become familiar with the environment, my colleagues and the kids. Looking into these little angelic faces makes me want to tear up. As I hold one of them and carry her on my arms, I feel a few drops of milk wet my bra.

  It’s almost a month since I lost the family I never thought I was ready to have. I remember him coming to pick us from the hospital two weeks after I had a C-section and Candace made her way into my world. No one expected the baby to be fine and ready to go home within such a short time, but she was.

  All my life I would stare at day old babies and think that they were the ugliest creatures alive. But Candace, she was special, and beautiful, and charming, and everything that I had ever wanted but had no idea I wanted it till it came my way.

  She had been born prematurely, but healthy. Doctors said that we could take her home in two to three weeks, which we did. Looking at that tiny girl had made me realize how special motherhood was, and could not wait to be with her and be by her side, for the rest of our lives.

  Mama had even called the next morning. Her genius instincts must have alerted her that she was now a grandmother. She was so excited at the news and wanted to know everything; everything regarding how I was doing, how I was feeling, how we were all doing and if the baby looked like me. I had asked if she would come pay us a visit of which she changed the topic immediately.

  “I am so proud of you.” She would repeat after every few minutes.

  I couldn’t clearly understand whether she was being sincere, or she was being sarcastic. Maybe I didn’t know her that well as I had always presumed.

  “Take care of yourselves, and do not hesitate to call me in case of anything. I mean anything.” She had said before hanging up.

  It’s 7.00 o’clock in the morning. I am awakened by the love making groans and moans coming from Sera's bedroom. I envy this girl. She has just joined the Beyonce fraternity of GROWN WOMEN who makes chunks of money, pay their rent, take care of their own bills and no longer has to do the walk of shame for it's now her turn to bring in the boys.

  I am thankful to her for taking me in, especially after the whole world, which comprises of the few people I know and those whose lives I screwed, ditched me.

  Today marks exactly one month since that fateful day. The new baby with her new parents and grandma were so excited as they drove from the hospital back home. Dru was behind the wheel alongside his overly friendly mother who sat on the front passenger seat. Baby and I sat at the back. I could barely get my eyes and hands off the beautiful angel. Everyone said that she looked like me, but to this very moment, I hadn't been able to pin point a specific feature we shared, ot
her than having both our skins being a bit darker, silkier and very lovely, and our eyes a bit bigger and attention grabbing.

  It had been raining for quite some-time, which made the atmosphere seem so peaceful and romantic, but a lot of bad things had been happening. A few drunkards had been struck by lightning as they sought shelter under trees and, a family of 15 had vanished into the deep bondage of mud when their compound was affected by a mudslide. At least two greasy car accidents would also be reported on daily basis and with the public transport fares being hiked by 100%. I felt grateful that I didn't have to travel with my daughter in a matatu at such a time.

  As a result of the heavy rains and traffic, the usual 45 minutes drive from the hospital back home seemed to take forever. I recall my eyes getting drowsy, putting baby Candace on her car seat before falling into a deep sleep.

  I don’t know what happened, how it happened, when it happened, or why it happened; but the next place I saw myself was in the hospital bed, the one I had abandoned earlier that very same morning.

  Everyone had been taken away from me. Everyone, including the man I had yet learned to like, the mother in law whose over-friendly nature always upset me, and the daughter I was yet to pass my life lessons and wisdom to.

  “Is there someone I can call?” A nurse had asked me after I had regained consciousness.

  She was a well trained nurse, but had never had a chance to be a mother; otherwise, she would have empathised with me. She lied about not knowing the condition of my daughter, that of Dru or his mother.

  “The doctor is on his way, I’m sure that she’ll be of help.” She had said.

  The doctor came, and like her colleague, gave lame excuses of how we had all been rushed in different hospitals. I guessed that he was waiting for a family member to show up and share with me the bad news. No family showed up.

  On the second day, the nurse assured me that the baby hadn’t been harmed and that she and the rest were being treated in a different hospital. She added that as soon as a family member showed up, they would organise for transfers. The only near-family who showed up was Sera.

  Her face told it all, and the newspaper she brought with her filled in the missing gaps.

  ‘ROAD ACCIDENT CLAIMS A FAMILY OF FOUR.’

  It didn’t matter that the paper was speculating that I had also died. I should have.

  I was mad at God, still is. He must have hated me so much to let me suffer this much, or for allowing Satan to tempt me to this extend.

  I had found myself pregnant when all I wanted was to be girl, not a woman. It's like some supreme power out there had been playing games with my body. At one minute I thought I was pregnant, the next I wasn't, back to being pregnant again, to a miscarriage, and another pregnancy… This heterotopic kind of pregnancy only occurs in 6 out of 100,000 pregnancies, and though I had made myself believe that it was a curse, deep down I knew that it was a miracle. I had wanted to get rid of it so bad, but not even abortion could get in the way of my Candace being another beautiful soul born into this world. Family had abandoned me and so had friends but, despite having faced all this so strongly, the supreme power had decided that I was no fit to be a mother.

  I was back to where I was before, or even worse; all alone, with no one to call, talk to or cry with.

  Were it not for Sera, I would have drowned myself to self hate. She had hugged me so tightly it pained, tried cheering me up with her seraphic smile, didn't say a word but stared me for hours when she thought that I wasn't looking, and sat by my side till I was discharged. She had taken me back to her house, and let me be.

  On the day of the funeral, she had woken me up, picked a nice mournful outfit for me to wear and dragged me to church, then the cemetery. Had Dru’s family been more illiterate, they could have caused a scene by demanding that I leave the burial grounds. But, no one in that family said a word to me. No greetings, no condolences, no questions, no nothing. They didn’t even show any concern towards this young mother who had just lost her only child. Maybe they were scared; scared that I could use the same charm I had used to drag their three member family into their graves.

  The whole funeral seemed a little creepy to me. Technology and industrialization has driven people of one lineage so far away from each other such that the only time they get to catch up is when a relative of their gets married or passes on. That funeral was no different from a family get-together. I wasn’t at all surprised when I heard the lady sitted next to me whisper to an elderly woman in front of her.

  “Whose funeral is this anyway?”

  “What, you don’t know? It’s Maria’s, my sister’s daughter.”

  “Just Maria’s? Then how come there are three coffins?”

  “The bigger one is for her son Andrew, you know Andrew right, everyone knows him around here. He was a good man. The smaller one, it’s for his daughter. I hear she was only three weeks old. Life is really short. Who would have ever imagined that the tiny boy who was always jumping the fence to steal my mangoes would be gone this fast? May God rest their souls in peace.” She concluded before taking out her crucifix pendant and kissing it.

  "Wow, that's tragic! And what about the mother, his wife I mean?" The younger lady had asked.

  "That's a long story my dear, you'll have to see me after this." The older woman had responded before opening her funeral programme and joining the mourners in singing another dirge. After the chorus, she had turned to the younger lady and asked,

  "I see that you have some of our family features but I don't seem to recognize you. Who are your parents?"

  A close friend of the family had then taken to the dais to share a few words, which took him almost a whole hour, sharing lots of lies about the departed. He called them real heroes, role models, shared the special times and moments they had shared, mentioned how angelic the new addition to the family had been and how they had all left a mark that no one else would ever be able to fill.

  He had referred my baby as Candace Wanjiru Otieno; alleging that she had been named after Dru’s mother, and that she had already assumed her father’s surname. After a whole 57 minutes of an attention seeking eulogy, he had concluded with the old cliché; ‘with those few words'.

  The whole funeral had been absurd and I couldn’t have taken it anymore. No one had proven to be humane enough to acknowledge my presence, offer their condolences or celebrate the one life that had survived the accident. I had to storm out of the sombre family re-union crowd to be alone.

  On our way back to Sera’s, all I thought about was how I should have fought those bunch of mourners and had my daughter’s body all by myself. I would have given her a more intimate and loving send off. Her bones were still weak, and burying her meant that she would be decomposed long before the cement dried. I could have cremated her and forever had her ashes close by.

  'What if I go back after everyone has left, and exhume her body.' The thought had persistently crossed my mind.

  My friend Sera let me mourn in the best way I could. After a while, I realized that I was becoming more of a burden, for I could not mourn forever.

  I woke up one morning; a week after the burial, prepared breakfast, did all the housework and by the time she was getting up, I was almost done.

  “You didn't have to do this." She had told me.

  "You need not worry about me anymore. I'll be fine."

  She wasn't fully convinced, but it made her a bit happy.

  "It's great to have you back.” She had told me while giving me her friendliest embrace.

  “Thanks for taking care of me. I’ll never be able to pay you back.”

  “You don’t have to thank me for anything. We are friends, more than friends actually, you could say sisters. So don’t mention it, don’t even think about it.”

  For the rest of the day, I got busy catching up on what had happened over the past three weeks, and what I wanted to happen over the next couple of we
eks, months and even years: Stop surviving and start living.

  I knew that my decision would be questioned, but it was up to me to decide what I needed in life. And after not so long, I gained the strength to move on. I convinced myself that it was better to hold dear the memories I had of my daughter, than have her little body on my backyard. Then, I was able to start a new life for me.

  ********

  "Hi, morning." Sera greets me as she walks her one night stand to the door. He doesn't do morning greetings. I wave at them.

  "You're up early."

  I wait till the visitor is out of the door before I respond,

  "Well, couldn't sleep a bit with all the noise coming from your bedroom."

  "Sorry about that."

  "No worries. Will be out in a minute. You're off today right?"

  "Yes, why?"

  "Good. So you'll have no excuse to not help me find a house."

  "What about the rehearsals."

  "They start much later, in the afternoon. And they just can't start without us, wouldn't hurt to make them wait for the very last time."

  "So you really are moving out? You've been paid?"

  "Not really, but tomorrow I might…"

  Project Runaway, Jane by Design, Fashion TV…this is what these washrooms remind me of. Everyone, almost everyone is dressed or trying to dress to kill. Fancy shoes, classy jewellery and accessories, expensive clothes, nauseating perfumes and embarrassing make-up is just but a tip of the iceberg of how these girls have planned to celebrate their end of the exhausting 8-4-4 education system.

  The ceremony is to start at 9.00 am, but with more than a whole hour to go before then, I’m surprised to see that everyone has arrived, including those who had a phobia of attending the early morning classes. I don’t feel embarrassed being here. I am out of place. I had come in here to dust my shoes and check if my gown fits. Now, I am surrounded by havoc. All I have on is a pair of comfortable jeans, an a bit sexy top, and very pretty and comfortable sandals. I expect my name to be called out a few times and asked to the dais to shake the hands of a few not so important people and receive a few awards. During yesterday’s rehearsals, the dais seemed to be somehow slippery and it crowned my day to see a number of fashionista wannabes slip all the way down while posing for photos. Today, I doubt if any of them will have the privilege of stepping up there and enjoy the same attention that the journalists’ cameras will be giving me.