I was handcuffed as soon as I came to an abrupt stop inside the station. I had been running non-stop for nearly thirty minutes, tears obstructing my vision. I stumbled and fell a couple of times, but I got back up and continued running. “It’s the safest place you can be right now. I’ve already spoken to the officer in charge; he will help you,” Nancy told me. Those were the last words I heard, and they echoed in my mind, urging me toward the Olympic police station. I didn’t pause to consider how a police cell could be the safest haven until the policeman guided me into a dimly lit, iron-corrugated shack at the rear of the station and locked me inside.
When I woke up, spending the night in a police cell wasn’t something I had anticipated. I had been eagerly awaiting the final episode of “Citizen’s Jane and Solomon Murder Mystery” at 9 p.m. As usual, I spent most of the day with my two sons, watching TV. I cherished these moments during the holidays before heading to work. My sons had become the brightest part of my life, giving me purpose and making me happier than I’d ever been when I first became a mother.
Lena was born on the cold floor of my mother’s small house in the Kibera slums. She had called a midwife friend to assist with the delivery. While she wasn’t thrilled that I had become pregnant while still in school, she embraced her role as a grandmother with enthusiasm, helping me care for Lena, hoping I’d return to school soon. That had been my plan as well until the morning I hurried to the grimy latrines to vomit and found my mother’s furious stare. “Jina! Are you pregnant? Again?” I was left speechless.
The memories of that day were buried deep within my mind, and now, amid the turmoil, they resurfaced. I despised when they did, as they never brought back the significant memories—especially the mystery of Linford’s father, a dark memory that marked the worst period of my life. The realization of my pregnancy, the subsequent complications, and the fact that I didn’t know Linford’s father plagued me. I still don’t.
Nevertheless, an odd sense of relief, tinged with insecurity, washed over me, similar to what I felt the night I was assaulted by Linford’s father. When I returned home that night, I knew I shouldn’t have defied my mother’s wishes to go out, yet I was grateful to be alive. Survival was all that mattered; I had no intention of recounting the horror I’d endured to my mother. She wouldn’t understand. Just like her view on soccer, she considered rape a taboo subject. I was alive, and that was enough.
Peering through the tiny gaps in the iron sheets, I saw a young boy. He resembled Linford and was devouring something I couldn’t quite make out. My heart raced once again. Linford’s cries had set everything in motion earlier that day. He had been playing outside with the neighbour’s children when their shrieks pierced the air. Mama Muso, our neighbour, swiftly intervened, snatched her son away, and directed insults at me.
When it became evident that I was pregnant with Linford and unaware of his father’s identity, my father, with my mother’s approval, cast me out of our home. They believed the rape was a fabricated lie designed to elicit sympathy. While they had been generous in raising Lena, they hoped Lena’s father—my first boyfriend—would return from studying abroad and reward them for their kindness. Walter, I doubted, was ever aware of the pregnancy; he had left before my belly showed.
As a teenage mother of two, I developed a tough skin when I moved into one of the mud houses in the slums, away from my parents, to care for my children. My clients arrived late at night, once I was certain my children were asleep. Occasionally, I arranged to meet them elsewhere. Mama Muso often sneered at me, particularly when she caught a glimpse of my clients leaving, peering from her window. I sensed her judgment, but I did what was necessary for my children.
This morning, however, my patience was tested. Mama Muso crossed the line when she told her son, “Didn’t I warn you not to play with the children of that harlot?” I couldn’t remain silent. “What did you say?” I interjected. “You’re a prostitute. Everyone knows it!” She yelled. “What does my work have to do with my children? They were just playing. Why are you involving me in children’s quarrels?” I inquired. “Is sleeping with married men your occupation? Shame on you!” she spat. “Aren’t you ashamed of hurling insults instead of handling a child’s game like an adult? You’re an elderly woman!” I retorted. “Leave me alone!” I demanded, slamming the door to my shack.
Mama Muso continued to rant at the top of her lungs throughout the day, threatening to inform my clients’ wives that I was the mistress spending their husbands’ money. Despite the temptation, I refrained from engaging, owing to the moral values instilled by my parents. However, around 8 p.m., after returning from buying potatoes to prepare supper for my children, I encountered Mama Muso. She seized me by the neck, threatened to assault me, and pushed me into the shabby wall of her house. Another exchange of words followed, and I challenged her to visit my house if she wanted trouble.
“Watch your tongue, young lady. Being a mother of two doesn’t make you a real woman!” she taunted. “If you’re itching for a fight, come to my house,” I retorted, locking my door as I began peeling potatoes. My door swung open, and Mama Muso started slapping me, accusing me of being a harlot. I struggled to break free from her grasp, but she was overpowering. I managed to stand, but she shoved me back down and perched me on a plastic chair beside my stove, near the water and potatoes. I grabbed a knife and, in a moment of panic, I must have stabbed her.
She retaliated with punches to my stomach, and I plunged the knife into her abdomen again. I didn’t see blood, and she continued fighting for nearly a minute before suddenly gasping, “You stabbed me. Jina, you stabbed me?” Shocked, I dropped the knife and fled to the door. My children stood huddled in a corner, terrified. I saw Mama Muso gripping the wall, struggling to sit on the plastic chair, and then my gaze met the gathering crowd outside my dwelling.
“I think I accidentally stabbed her. Please take her to the hospital,” I stammered to the crowd, my voice trembling. Panic surged through me as I bolted away. It was during this frantic escape that I remembered to call Nancy, the community health volunteer who had advised me to seek refuge at a police station. She had called me again before I reached the Olympic police station to say that Mama Muso was dead. Dead? How? I just wanted her to stop. I wanted to defend myself, how could she be dead? “They are after you. There is a mob looking for you, Please run to the station, someone will hide you there,” Nancy pleaded. I could hear the mob chanting. A manly voice shouted, “We are going to burn her kids!” My children? They were innocent.
A bright flashlight peeked through the ironsheets of the dark room I was hiding in and I coiled into a corner. It felt as if life was being squeezed out of me. “Jina, it’s me, We are transferring you to a police station in town, you will be safe there,” Nancy said. “Where are my children?” I asked. “They are with the police, Don’t worry, we are taking them to a children’s home in the meantime. Let’s go before they find you.” She opened the door and I looked at her sunken face. “Is it true?” I asked. “Yes. She died on her way to the hospital. She’s being taken to the morgue as we speak.”Nancy said.
Nancy didn’t say the reassuring words she always had when I consulted her about the STIs I contracted while on the job. She didn’t say it would be over soon, she simply helped me climb the police Land Rover and looked away, tears flickering in her eyes. Everything vanished so fast as the van sped off. It was past 11 p.m., and the murder mystery I had been looking forward to watching all day was probably over by now. My life flashed before my eyes, and I wondered why things ended before they even began for me.
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