Everything happened so fast. We were at the height of our lives. Our children were in their teenage years, businesses booming, we had started construction of our retirement home and had plans to buy our second family car. We were living in our youthful dreams and finally, it felt like I had made it. Yes, we started from the bottom and now we had our breakthrough.
George fell ill. He had been experiencing frequent stomach upsets and was rather too relaxed to go to the hospital. He was too busy since he had gotten quite the promotion at work in 2013, just after county governments were introduced in Kenya. so when he finally went they said he had ulcers.
Ulcers were a common occurrence then. Most people of his stature, I mean high-value men, had a problem or two healthwise. He was diagnosed in early November and from then, he would go home earlier, and spend time with our four daughters as they waited for me to come back home so that we could have dinner as a family. He was a doting father, that’s something I always loved about him.
During the Christmas season, George spent more time with our children than he spent with me, managing our businesses. I remember one night, I came home so enraged. When we retired to our room that night, I was prepared for war and went in as soon as the door locks clicked.
“Baba Mum, are you seriously going to stay home all this time while I struggle to manage our businesses? Why weren’t you at the club today?” I asked. We operated a chain of businesses in the town, a club was one of them, the most demanding one.
Mum is the nickname of our elder daughter Beryl. George named her after his late mother and loved her with every part of his being. I remember, in their burgeoning teenage years, our children had a silent coup d’etat. They called us “Baba Mum” and “Mama Mum” sarcastically because according to them, they felt like they were not seen. Like the world revolved around Beryl and occasionally stopped when she wanted to onboard them to her life. It was quite the gesture and I petitioned my husband to treat all of our children equally. Well, at least I was.
“Mama” he paused. He used to call me the same way our children referred to me. “I was spending time with the children,” he answered. I was quiet, waiting for his justification to spend time with the children.
“Is that all?” I asked, enraged, tapping my legs furiously on the grey bedside mat.
“Yes they made me porridge and we spent the afternoon chatting. I told them about their grandma, my upbringing and how I met you,” he paused and looked at me with a wide grin on his face. I smiled too, a little. I know how much he loved telling that story and how happy it must have made him to tell it to our children.
“Do you know they can’t believe that you used to be a sprinter? They should have experienced you in your glory days”, he laughed. I laughed too. Softly. That night, we reminisced about our old days. It felt refreshing, to talk about our lives while in a better place. When I married George, I was just eighteen. A beautiful, slim, young woman that fell in love with a truthful man. Truthful, that was the only desirable thing about him. Everything else was sorry, the man had nothing to his name. Maybe, just the baggy T-shirts he wore.
Yes. Ours wasn’t about a merry wedding and modern living. In the 90’s especially when I got married in 1998, living in huts was common, getting married as a teenager was okay and it was even happier because I had chosen a partner for myself. We lived in a hut in my husband’s village when we had our first daughter Beryl. In 2000, after two years of trying so hard, she came to us: small eyes, tiny legs and rosy cheeks. George couldn’t put her down. I knew then, that I had chosen the best father for my children.
“Here,” he pulled out his phone. “Look at them dancing.” He was smiling, eyes fixated on his phone. He adored them and the widening grin on his face told it all. I decided to rest my case. I knew I would never win with George, especially if it were about the children. I let it rest.
A month later, early morning, he had his hands on Beryl’s head, praying passionately for her, before we bundled a metallic box in our car and sent her away to boarding school to start her secondary education. It seemed funny, how George was visibly distraught for leaving ‘his mother’, our daughter Beryl all alone in school. Silently, I was happy that we did. That she would learn independence, away from her dad. I knew it would be hard on her too, but in two months, she would be back home for the holidays, it wasn’t that bad after all.
But it wasn’t just bad, it got worse. George’s health wasn’t looking up. He fell ill too often and the doctors kept on giving us the same results, Stomach ulcers. After so much of that, he suggested that we have a more advanced diagnosis because he was convinced there were more than just ulcers. The test results came back weeks later. He was in the advanced stages of stomach cancer. The news weakened me. Everyone I had known with cancer had died. Everyone. The only surviving person was my daughter’s classmate who had blood cancer, but she was still under treatment. I looked at my husband and I felt tears well up in my eyes. How? Why? I was determined to save his life.
The healing journey started. We spent our days in and out of hospitals and his health deteriorated by the day. He lost weight, his eye sockets shrank and the colour of his eyes grew pale every day. My husband was quickly becoming a shadow of himself and fear got the better part of me. Most times, when he fell asleep, I would pray in silence.
One July morning in 2014, while I silently prayed. My husband, who had been in a coma for two weeks straight, moved his leg. My heart lept in ecstasy. There was a ray of light. He was moving. He was going to wake up. We would finally go home on time before Beryl was back for the school holidays. George had moved again and this time, he placed his left hand on my head. The comfort of it all. The assurance that he would finally wake up must have lulled me to sleep, and I was woken up by my older brother, who was visiting.
“Your person, is he stable?” He asked with a knowing look. I knew the look on his face. He wore it when he was asking rhetorical questions.
“Yes. He moved his leg and hand before I fell asleep. I think we might go home today if the Lord wills.” I answered hope was the only thing I could afford at that moment.
“Yes we are going home,” he said, a finality in his voice.
I looked at my husband and my heart skipped a mighty beat. I felt it in my core. Something was not right. I could feel it. I looked at my brother, I thought of my children. How our youngest had called, asking when I would bring daddy back home. She had gotten on the phone the previous night and in her ever jovial tone, she asked.
“Mama, when are you bringing Daddy back home?” She was the only one who called him Daddy, the rest called him Baba. My stomach ached, my heart sank, my legs grew light and I felt like I was running out of breath. I couldn’t think of it, even when it had happened in my presence. I couldn’t find the words. I answered the phone call, “Soon mama” I will bring Daddy home soon”. I kept my word. I brought him home sooner but in a casket.
We had talked about these days, George and I. Somehow, we’d thought they would come when we were old and grey. But I was twenty-nine, our children were young, and our retirement home was in its foundation stages. Had he forgotten the plan? Why did he not keep his end of the bargain? The weeks that led up to his burial are still a blur. All I remember is the failing feeling when my husband was being lowered to the ground, I was shattered. I felt all alone. I couldn’t help it when I heard my children’s cries. How Beryl fell on her feet and held on tight to the red earth. My Georgy. My loving husband. He was gone, forever.
It was all I could think about this morning, when Beryl happily walked into my room and said, “They have arrived!” Her husband’s people have come to pay her dowry. She looks stunning in an Ankara dress, her make-up slayed for the gods. Ten years later after her father passed, she’s twenty-four, eager to build a life with the man of her dreams. I’m afraid to let her go. I’m afraid that she might be widowed soon. That she might suffer a loss like mine and never recover. That she might have to raise her children alone. That she’s not ready. I wonder if she knows that tomorrow is not promised.
I look at the hanging wall picture in my bedroom. It’s a picture of George in his graduation regalia. Maybe, it would have been easier to give Beryl away today if he was around. I stand up to go and get breakfast served, my daughter is getting married. Who is to say George wouldn’t have been jittery like he was when she went to high school?
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