Haron Wachira

By Haron Wachira (from the book, Love in the Heart and Other Stories)

We liked him the very first time he showed up at home with Njeri and she introduced him as her friend. None of us, her sisters, had ever imagined Njeri dating a truly decent guy, and Muhoro was beyond all measures a really cool fellow. Njeri nicknamed him Moho, and we liked it.

He sat at our dining table very politely, and spoke not one rash word, and said “thank you” and “please” and in all other ways carried himself very decently, like a real gentleman. He may have been her guy, but we, members of Njeri’s family, were the ones who truly fell in love with Moho.

But we all feared for him. Because we knew Njeri, and we did not need any new revelation to foretell that she would give no end of grief to this poor, decent man. Njeri had grown up as a tom girl. She was wild and rowdy the way they come, complete to the nitty-gritty of dirty fighting. Even with the boys in the neighbourhood and answering dad back and going off from home to no-one-ever-knew where. From as early as when she was six. Grandpa said she had turned out as her name. Njeri, in my native language, means a wanderer.

In her adult years, Njeri had never before maintained a relationship with a guy for more than a few weeks. She already had a child, conceived when Njeri was barely fourteen, and who was now ten and had been integrated in the family as one of us, like our own sister. The girl called Dad “Dad” and Njeri “Njeri” like all of us, and she did not know Njeri was her Mom. Njeri had named the girl after my mother, Wanjiku, but Dad gave her the name Naomi.

One positive outcome of Njeri’s teen pregnancy was that in the ensuing set of confrontations and, for a while, isolation by the family, she had turned to God. She went back to school, completed her 0-levels and went on to a teacher training college. She came to Church regularly and attended youth conventions. But she never became a serious disciple of her Master-in our opinion. Anyhow, it was in her new Christian circles that she and Moho met.

There were three of us other girls in the home where Moho had chosen Njeri–all of us younger than her. I followed Njeri in the age order, but the spacing between us was close. By my estimation, my other sisters and I were a lot more decent than Njeri, some of us virgins even, Christians with a good testimony, and none of us were hooked. Amazing that, in our girls-rich family, it was the very worst apple Moho had picked. Poor fellow! What had he seen in Njeri?

Contrary to my expectations, the new friendship blossomed. They came home often as they nurtured their friendship, and for a prolonged time–an amazing six months–Njeri behaved incredibly well. Eventually, Moho proposed and Njeri graciously accepted to give her hand in marriage to Moho. And the marriage negotiations began, with Moho’s parents coming over to our home in the outskirts of town and the elders talking in their proverbs and all that stuff. Then the wedding, in which we all served as flower girls. Clearly, we were wrong. Maybe Njeri had changed…

They settled in the western surburbs, not too far away from our home. Moho’s dad gave them a two-bedroomed maisonette, complete with servants’ quarters, as a wedding gift. Wow, what a dad!

We were about to declare the marriage success when the first signs of trouble showed up. We were out on a shopping expedition, Njeri and I, on her invitation. Out of the blues, Njeri’s demeanour became grave and she told me there was a matter she had “been needing to discuss.”

  “Sure,” I said with a light touch. “That’s what sisters are for.”

Then she dropped the bomb. “I’ve been getting bored with marriage,” she said.

“What?” I scolded her. I couldn’t hide my shock. “How do you mean getting bored?”

“Just like that. You know, I like to travel. I like fun-movies and all. But Moho is not like that. He…he is married to his work.”

“Oh, shut up, Njeri, what’s wrong with you? When you married Moho, didn’t you know he was a doctor?” I was so hurt I stammered as I scolded her. If Njeri ended up deserting…. I imagined poor Moho coming home late at night and having to spend time alone in the house…. I shed tears right there and then.

“Listen, Njeri,” I said harshly when I was able to speak again, “You are no longer 14. You had better begin behaving like a married woman.”

When I got home in the evening, I told my sisters about my altercation with Njeri. We all swarmed on our rogue sister the following evening and worked on her proper. If Njeri had had any doubts before, now she knew. We were on Moho’s side, and we would spare no rod to keep her in line. Odd, I think now, that none of us then offered even a shred of practical advice to our newly-married sister.

She did not desert the marriage. They came to church and visited us form time to time. But, knowing Njeri, we kept a close tab on her going outs and coming ins. One Sunday afternoon when they had come over, Moho casually mentioned that Njeri was quitting her teaching job in order to be free to travel and bring imports from Dubai.

“She enjoys travelling,” he said innocently.

Alarm bells sounded all over. We exchanged furtive glances amongst ourselves so as not to alarm Dad or Moho, but soon afterwards we took ourselves to dig up the truth and found it out–Njeri had found a new love in an airline pilot: a white man.

“It has to stop, Njeri,” I told her, “Moho loves you, and, let’s face it, there aren’t many like him.”

“You should have married him.” She retorted.

“Well, that’s beside the point,” I said. “You will either be faithful to Moho or else:”

“What will you do?”

I guessed, correctly, that she was partly testing the waters to see how far we would go, so I let it all out.

“We will tell Dad, to begin with.”

“You can’t do that,” she said. Suddenly, she was pleading with her eyes. “You will kill the old man, you know that.”

“You will kill the old man, not we,” I countered. “Look, Njeri, how many sixty-year old grannies do you know that are paying school fees for a teenage girl?”

She just looked at me.

“We will also tell your lover’s wife. We know where she lives: 234 Kensington Avenue, London. She works as a tax consultant with a London firm.”

“I’m impressed, Wangari, my beloved sister. Really,” Njeri said, but got the point.

“We will also report it to church,” I finished.

“You are vicious,” Njeri retorted, “Like your name sake.” She meant my name. Wangari means “One who is associated with leopards.”

The threats worked–at least for a while. Njeri stopped seeing the pilot; she even used a different airline for her now regular trips to Dubai. We planted in her circles as many spies as we could, and told it to Njeri plainly–without mentioning names. But, of course, I was not deceived, neither were my sisters. Once Njeri had decided to go on the riot, not even a wall of spies could stop her. Outwardly though, evidently fearing our wrath, she carried herself like a respectably married woman. A doctor’s wife.

When I first noticed that Njeri was pregnant, the thought occurred as to whether it could be possible that the pregnancy was not Moho’s. I dismissed the thought outright, realizing that by asking her, I would now be overstepping the boundary allowed to a caring sister and entering into a meddler’s territory.

The Dubai trips also abated.

Moho was now a fully integrated member of our home, and we did a swell job making him part of our family. He was a great guy, really. He had a way of telling jokes quietly that made him really fun to be with. When I joined the faculty of law at our national university later that year and they came to congratulate me, he told us many lawyer jokes. I have never forgotten the one that made me even mom, who was usually quiet and reserved, howl loudly.

“What is dark and brown and looks good on a lawyer?” he had asked in his usual, quiet way. We thought hard, made guesses, but eventually gave up.

“A Doberman,” Moho told us. The real irony lay in that he knew I loved dogs. I shouldn’t have laughed at all, but was simply hilarious imagining a black and brown Doberman chasing up a woman lawyer down an alley, her handbag swaying this way and that, and her court garb behind her as the wind took its part in the chase.

I learned, also from Moho, that he was named Muhoro as a result of an order by his grandmother, issued on her deathbed. She died from an illness occasioned with a blow delivered to her by her husband in a moment of rage. It happened that Moho’s mother was heavy with the pregnancy that would result in the birth of her first born.

“If you bring forth a son,” the dying Granny told her daughter-In-law,” call him Muhoro (peaceful), to give us a break from the violence that is sending me to the grave.” She had died shortly afterwards.

And Muhoro, he had become, both in name and in character.

The baby was born in December, just before the Christmas festivities. We went to the hospital to see Njeri and her baby and came out mourning. Because Njeri had brought forth a healthy, half-mzungu boy. Oh, how we would all have exclaimed how cute the chubby newcomer looked had he been born in a mixed race marriage.

My younger sister Mukami and I left Njeri in the hospital and headed for her home, where we found Moho alone. He had preceded us to the hospital and was, understandably, more personally hit by the knowledge of Njeri’s transgression. Poor man; he had not even had an inkling as to the existence of the relationship between his wife and the mzungu pilot. We sat next to him and wept.

When eventually he rose from among us, and walked into the kitchen to prepare for us the obligatory cup of tea, we joined him there. But none of us could find the words to spark off the raw discussion.

He served us tea but did not serve himself a cup.

“Aren’t you taking tea yourself?” I asked him. 

“No. Not just now.”

After tea we stayed on. Mukami, always the brave one, took upon herself the job of cleaning up the kitchen and preparing dinner herself. But, again, Moho refused to eat. It became awkward for us to feast alone in the poor man’s sorrow-stricken house.

“You have to eat,” I urged him. “It’s terrible what has happened but you need to stay alive, at least.”

“No, Wangari. Please excuse me. You guys just go ahead and eat.”

“We won’t,” Mukami declared. “My spoon will find its way to my mouth only after yours.”

And so the poor fellow had to tell us–unwillingly: “I’ve decided to go on a fast. I need to know what God has to say about this matter.”

We nodded our agreement, understanding, and embarrassed that we had to make him talk about his fast.

“Well, one thing for sure God has said,” Mukami began after a lull, “What Njeri has done is simply sinful. It’s immoral. Plain.”

“Yeah,” Moho replied. “For sure. But I don’t think God says we should wallow in sin’s mud without end. We’ve got to get out and be on our way; we’ve got to see beyond the sin.”

What more guidance do you need then? I thought, but I couldn’t say it aloud. 

“I’m sorry to be the one to say it, Moho,” Mukami said. “She is our sister, but the Bible does give you the option of dunking her on account of unfaithfulness–Matthew 5:32.”

“And if she repents?” he said, looking at Mukami, then at me, directly in the eye.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

“Neither do I,” he replied.

“I just want you to know where we stand,” Mukami explained herself.

“We?” he said. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Well, I for one,” Mukami said. She had realized the mistake. He, too, was one of us. “If you exercise the option given in the scriptures, I for one will not take offence.”

“Me too,” I said, then found myself thinking how we would miss him. Would he continue to be our friend, a member of “our” family, if he ditched Njeri?   

“Well,” Moho responded, “I’m waiting upon the Lord on the matter.”

They that wait upon the Lord, shall renew their strength, I thought. He needed that. 

We all waited in silence. I was  happy that the matter was being tackled head on, and early.

***

“We are dealing with unfaithfulness here,” Dad said. “You defiled your marriage bed.”

Uncharacteristically, Njeri’s eyes welled with tears. It was my first time to see her nearly overwhelmed by a wrong she had done.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Dad queried, looking at her directly.

 Njeri brought the edge of her bed sheet to her eyes. Its cotton material helped to soak in the tears.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Dad said again, irritated that he had to repeat himself.

“They knew,” Njeri said, pointing at me, her words breaking. Both Mom and Dad cast us questioning glances.

I could not believe what had just happened. Njeri had managed to change the focus from herself to us. We were the bad ones. She looked so naïve, even blameless, as if she had simply found herself trapped in the liaison that had brought about the illegitimate birth. And we, knowing all along what was happening, had neglected our duty as sisters to save her from her unavoidable predicament. Wow!

“What does that mean, Mukami?” Dad asked. Although I was older, Mukami was an easier target because she was vocal. “Is this a conspiracy of some sort?”

“No, dad. There is no conspiracy of any sort.”

“But you knew about it?’ Dad was ever sure of himself. I could not remember hearing him stammer, even in the most extreme of situations. But I wasn’t sure what he meant by it–the immoral relationship or the pregnancy.

“We did not approve of it,” Mukami replied. Clever. Otherwise there would have had to be a mini debate on the meaning of the word. But why was it that we, and not Njeri, were under scrutiny?

Mercifully, Dad shifted his focus back to Njeri. “Are you still seeing the man?”

“No…..” she said. “I haven’t been for…..for…” she finished off with jerky sobs and a free flow of tears, leaving Dad to figure out what she intended to say.

We all saw Mom’s hand as it fished into her bag and was in the process of emerging with its catch–a handkerchief, I thought–when Dad’s look, not hostile, or cruel in any way but stern, justly stern, turned on her. We knew the look. Mom’s hand hesitated, then came out empty. She engaged it in the onerous task of zipping up her bag. 

“Have you talked to your husband?”

Njeri shook her head.

“Well. You should,” he said, real fatherly now. “If he is willing to forgive you and needs a way out with the baby, your mother and I will take him. If he wants a divorce, grant it–he will be justified.” 

He has said it like a judge, and somehow, it was the most reassuring judgement I’d ever heard. There would be no deadlock. There was a way forward. A way beyond the sin. Dad was saying the same thing Moho had.

As we parted, Dad asked us all to bow down in prayer and he prayed for God’s guidance to Njeri and Moho but most of his prayer was for the Lord’s hand in the yet unnamed boy. “Oh, Lord,” Dad concluded, “let this baby know peace and quiet in his life.” We said Amen, and the baby showed us his smile.

Two days on, Njeri was discharged from hospital. Moho, unable to name the boy after his father, named his Thayu (peace), after Dad’s prayer for him.

Moho’s fast ended after seven days of no food and only water to drink. He’d kept largely to himself, and, that night, he invited Mukami and I over to his house for lunch, after church. Njeri was gloomy and reserved, but Moho appeared his normal self. Moho laid out a game of scrabble, which we all enjoyed. Njeri declined to join in.

“What dod God tell you?” I asked, almost in a whisper while Njeri was busy in their bedroom changing the baby.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Not a word?” 

“Not a word.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, ‘So?’”

“I mean, you were waiting for His guidance. So what are you planning to do now?”

“Why, Nothing”

“Nothing?” I said.

And he said, “Yes, nothing. He did not tell me to do anything, so why should I do something?”

It didn’t make sense. But I thought that if I pursued the subject, I would end up creating tension. But on the way to the bus stop, when he escorted us, perhaps because of being alone with him, without the risk of being overheard by Njeri, I became a bit careless and resumed the conversation.

 “Did Njeri tell you about dad’s offer–on the child?”

“Yes, she did,” he said, and, clearly sensing our desire to know whether or not he would be proceeding with a divorce, he said, “The sin is forgiven–fully. Njeri is still my wife, if she wants, and the boy is now my son.”

What a guy!

When I took Naomi to visit “auntie” to shower the new baby, I almost prayed for the earth to swallow me up as Naomi exclaimed innocently, “He is so light. Almost like a mzungu.”

“He’s called Thayu,” Moho told her. So naturally.

 “Tayo would be better,” Naomi said.

“Why,” Moho asked. My heart quickened its beat.

“Because,” she said thoughtfully, “The th sound is too difficult. I like Tayo.”

“Hey, Tayo,” Moho said, tickling the baby. “Meet Naomi, the name giver.”

Tayo. The name stuck. Eventually Njeri resumed her business, going to Dubai for two days and coming back with clothing and electronic goods. Moho, more than before, kept his side of the bargain. When they showed up in the Church, where we met nearly every Sunday, it was him who carried Tayo, the boy everyone could tell was a product of promiscuity. Brave man.

All said, it was good to see them get on with life. But whether or not they were happy was a only matter of conjecture.

Sadness came knocking again on their door and ours when Njeri simply vanished, and Moho came looking for her in our home. I walked into the sitting room from work as he was telling Dad, “…three days now. I thought she had come here.”

I paused in my step, not wanting to intrude. Dad beckoned for me to join them.

“She packed like someone going on safari,” Moho said.

“That’s what kept me from reporting the matter to the police. “The house girl said someone picked up Njeri at our gate–bags and all.”

“Njeri!” Dad moaned the name. There was pain in his voice. “Did she leave any message?”

“She said she’d be back someday.”

 “Some day?” dad asked rhetorically.

 “Yes, some day.”

I don’t know why the thought occurred to me, but it did, and I asked, “Did she take Tayo with her?”

“No,” he said.

Dad shook violently. I was sure he would faint, and, to preempt the disaster, I moved in to support him.

“Where’s the boy now?” I asked. Dad would need some time to regain his composure.

“He’s at home-with the house girl,” Moho said.

We were quiet for some time. What do you say in situations like that?

“Oh, Njeri. Njeri,” Mom lamented.

“I am sorry that my daughter has caused you so much grief in your youth,” Dad eventually spoke.

Moho reflected on that for a bit, then answered quietly, “No, Dad, you should not blame yourself for Njeri’s behaviour. “Look at your other girls–all…”

“I wish you married…” Dad began, but Moho, the first time I ever saw him do that, interrupted him.

“Stop, Dad,” he pleaded. “Please. It is Njeri I married. She is my wife, even as she is.”

“Listen, Son,” Dad tried again, raising his hand as an insistence that he had to speak. “I would like to offer you what relief I can. Like bringing up the boy.”

“Thanks, Dad. But Tayo is my son, and your grandson, he said without hesitation. “It is my responsibility to bring him up–and yours to spoil him,” Moho finished off with a smile. Amazing.

Dad smiled. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

And so Moho brought up Tayo. And the boy grew to be a very handsome species. He spent as much time with us as he did with his dad, and in all ways became a member of our family.

I got my visa for entry into the United Kingdom on the day Tayo turned four and I remember thinking how much I would miss his friendship–and Moho’s–because I was to be away for a three-year stint, studying for my Masters in Law at Leicester University. So, for a farewell treat, I had taken Tayo out for lunch. We were just now getting back to our house in preparation for taking him back home when my attention was drawn to an unfamiliar pair of shoes at the entrance of our house. A woman’s pair of shoes.

Just as I was about to knock at the door, Naomi shot out of the door and hastily grabbed Tayo’s hand.

“Can Tayo take me to the shops, please!” she pleaded.

It was the oddest way I had ever seen her behave. But I gave in to the urgency of her voice and released Tayo to her.

I was still wondering about the oddity of Naomi’s behaviour when I saw Njeri. She and Mom sat on the same side, facing a large window that offered a glorious view into the garden, and Dad on the other side, facing them.

Instinctively, I was filled with fear and anxiety. Three hesitant steps took me to an empty chair on the table. Adrenaline had taken its toll on me by now. I was actually trembling a little as it began to dawn on me that all that we had known by way of the new order was now under threat.

Njeri extended her hand for me to greet. It was the first time that I had seen my sister after a long absence and not felt a positive emotion towards her.

“Why should I greet you?” I asked. I hated my own words. I wanted to be nice and polite. Instead I found myself seething with anger.

“Go make us some tea, Wangari,” Dad said. I am being chased out, I realised. Even so, I was glad not to have to be part of the painful re-union.

Mom found me in the kitchen when the tea was just about ready. Her eyes were soaked in tears. She was so upset she had difficulty breathing.

“What, Mom?” I asked, turning to her “What happened?”

“Oh, no! No! Why did she have to go away and come back like this?”

“Like what, Mom?”

Mom sobbed loudly. Even in times of grief for the dead, I had never seen her so beaten.

“She is sick, Wangare,” Mom said at last. “Sick and dying.”

“What?”

But Mom wouldn’t say a thing more. I forgot about the tea, burst into the sitting room, and found its occupants in their places, as if they had become effigies–completely immobile, lifeless. This time I sat next to Njeri.

Dad’s head drooped in front of him, almost touching his knees. Njeri stared stonily past him into the wall behind Dad.

Tears streamed freely from her eyes. It was the second time I had ever seen Njeri cry.

I feared breaking the silence.

Then I saw it–the small piece of paper, a bit crumpled but nevertheless carrying the announcement that had thrown our family into pandemonium. It carried the results of what must have been a medical test. Although turned away from me, towards Dad, I could read the paper all right. It bore Njeri’s name and age, and on the place next to the heading “HIV Status” it proclaimed in capital letters POSITIVE.

I sat there, immobile like the others, as the gravity of the matter began to weigh on me. My eyes wanted to move away from that crumpled piece of paper with that one horrible word but I couldn’t get them off it. I had heard of HIV Positive people but it was my first time to see it with someone I knew–my own sister. It was all the more frightening that as she sat here, next to me, there was nothing to show that she was sick. Nothing at all.

Eventually, my hand reached out for the paper, slowly. Why, I had no idea. The tension was just too much, I guess I had to find something to defray it. But before my hand got to the dreaded paper on which judgement was written against my sister’s immoral life, Dad said, “Go see to your mother, Wangare.

I was glad for the chance to get out.

I found Mom slumped on a stool in the kitchen store, her face supported by the palms of her hands, and her elbows in turn supported by the upper part of her thighs.

“Oh, Mom. I’m so sorry,” was all I could say.

To occupy myself, I rose from where I sat next to Mom and finished making the tea. Mechanically, I poured the tea into the flask, arranged the tea set and carried all to the sitting room. Silently, I poured out the tea, knowing all too well that no one would touch it.

Eventually, to relieve Dad of the tension that had now built up to breaking point, I nudged Njeri and beckoned her out.

We walked out together. In the quietness that surrounded us, I could hear the ugly swish-whooshing sounds that our dresses made and the tap-tapping of our feet on the paved front of our compound. When we were far away enough, we both fell into embraced each other and fell on the grass, weeping openly.

“Oh, Njeri,” I mourned. “What happened?”

Her constrained moans now grew to full blown sobs.

“What happened?” I asked again.

“You don’t want to know. Just don’t become like me….I’m going to die–you know that..

“Shhhh!” I stopped her. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth,” Njeri insisted. “I’m scared, but it’s the price I have to pay for my wicked ways.” She was right. But I couldn’t say that.

“Hasn’t Moho told you?” Njeri said after another pause.

We now sat apart, staring at the pathway that led to the main gate.

“Moho knew?” I asked, shocked.

“I wrote him. As soon as I knew.”

“No, he hasn’t mentioned,” I said, then instinctively found myself going to his defence. “I don’t think he got your letter.”

Njeri stood and began to walk. I followed. We made our way around my parent’s house, into the vegetable garden that we had depended on for years. We were not going anywhere. We were just killing time…

As soon as Njeri and I came back I knew Moho had come over as because his car was parked outside. Njeri did not know the car, and, thinking that he needed some preparation, I got her to go with me towards the kitchen, where fortunately we found Mom. I excused myself and found my way to the sitting room.

Moho was speaking as I entered. He looked up briefly, saw it was me and continued.

“No, dad,” he was saying, “Nothing changes. I know what I have to do. If Njeri is the cross I have to bear all my life–for my own testing and refinement–I’ll carry it.”

Dad shook his head slowly. He looked ten years older.

“You have no idea what this means, Son.”

“I do, Dad. I am a doctor.”

Njeri walked in at this time, and Moho, clearly beside himself, addressed her, “Let’s go home, Njeri.” As though they had been together all afternoon.

“You don’t want me, Moho, she said. I told you. I’m good for nothing. You know that.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said.

“We…we… we can’t… Please go home, Moho.” It was another rare day to see Njeri shaken. And tender.

“Look, Njeri. I am the most equipped person to take care of you. Let’s go.” He extended his hand towards her.

When he placed it across her shoulder, the way buddies hold each other, Njeri slumped her head on his chest and wept.

Clearly, Njeri had been broken–like a horse by its trainer.

Only, now it’s too late, I thought.

And so it was that Njeri and Moho would have gone home together, to what sort of life, your guess would have to be as good as mine. But dad stood up at this time and … and… separated them. What God has put together, let not man put asunder… no, it wasn’t that at all. They were already separated in that sense… except in the case of adultery. Yes, I guess dad simply saw what Moho could not see. Dad just acted more wisely.

“Go home, Son,” Dad said. “Go sleep over this matter and let’s talk in the morning. Tomorrow.”

Njeri eventually succumbed to an attack of pneumonia in her third year since her return. I had been away the whole time, and had now just completed my studies and fallen in love with Dennis, a brilliant classmate from Uganda whom I’d met in England. I had told him about Njeri. I missed out on all the celebrations that attended our course completion, in honour of Njeri, then I asked Dennis whether he could pass through our home to attend the funeral and also meet my family.

“Why not?” he said.

After the funeral, Moho invited us–Dennis and I–to stay at his house that evening. I knew immediately that he had something he wanted to talk about, and for some reason, it bothered me. I had never seen him act sloppily. But instead of projecting his meticulous and cultured self, Moho appeared fearful, sheepish. like a boy who had an interest in a toy he knew his mother would never allow him to have.

While I was helping him prepare dinner, Moho’s demeanour kept on getting worse, a real puzzle to me. He was so unlike himself. What was it–that far away look… like… what was it like? I knew this look, but I couldn’t place it anywhere.

No, it can’t be about Njeri. Or could it be? I thought. As I prepared a salad I knew Moho liked, I noticed that he kept stealing glances at me, the way boys do with girls. Like a boy in love! …That was it, wasn’t it? Could it be…? My emotions surged… My heart began to throb. And then the knife I was using slipped and I cut myself.

“Ouch!” I screamed.

Moho was by my side before I was done with the cry, attending to the cut.

“It’s nothing,” I protested, “I was just clumsy.”

But he wouldn’t hear of it. The doctor in him was raring to go, and from my point of view, he was also unduly motivated by… I brushed the thought aside. It was terrifying.

After dinner, Dennis excused himself early to attend to some writing he was doing, creating the perfect opportunity for Moho open up and talk his mind. But he never did.

The following morning, as I was preparing breakfast, Moho stood at the kitchen entrance and we chatted about old times.

He wanted to know how I had liked England, what it was like to go through an English winter. A silly conversation but nonetheless enjoyable.

Dennis stayed on for the rest of the day. He took me out for lunch, and we had a nice time. But, once the thought that Moho loves me was planted in my mind, it was no longer the same; it could never be the same, with Dennis… In England. he was the closest, the best, the one person that made my blood churn and my heart sing. But then, here at home, with Moho in the picture as a possible contender in the choice of my future partner…. that changed all things, I knew Dennis a little and Moho a lot. I was attracted to Dennis but I knew Moho in a way that I could never hope to know Dennis, and I felt sure that I would be more… what was it?

That I was entertaining these thoughts on the day after my sister’s funeral, and that I was contemplating entering a relationship with her ex-husband caused a gnawing sense of guilt in me… but I couldn’t help it. Every time I would look up from my food and look at Dennis, the comparisons began.

“What’s bothering you, Wangare?” Dennis asked at last. I knew that my agitation showed, so in a way I was expecting his question.

“Oh, Dennis,” I said, “A lot of things.” It was a vague answer. It had to be.

“Can you share?”

“I wish I could Dennis,” I said from my heart.

“It’s. it’s very complicated.”

“Try me,” he said. “I mean, I know it must be hard on you about your sister… Perhaps it’s better for you to share… the burden.”

“Thanks. And you are right. She…she and Moho…wow, Dennis, how can I tell it?” His words reminded me of a sermon I had heard titled “The burden that cannot be shared,” the pastor had spent a considerable time explaining to us the difference between two Greek words, baros and phortion. Baros was used in passages such as Galatians 6:2 : “Bear ye one anothers’ burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.” But in the passage “Everyone shall bear his own burden,” the pastor had said, it was the word phortion that was used–the burden that cannot be shared. This was my phortion, although I could not tell Dennis that.

I felt the tears gush out in a torrent as I remembered.

Everything was swirling around in my mind. Naomi. The Dubai trips. The mzungu pilot. Tayo. The illness… why had she been like that? And all of it on Moho… not exactly… Dad and Mom, too. They had all carried Njeri’s burden. It had been their baros. And, even in death, Njeri’s burden would continue to be borne.

“Here,” Dennis said, handing me his hand-kerchief. “It’s all right to cry.” He understood. And yet he did not, could not.

I gathered myself together and, apologising that I had not eaten much, thanked Dennis for the lunch.

“Oh, come on, Wangare. There should be no apologies,” he said. “I understand entirely.”

He asked me if we could take a walk. I enjoyed that.

Apparently, he knew his way around Nairobi more than I had guessed from our conversations. When we had walked long enough to justify a change of subject, by his estimation, he led me to a bench in City Park and made me sit on it.

“Aren’t you sitting down yourself?” I asked him.

“No, no, I can’t. Not just yet.”

“Why not?” It was a trivial conversation, but I sensed something in the air.

“Because,” Dennis said, raising one of his feet and stepping it on the bench so that he looked at me directly, “I need to look in your eyes as I say my final goodbye.”

“Ah, Dennis, how sweet of you.”

“Listen, darling,” Dennis went on. “There is something I need to sort out as I go…” My heart sensed it, and fear took over.

“We are surrounded by sadness and trouble just now,” he said. “But in the midst of it, I still think I must… must…I must ask…”

“Ask, Dennis,” I knew what he would ask, and suddenly I knew the answer I would give him.

“Darling, will you marry me?”

“Dennis, it’s…it’s very difficult for me just now. May I write you in a few weeks?”

“No. Wangare. Please. We’ve known each other for some time. I need to go back to Uganda with an answer.”

“Need?”

“Need, yes. I want to be through with the commitment part.”

“Dennis,” I told him, summoning all my strength to be done with it. “Let’s just remain friends. Please. Go back to Uganda and find yourself a woman who can make you a good wife.”

He thought I was joking, playing a game.

“I found that woman already,” he said confidently. “You are that woman.” He brought forth from his right-side pocket a small, dark blue box and opened it. “Here, Wangare. Our moment of commitment. Let me betroth thee to myself with this engagement ring.”

I was petrified.

“No, Dennis, Please.” In my panic I had stood up, and was now facing him as if he was an adversary.

It was Dennis’ turn to display shock. He took a step back from the bench and began to pace about. The box with the ring dropped from his hands, opening up as it hit the ground, spewing off its singular treasure – a shiny silver engagement ring with a blue stud that must have been an imitation of a diamond, but very beautiful.

I noticed then that his hands were trembling. His whole body was jittery. He raised his hands and ran them together along the top of his head, like he was brushing his hair. He looked so pitiful; so desperate. My heart went out to him.

“Please, Dennis. I know it’s hard to understand, but please try.”

He turned around and came to me. His hands came forward cautiously, expecting rejection, until they touched my shoulders, each hand on one side of my body. He looked at me with glistening eyes. Pleading.

“What… what went wrong, Wangare? Perhaps I read it all wrong, but I believe you led me along to this day.” He was being polite. I had done more than that. But how could I tell him…? If only Moho had not come into the picture…but he had been there all along…if only Njeri had not buggered up. Njeri!

“I’m sorry, Dennis. I’m so sorry.” I cried after I said that. He led me back to the seat and sat me down. He sat next to me and, and I lay my head on his right shoulder, and we I cried silently for a long time while he looked into space and, I think, tried to make sense of all that had not happened.

Strangely, I was able to think, then. And to make firm decisions.

When eventually I rose from where we sat, I knew at last that the decision I had made was final. Moho was the man I loved. Our love had grown over many years. Initially it was just a brotherly sort of friendship; deep but simply brotherly.

But with Njeri’s demise, he had become my man. I wanted to be part of his life–to be the wife he never had.

“I need to go,” Dennis said.

“Moho should be waiting at home. He is taking you to the airport,” I said.

We rose up to go. My eyes spotted the small jewellery box, where it had fallen and spewed out its treasure. The ring lay a few inches away, glittering in the afternoon sunlight.

Dennis began to walk.

“Th…” I began, then caught myself in time.

“What was that?” Dennis said.

“Nothing,” I said. “Let’s go.”

I was tempted to look back, like Lot’s wife. I prayed for strength. I overcame the temptation.

On our way to the airport, Moho asked Dennis whether we had a nice time, and Dennis said wisely, “It’s always tough to part from friends, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Moho said. “Very tough.”

Moho gave us time to say our goodbyes privately. Dennis gave me a brotherly hug, then asked quietly, “Only one question, can I ask?”

“Sure, why not?” I said.

“Is there someone else?”

I thought about that. I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to be absolutely sincere.

“That is a tough question,” I said.

“Why is it tough? The answer can only be yes or no.”

“You said only one question.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“But I want you to know we are still friends. Always.”

“Always,” he said.

On our way back home with Moho, an air of stiffness reigned. He was as he had been last evening–oppressed by the question he wanted to ask (which I believed I now knew), but he couldn’t ask. A boy in love.

Darkness had set in, and the yellowness of street lights made our world seem brighter than it really was. I counted the street lights as they flashed by us as I waited for the moment of reckoning. Funny, I had always found it easy to talk to Moho, but just now, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Good guy, your friend,” Moho said at last. He was clearing the path, I knew. This is not what was in his mind.

“Yes,” I said.

We drove on for a few minutes.

“You don’t seem your normal self,” he said.

“Neither do you,” I replied.

And both of us knew our misery had nothing to do with Njeri’s death.

“So,” Moho said again. “Tell me about Dennis. Future plans.”

“What future plans, Moho?”

“There are no future plans?”

“No, no future plans…not that I know of?”

“Really?”

“Moho!” I said, mocking a shocked reaction “Dennis is just a friend. He and I were the only Africans in our class.”

There is your chance, now. Moho, say it! But he did not.

Instead, he took me round a circuitous route to the southern outskirts of the city. I knew where he was headed. To Angie’s, a lovely little restaurant that we used to call The Love nest.

I smiled inwardly.

“How come you are not asking me where I’m taking you?”

“Because I know,” I said.

“And do you know why I’m taking you there?”

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation. No need for games.

He and I knew each other.

For the first time since my return, Moho became himself again. He smiled openly as he brought the car to a smooth stop at the parking lot, then he got out, nearly ran around the car and opened the door for me. I came out like a lady.

When we were done with dinner, Moho leaned forward towards me and across the candle on the table and said, “I’m sorry, Wangare.”

“Sorry for what?”

“You know. I loved Njeri. Truly…”

“Everyone knows you did, Moho. I know you loved my sister.”

“I should have waited, but I believe I know…I know…”

“…the way forward,” finished for him.

“Exactly,” he said, smiling.

“So, Wangare, will you marry me?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

“Since when?”

“Since…yesterday…when you looked at me.”

“Looked at you?”

“Yes. When you proposed with your eyes.”

“I did?”

“Sure you did.”

Dennis remained true to his promise to remain a friend “always” by coming to our wedding. I had sent him an invitation, and was very pleased to see him near the front row in church–formally dressed.

“Dearly beloved,” the pastor began at last “we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God..”

Indeed, I thought. At last.

“…therefore it is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God. Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. If any man can show just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”

Dennis threw a darting look at me. I was sure he was thinking about that last sentence, wondering if he had a just cause. Me too. Then he smiled, telling me with his eyes that everything was in order. I did my best to show him I noticed his approval.

“Muhoro, do you take this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Will you love her, comfort her, lead her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I do,” he said confidently. I knew he would.

“Wangare, do you take this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I do,” I said. I meant it more than I could say it. Yet I trembled a little, thinking about how my sister had let down Moho.

“Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

My father’s hand tightened on mine. He strode confidently forward, taking me to the pastor. He was happy and confident.

But his hand also trembled. I will try not to let you down, Dad, I promised him in my heart….

When we had been declared man and wife and the service was done and we marched out and stopped at the entrance of the church for pictures, I saw Dennis making his way towards us, like a man with a mission. Again, I shuddered a little. But I had no idea why.

He made his way to where we stood with the pastor, waited for the picture to be clicked, then approached us, his back to the photographers. I saw his hand come out of his right pocket with keen interest. Then I saw the box…the blue jewellery box. Exactly like the one that had dropped on the ground in the park the last time we were together. What was he up to?

“I… wanted to give you this.”

Panic nearly seized me. Moho saw me hesitate and took charge, picking up the scary gift and shaking Dennis’s hand energetically, “Thank you for coming, Dennis. It’s nice to see you again.”

“You are welcome, Moho and Wangare. Congratulations!”

“Open the gift,” he urged Moho. “Wangare will understand.”

Moho opened the little box and stared at it blankly. In the moment that it took him to pay attention to whatever was inside, Dennis had disappeared.

“What’s inside?” I asked Moho.

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s empty.”

I laughed-out loud. Relief set back in.

The master of ceremonies was calling out the participants of the next picture: My dad and his family and Moho’s dad and his family. I saw Naomi and Tayo coming up hand in hand. Lovely pair.

“What does it mean?” Moho asked, peering at the empty little box. There was urgency in his voice.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yes,” I assured him. “It means there is nothing between us.” I remembered the ring that had been in the other box. And the long moments during which we cried and set each other free.

“You and I?” Moho asked, still puzzled.

“No, Moho. Dennis and I,” I said. “Very funny, isn’t it?

“Ah!” Moho said, understanding. The puzzled look disappeared.

“Come on here, Naomi, Tayo…” Moho said loudly, confidently, pulling the two kids towards us–our side of the family.

Dad took his place next to Mom and Mukami, and Moho’s family filled up the other side of line up. Then the cameras clicked.

It was the loveliest picture that had ever been taken.

.