Author: Juliet Maruru

360°(1) – The Sins of the Mother

My father was the hardest, staunchest believer in life rules. His first rule was: No true Kikuyu blood should be mixed with any blood from ikamba (from Kamba land), ruguru (west of Kenya), or from ruraya (abroad). He believed his children, even the daughters were made from the blood of Gikuyu and Mumbi, whom he virtually considered to be under gods of the great Ngai. He expected the very best from his children; sent my brothers, my sisters and I to the best schools his money could buy.

It was just after independence, spirits were high, hopes were soaring. My father wanted so much for the great country, and so he sent us to get the best education, even as far as sending me and my sisters, not just our brothers, to universities abroad.

And that is where I broke the rules. When I told my father, that I wanted to marry a man from ruguru, so soon after arriving back from four years of university, he was livid. He even said it.

“I would have understood if you had gotten tempted and married one of those white men. Nyamu ya ruguru! Gwakwa? Muiritu nii njiarite, ahike ruguru? No nguragire! (An animal from the west. In my home? A daughter from my loins. Married to the west. I’d rather kill you!)

So I fled, with my man from the west.

Fitzgerald Mboya. No relation to the great Tom Mboya, or John F. Kennedy, although the US President’s middle name might have had something to do with his name. You see my Fitzgerald was born on November 22, 1963, the same day John F. Kennedy was killed.

Even back then, I had no doubt that he would come to be a great statesman. That might in a way explain my decision to run off with him. I was blind in love.

I met him at an African Students Meeting in Georgia, Atlanta in 1988. I was a student at Emory University studying Mathematics, which surprised him when I was introduced to him. He was a student at Georgia State University studying Law & Political Science. It was a whirlwind affair after that. Leading up to our eloping, returning to the United States so he could pursue a teaching job and a PhD, two children in a row, and then his sudden disappearance one late summer day.

It was not long before I was on a plane, with two children going home to uncertain fates. I was fortunate that my sisters heard about my problem and got some money together so that when I arrived back home, I could put a kind of life together. My father wanted nothing at all to do with me.

And my husband? He was married to another woman, someone his tribe accepted. I wanted to know nothing more about him. Of course, later, I just had to know because he decided to run for his father’s parliamentary seat, following his father’s death, and it soon became cool for journalists to air politicians’ personal lives on National TV. Thankfully, no one seemed to know anything about me and the children who looked uncannily like their father.

I lived in Nairobi’s Ayany Estate in a rented 2 bedroom house from November 1992, until September 1993. Having failed to get a decent job in nearly a year, with my money running out, I agreed to take up a secretarial post in a shipping company down in Mombasa. I managed to get a friend to keep my kids for a while as I settled in my new job. I was fortunate that one of the senior managers, Alistair Blaine noticed my hard work and promoted me to become his PA. It was a better paying job, but in time the work came in direct conflict with my vow to become a very good mother for my kids. When I got pregnant with my third child, I took the opportunity to take some time out and start a business.

I got into business with one of my new friends at the Coast, Salima  Hassan. Salima was quite a surprise, I have to say. She was nothing like the rumours of lazy coastal people I had heard of. She was a widow, after her husband died of sudden illness in 1990. There were whispers, but Salima came right out and told me that her husband had died of AIDS, and that she herself had the disease. That was long before it was ok to admit your status. And she had four young children, so had decided to take fate into her hands.

Salima put her heart and soul into that business, I tell you. By the end of 1998, I had started to see quite a lot of light in my dark world. And then the world collapsed into itself again.

Salima died in a car accident. Her husband’s relatives, every single one who had whispered about her condition, and spread the rumours that she had killed her husband, showed up to claim her share of the business. By the end of 1999, I had no business, so I went back to looking for work. And like before, inspite of my pretty University Diploma from Emory, good work was not available.

When Alistair Blaine offered me my job back, I took it. I took back a few other things that i had hoped to walk away from.

I don’t think that anyone quite understands the sacrifices a mother has to make for her children unless they are mothers themselves. I cannot say that I succeeded every time. There were times when it killed me because my sisters had found both careers and decent husbands. I do not think they meant at all to look down on me, and my kids. But they did. The looks of pity at Christmas, after my father died, and we were welcomed back to visit the homestead and my mother. When their children would repeat to my children the things they heard their mothers say to each other. When my sisters offered me their children’s old clothes and I could not say no because my kids really did need clothes. When my sisters would wink at each other when my mother handed me a Christmas present, invariably several leafs of hundred shilling notes because she knew that January was the toughest part of every year, with school fees, new uniforms and new books to be bought.

I did a lot of things, accepted very many situations to take my kids away from that. I worked hard. I started a business and put in all the time I had into it, and made sure I was home when my kids came home from school so that I could see to it that they had their supper and did their homework. When I lost the business, I went back to work, so I could get Gaby through High School in the semi-private school. I accepted certain situations so I could pay for my son Leopold’s extra tuition at the Academy that catered for children with learning difficulties.

And now I knew that I was going to have to do something that neither I or Gabrielle would like, but it had to be done to save my daughter.

A while back, my sister had offered to pay for Gabrielle’s tuition at a Private University if Gabrielle agreed to live with her. I had vaguely promised to talk to Gabrielle about it, but never did. Now, I have no choice but to force it down Gaby’s throat. She must leave this god-forsaken tourist town and its even more god-forsaken residents behind. We couldn’t wait for a vague loan from the HELB board so she could start university later in the year. Any more time in Mtwapa would kill her.

Look at her. She is not that proud little princess who walked around claiming that her mother was the best, or glowing because she was having a relationship from the unconquerable Creekside white boys, and ruling over the ganja boys under the tree at the end of Mtwapa at the very same time. Look at her.

I guess sooner or later, I was going to pay for my sins. The worst was when I had to look at my child as she reeled from shock and pain when Alistair Blaine’s youngest son broke her heart.

The Princess Project Writing Team is going back to Mtwapa to begin writing the print editions of the webisodes on November 21st 2011. If you would like to connect with them, or just share your writing ideas, please contact them at jmaruru@princessprojectkenya.com

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