Peel 1: Cry Blood....

.....fatherless children cry blood

'Kijana...... Kuku anaweza taga mayai bila jogoo kweli?'

(Young man, can a hen produce eggs without a cockerel's help?)

The desk sergeant asked, in mock astonishment, when in reply to his enquiry of my father's name I'd answered that I did not have a father.

'Is he dead?'

'No...'

'Is he divorced from your mum?'

'No...'

'Is he in Jail?'

'No.... I do not have a father!" I reiterated.

Me I knew I didn't. That is what my mother had told me when I'd enquired about him not so long before that.... So me I knew what I was talking about. I did not know about hens and cocks but I knew what mother said must be so.

At eight years old I did not care much about facts..... whether they be the facts of life or not. I took things at face value. Whatever I was told by an adult I accepted as truth and nothing but. Which is how I had ended up at Nairobi's Central Police Station.

*************

I had traveled eight hours plus, on a 'Nairobi Bus' coach, from Mombasa to Nairobi by myself. What was supposed to have been an overnight trip on a 'Mombasa Bus' had had to be changed to a next morning trip on a 'Nairobi Bus'.... the best alternative. The communication infrastructure in Kenya being what it was back then, we had no way of notifying my mother down country.

A note was given to the 'Mombasa bus' conductor to give to my mother, who would be waiting to receive me at their office in Nairobi, instructing her to pick me up at the 'Nairobi Bus' office instead, at 4 PM that same day.

Everything was going to be alright, my aunt and uncle had assured me... and of course I'd believed them. They were adults... right? Now here I was, more than 12 hours later, with some stranger contradicting what my mother had said... my ordeal these last four hours already having severely shaken my faith in the adults in my life.

My mother had not been anywhere in sight when I got to the bus station. I had waited patiently for her to come by as she surely would... trying hard to appear as inconspicuous as possible on the busy street though am sure I stuck out like a sore thumb.... my puny little figure, lagging an oversize bag, standing by the busy street.... crying, alternately facing different directions not quite sure from which one she would appear.

Around 6 O'clock, two hours later, and the sun already disappearing behind the tall buildings, I stopped a stranger and they directed me to the Mombasa bus office... I followed their directions as best as I could... found myself outside an office that, from the signage on the wall, must have been their old office , now closed and deserted.

By this time panic was setting in. I was terrified.... had cried all my tears.... and a sickening feeling had settled in the pit of my stomach... but I still held on to the hope that my mother was somewhere around looking for me as I rushed back towards the 'Nairobi Bus' office, praying that she had not come and missed me while I'd been gone.

On my way back a gent in a suit stopped me and asked where I was going by myself...

"To meet my aunt down the street," I'd lied instinctively. He had not believed me but had let me go all the same. I'd gotten back to the 'Nairobi Bus' office, now ominous in the darkness of the early night.... Surely my mother was going to be here. Of course she wasn't.

'Where is your aunt young man?' It was the same gent who had stopped me earlier.... and this time he was not taking any lies. I told him my story and he and his friends walked with me to the real 'Mombasa Bus' office. We found out that a woman fitting my mothers description had been there all day... quite distressed, and had just left not too long ago. No note had been delivered.

I had that evening ended up at Central Police Station where this police sergeant was trying to help me help him help me.

*************

"Do you have any relatives in Nairobi?"

"Yes, an aunt - Mama Idah...."

"No I don't know her other name.... "

"The husband's? Uuuumm.... Baba Idah!"

" I don't know what estate they live in but if I drove by their house I would know it... I'd visited them last year."

The officer had quizzically looked at the information he'd gathered from me so far and, after shaking his head incredulously, started all over again.

"What is your mother's name?"

"Marion Wairimu." That one I knew well..... I'd given it out at school numerous times.

"What is her married name?"

"She is not married."

"O.K. what is your fathers name."

"I don't have one...." Mumbling under my breath.

"What was that?"

I repeated what I'd said a little louder.

'I'm telling you that that is not possible young man.' His frustration evident in his tone.

'Constable, this kid thinks he is Jesus Christ...' he joked to his companion and to every other "Utumishi Kwa Wote" operative who either out of curiosity, or a sincere desire to be of help, had stepped in to find out what this eight year old kid was doing at the Police Station.

*************

While everything worked out for the best and I was delivered safely to my mother the very next evening, the memories of that embarrassing interview have stuck with me ever since. To be normal, I'd gathered, one had to have a daddy.... not having one was very abnormal, apparently.... And all my friends did.

I asked my mother at some point, relating what the policeman had said, and she had said that next time I should tell them that they were divorced... an explanation that I accepted though not without a grain of salt.

None of my peers knew what divorced meant.... I knew the definition but not the meaning of it, and that didn't help. I couldn't help but notice as I grew up that, in every house I visited, without fail, was a picture of a bride and groom in their wedding attire, hanging somewhere prominently.... A feature that I sought out every where I happened to visit, and one that was missing in our small living room.

How could they be divorced if they hadn't been married in the first place? Perhaps they just hadn't had any photos taken.... I rationalized... even at that tender age.

What does your father do? What is his name? Where is he? What does he drive?

For the next six or so years of Primary school, these were questions that were constantly asked... by teachers, fellow students and friends. They were questions that for the longest time made me squirm inside. Questions that I did not want to answer, more so as I grew older and wiser to the ways of the world... and the facts of life.

I attended a private school that my mum could hardly afford... One that she sacrificed a whole lot..... I only now realize, to put me through. All my peers were much more well off financially than we were. I knew because come closing day, the school being some three or so miles removed from the nearest town.... mine was the only parent who arrived by public transportation. This of course doesn't really mean anything... but then, it was just something else that further proved the fact that I was not like these other kids.

I hated to be different... not to fit in. But who doesn't. I compensated by building a complex... an inferiority one.

To me, as far as I could tell, the only reason we were not as well off as these other kids, was because I did not have a father. After all, it was their fathers that were bankers, senior managers, doctors, architects and business men. In my little mind... that was the missing part of the equation...

So, desperate to fit in, to be equal to the other kids, I at some point invented a Dad... based on a gentleman who was a friend of my mum's best friend, after he had taken us traveling for a weekend. He was everything I imagined a dad should be.... and he kept addressing me as 'sonny'.

Now I could dare show my face in class when the boys decided to compete on whose daddy was better than the other... Mine drove a Mercedes Benz, was The Managing Director of a great company in the capital city and took us to cool places, dined us at the best restaurants and drove us in his car.

**************************

I did eventually find out about my real father... one night when I was 16. Not much really, just the fact that though they had been friends, my parents had not been in love. He had chosen not to be in my life... whatever that means. I vowed to myself that I would never let my child grow up fatherless.... not if I was still alive.

Now.... close to twenty years later, I am back to wondering about my father. That vow I made is back to haunt me. Looks like I may soon have to come to terms with it. Who's to say that I will not make the same choices that he did. So I want to reverse that curse.... How am I going to do it? How does one go about being a father when the closest he's come to learning from one is when watching Cosby re-runs?

'It will come naturally,' Someone said.

I bet... just like it came to mine, and to all those psycho's we see every day in the news who abuse their own kids and drive them crazy.

"Oh! Don't worry about it..." Said another... "you are a great kid. You will make a great father."

Is that right? Great kids make great fathers? Maybe, but surely it must be after they've stopped being kids... coz I don't see them multi-tasking. I on the other hand feel and act a kid more now, than I did in my teens... or even as long as I can remember.

Perhaps they are right... But perhaps they are wrong. They are the same people who filled my head with all that BS about me being a bright kid... with a bright future.... going places and all.

Me I have learned not to believe these people who seem to have gotten fooled by my quiet demeanor.