Jacob Maunda aka Shatta Bway is a radio host with Nation FM and an events organiser.
When Jacob Maunda aka Shatta Bway lost his wife, Rebecca Naolan Lekuton, to long-suffered liver complications in 2023, he was just 31 years old. Shatta, a famed radio presenter became a young widower and a single father to two children.
At his wife’s burial, standing before her grave, with two children watching, he made a promise that would shape the rest of his life; he would be both their father and mother.
Almost three years on, that promise still wakes him every morning. Talking to Buzz, Shatta, a host of the #RockersNation show on Nation FM, gives an account of the experience.
“For nearly two years before my wife passed on, our lives moved to the rhythm of hospital admissions.
At first, it did not seem final. She had a liver condition, and we would go to the hospital, she would stabilise, come home, and we would try to return to normal. The medication that was meant to help her sometimes placed more strain on her liver. So it became a cycle. We would stay home for three months, then go back to the hospital. Then three months became one. One month became two weeks.
Eventually, I began to notice that the time at home was shrinking while the time in the hospital was stretching.
There is one week I will never forget. She was discharged on a Thursday. We went home and stayed together for only a few hours that evening. By Friday morning, we were back in the hospital. From that day, she never came home again.
Her passing was not sudden. But when it came, it still felt like the ground had opened beneath my feet.
She left me with two children, Jaheim and Riley. Today they are 15 and 11 eight years old. They were 12 and eight years old when they lost their mum.
And from the moment she took her last breath, I knew one thing clearly: I would not remarry. I would raise them myself.
Jacob Maunda aka Shatta Bway is a radio host with Nation FM and an events organiser.
That decision did not begin in that hospital room. It began in my childhood.
I grew up in a polygamous family. My father was polygamous. His father was polygamous. Most of my uncles were the same. Many of my brothers have second wives. It was not unusual. It was cultural.
But for me, it was painful.
As a child, I experienced two very different worlds under the same father. I remember living in a furnished apartment in Nairobi; electricity, sofa sets, a television, and running water from the tap. Then my mother moved upcountry. My father, because of work, remained in Nairobi with another wife.
The change was drastic.
We moved into a mud house. There were no proper beds, no proper seats, no electricity, no running water. Nothing. The beds we slept on were made from sisal stems. We cut branches, dug holes in the ground inside the house, and laid the stems across to form makeshift frames. Our clothes became mattresses. You would wake up in the morning and ask, “Has anyone seen my jeans?” only to realise they were part of the bedding. There was no iron box to straighten them.
Some mornings, there was no food. No money. If you went to the shop to ask for sugar on credit, people would look at you in disbelief because they knew your father’s name. How can a child from that family ask for Sh15’ worth of sugar on loan? My father was then a veteran journalist, broadcaster, and musician.
My wife’s last words to me
At night, homework was done by firelight because there was no paraffin for a lamp. My mother would light firewood in the kitchen so I could use the flames to read and write.
In Class Six, we were asked to write an insha — a letter to our father. I wrote honestly about my life. I described going to school barefoot, wearing torn clothes, and lacking basic things. My teacher gave me 38 out of 40. My mother folded the composition carefully, placed it in an envelope, and sent it to my father.
I never forgot that moment.
What stayed with me was not just the poverty. It was the difference. I had siblings in Nairobi, children of the same father, living comfortably. We were in the same grade. But our realities were worlds apart.
I never told my father how I felt. My mother would not allow me to raise issues. She was protective of him, polite, quiet. So I kept everything inside.
That silence is what I now call trauma.
So when my wife passed on, I asked myself: What if I remarry? What if my children one day feel neglected? What if they go through something painful and do not have the voice to tell me?
Because I did not have that voice.
I cannot allow my children to experience what I experienced. I walked so that they could run.
Jacob Maunda aka Shatta Bway is a radio host with Nation FM and an events organiser.
After my wife’s burial, I discovered something else. When tragedy strikes, people surround you. They attend the funeral. They cry with you. They promise to be there. Then, slowly, they disappear.
After the burial is when grief truly begins.
That is when you wake up and realise there is no mum in the kitchen. No one is preparing uniforms. No one is calling the children to breakfast. You stand in that silence and understand that your family is now “less”.
I did not have the luxury of collapsing or not being a functional father.
My wife’s last words to me in the hospital were simple: “Let me rest. You go take care of the children.” At her burial, I repeated that promise aloud. From that day, I took on the role of father and mother without hesitation.
Have I grieved? Honestly, no.
There has never been time. I know it sounds unhealthy, but life did not pause for me. If I had allowed myself to sink into grief, I believe I would have failed my children. So I kept moving.
My day starts at 5am.
By the time Jaheim and Riley wake up, I am already up. They prepare for school. We have breakfast. By 5.50am, we leave the house. We had to move from our old home because it carried too many memories. But I did not transfer them from school. They were already candidates under CBC, and I did not want to disrupt their stability.
By around 6.20am, I drop them off at school.
I return home around 7am. I try to sleep, but real rest rarely comes. By 10am, I am usually up again. I go to the gym within the estate. I train for about an hour. Sometimes I swim. Then I prepare for the day’s work."
Beyond my evening radio show, I record podcasts, attend meetings, and create content as an influencer. By 3pm or 4pm, I wrap up and head back to go pick them from school. By 4.50pm, they are done. We reach home around 5.45pm.
Homework comes first. Then showers. My son plays football, so sometimes I take him to the pitch. I am a trained football coach, so I train him briefly before leaving the academy coaches to continue.
By 6.30pm, I am on my way to work. My show starts at 8pm. At exactly 8.30pm, I step out of the studio to call home. I confirm they have eaten. I ensure they are in bed by 9pm, unless Arsenal is playing and they beg to watch.
I finish at midnight. I drop my deejay. I get home around 1am. After hours of playing music, my mind cannot immediately shut down. Sometimes I watch a movie. Before I know it, it is 4am. Then 5am comes, and we begin again.
Weekends revolve around their activities; football academy, dance classes, and church on Sunday. Cousins visit. If there is a school break, we travel to Mombasa, sometimes Dubai. I am determined that they will see the world differently from how I saw it at their age.
Jacob Maunda aka Shatta Bway is a radio host with Nation FM and an events organiser.
One blessing in this journey has been an aunt who remained. She bonded with my children. When my daughter got her first period, I had done my research. I knew the information. But I understood that some conversations require a woman’s voice. I referred her to the aunt for guidance.
My children have also become protective of me.
When fans approach for photos, they move closer. They insert themselves into the space. I observe their reactions carefully. I know they are not ready to share me. For that reason, I have never initiated a conversation about bringing someone new into our lives.
There is also fear.
The thought of going through this kind of loss again terrifies me. And there is another truth I have discovered: when a man begins to enjoy his own company, he guards it fiercely. There is peace in solitude. It is not about promiscuity. It is about quiet.
Yet every night, when I switch off the bedroom light, I think of her. Nearly three years later, I still feel as though she is present. Sometimes I feel like she is in the closet in that darkness. I do not fear it. I embrace it.
I met her when I was 17. I had just finished high school. I was trying to pursue music, but it was not taking off. I owned a movie shop. She walked in to buy a film. We talked. Soon she began bringing me tea in a flask. It became routine.
She resembled my mother in some ways. My mum was unwell at the time and passed away a few months later. Her mother had also passed. We were young and carrying grief, even then.
When I gave her my music to listen to, she returned the next day and said, “You sing like an angel.” She believed in me before anyone else did.
We married young — 18. When she told me she was pregnant, she said, “Let’s do this.” She supported every dream I had. When I directed stage plays, she suggested rehearsals happen at home to save money. She cooked for the cast. She was gifted in the kitchen.
When I wanted to run for MCA at 23, she moved upcountry with me. “Go campaign,” she would say. “In the evening, come with your team. I will feed you.” She was my ride or die.
But when fame came, things changed.
The man she married evolved into a public persona. I became known. Attention increased. There were new pressures. I do not think I handled that transition well. I did not reintroduce myself to her as the man I was becoming. She fell in love with Maunda. Then Shatta emerged, a version owned by the public. Perhaps she felt displaced.
If I knew then what I know now, I would have courted her afresh.
Not everyone celebrated my rise. When she passed on, I knew some people were waiting for me to fail. In public life, failure trends faster than resilience. If I had spiralled into depression, it would have been news. So I focused on structure. On discipline.
I also poured energy into the community.
Where we live is not far from the ghetto. I spend time there. I have a programme I call “Hustle Mtaani.” I sit with young people. I listen. We talk about opportunities they may not see. I gather their stories. When I go on air, I speak from a place of understanding.
Ironically, I feel safest there. The ghetto protects me. If danger were to come, I believe it would come from elsewhere.
Sometimes I think about grief. I know one day, when my children are older, perhaps 18, in university, I will sit down and allow myself to feel everything I postponed. I will soak it in.
But for now, my promise stands.
Every 5am wake-up. Every school drop-off. Every late-night phone call from the radio studio. Every football training session. Every dance rehearsal. Every holiday. Every quiet moment in the dark.
There is no plan B.
I may not be perfect. I may be failing in ways I cannot see. But I show up. Every single day.
And until my children are fully grown, that is enough.”
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