Who will protect our old widowed dads?
Shakedown artists still demand a pound of this saint’s ailing flesh.
My father is a widower. He lives in Got Regea, North Gem, Siaya County. He has early onset dementia. We’re taking it one “sufficient-grace” day at a time. No worries. God’s got this.
Last week, Roy, who lives in the homestead neighbouring ours, hassled my father out of a roll of barbed wire I’d bought. David, (the young man I employed to look after my father), tried to stop Roy to no avail.
Roy gave my father pocket change and took the barbed wire, amidst David’s protests.
Such abuses never happened when mama was alive. A father is the head of the family. But a mother is the helmet that protects the head from concussions.
The art of the shakedown
Last year, we stopped an uncle who attempted to sell our tree to a lumberman. He lied to pops that he’d sold the tree for pittance, while he brokered it for a king’s ransom.
And then there are relatives and opportunistic widows who, knowing my father’s generous disposition – plus the date he gets his pension – flood his humble homestead with shakedown stories.
It’s tormenting, y’all. Whenever my father goes to Siaya to collect his Sh6,000 cash transfer for the elderly, merciless swindlers clean him up with pumice stones.
The types who cause me righteous indignation are some – I repeat, some – village clergy from a church my father swore never to leave. Since the 60s, pop’s paid his tithes. And offerings. And every single collection in every Collections Book. And then some. Yet some shakedown artists still demand a pound of this saint’s ailing flesh.
Sigh. What would Jesus do?
Tosspots in a chang’aa den near our homestead are also doing numbers on my father. They take advantage of his failing mental state, conning him to pay for liquor they’ve guzzled on credit, sometimes to the tune of 500 bob.
Here’s the whole truth and nothing but. My father has been a teetotaller all his life.
Me? I have no qualms with anyone’s drinking habits. Do you, dude. You want to drink like Mr. Kanyua Njohi? Be my guest. But don’t drag and drown an old man into a cesspool you’ve dug with your own lips.
Two cents’ worth
It would be remiss of me to moan about problems, and not provide suggestions to remedy the situation. So? I’ll give my two cents’ worth.
On the issue of welfare money, I suggest to Governor James Orengo that it be done on case-to-case basis. For those like my father, instead of giving them cash, buy them dry foods and other items like soap and toiletry. If need be, part of that money should be deducted for the National Hospital Insurance Fund (NHIF).
Some old folks can’t travel for long distances. Others lack fare. Instead of them coming all the way to Siaya, make arrangements for the cash and items to be delivered to their homesteads. Delivery should be witnessed and signed by the primary caregiver and social worker.
Governor, I suggest you ask social workers to make frequent and unscheduled welfare checks on our jodongo. They should also document all their property; from toothpicks to trees.
It’s simple math, really. Welfare cheques minus welfare checks (and balances) equals almost zero wellbeing.
Providence
Several weeks ago, I told y’all how our house in Nairobi’s Jericho Estate sheltered relatives and family friends. In the 80s, a young university student named Elisha was a temporary sleepover guest in our house.
Elisha Odhiambo is now the Member of Parliament for Gem Constituency.
Cosmic fluke? Nope. Providence? Yeah. Heaven, yeah.
Jatelo, kindly provide our old men with shelter and security from psychological and economic abuse, as well as other vicissitudes of old-age life. I am not asking for handouts; but leg-ups. Not shillings, but sound policies.
Nyalore. It can be done. Let’s do this.
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