I have known my former sister Caro — Mwisho wa Lami’s Ex-Minister for Misinformation, Miscommunication and Broadcasting Lies — for a long time. Since she follows me on the back, coming four years after I was born, we grew up together, with me practically raising her in her formative years.
In fact, we were very close until the day she left tea boiling, and left to go marry that useless man called Maskwembe — despite my repeated advice that he was nothing but a liability. I had great plans for Caro academically, and had even secured her a place at Maseno Polytechnic to study tailoring. But between school and Maskwembe, she chose the latter.
I know Caro through and through. I know what she can do, and what she cannot do. When we expelled her from the family, I expected her to fight back. And true to form, she did — she called us names, broadcast her grievances to everyone she met, and even reported us to Senje Albina and Apostle Elkana. We handled all that.
I told Apostle Elkana to keep off, and he did — fearing that if he was too hard on me, the sadaka basket might suffer. Senje Albina also came to plead Caro’s case, reminding me how important Caro was to the family.
I almost told her to get lost, but I restrained myself. Instead, for the first time in history, when she left, I gave her nothing — no shopping, no maize, no beans, not even boda fare. The message was clear: if Caro expected Senje Albina to fight for her, it would be at Caro’s cost. I wasn’t going to finance a rebellion.
A week later, Senje Albina called to apologise. She admitted that she hadn’t fully understood my position, and after careful consideration, she agreed that Caro indeed deserved full expulsion from the family.
“Even me, she has caused me a lot of pain,” she confessed. I quickly forgave her. Two days later, she called again to say her son was sick and needed Sh1,000. I sent her Sh300. We were back on good terms. With Caro’s attempts to rally Apostle Elkana and Senje Albina hitting a snag, and her rumours being ignored in the village and beyond, I was sure there was nowhere else left for her to run.
Her expulsion would stand. But last week, I received a letter from a lawyer. Yes — you read that correctly. An Advocate of the High Court! For the life of me, I never imagined Caro would go to a lawyer. In fact, I didn’t even think she knew what a lawyer was, let alone how to contact one.
On Thursday, while I was busy at school, a boda boda rider arrived asking for me. He said he had been sent, handed me an envelope, and immediately took a photo of me receiving it.
“I am an officer of the court,” he said. “I’ve just served you, and I took a photo of you receiving.” He even asked if I wanted to give an immediate response or if he should leave. It was not a court order, but a letter from a lawyer. Exerpts:
“I am writing to you on behalf of my client, Ms Caro Awinja, a Kenyan of sound mind and who is well known to you, and who has brought to our attention a major grievance against you, Mwalimu Andrew Esquire.
Early this month, together with other interested parties sitting under an unknown, amorphous and illegal organisation, The Central Management Committee, you unilaterally suspended our client from your family, thereby infringing on her constitutional rights that are clearly defined in Article 45(1) of the Kenyan Constitution 2010. Your ill-advised action also went against Article 36 that protects every Kenyan’s right to association.
Every Kenyan has the right to belong to a family, with the only qualification being birth or marriage. Our client, having been born into your family, has satisfied all the requirements to belong to your so-called family. It is a God given right that none of you can even contemplate playing with.
Secondly, during the purported suspension, due process was not followed. Our client was not given an opportunity to defend herself, thus infringing her fundamental rights of being heard. No witnesses were interviewed, nor were the minutes of the meeting where the illegal decision was made, shared with my clients, as the constitution would expect.
I need not tell you that your actions are punishable under the Penal Code, and you risk long-term imprisonment. But you don’t have to risk jail. I can help you avert this. Here is how:
Furnish my office with minutes of the meeting during which the purported expulsion took place,
Together with your other accused relatives, reconvene your so-called Central Management Committee, deliberate afresh, and immediately readmit our client, Caro Awinja, into the family, with immediate effect.
Failure to comply within one week will force me to take further legal action. Be informed that there are many options available to me, but I urge you to do the needful, so that you do not walk a path of no return.”
Friends, when I read that, I sat down. Caro, who once thought law was a cooking ingredient, was now engaging lawyers who were talking about “fundamental rights of belonging.” Mwisho wa Lami has truly entered a new season.
But this was not the first time I had received a letter from a lawyer. A few years ago, I received a letter from a lawyer asking that I pay child support and upkeep fees to Catherina, the mother of Branton.
The language of the letter I just read seemed to have been from the same lawyer who wrote to me years ago. That time, I had written back to the lawyer dismissing the letter with costs; he never responded, and the matter ended there. I did something more dramatic. I took the letter, tore it into pieces and dismissed the boda boda rider. Kama ni mbaya ni mbaya!
