As you all remember, last week, Yunia, my elder sister, whom we grew up knowing to be our deputy mother, unexpectedly sent her son, Theophilas, to stay with me without any prior warning or communication. Although I was against the idea, I decided to calm down and take care of the boy.
As a teacher and a respected member of society, part of my job is to mentor people, especially young ones. And as the wise women say, charity begins at home. If I can't coach and mentor my own blood, how am I expected to mentor the sons and daughters of other Mwisho wa Lami men and women? Theophilas is our blood. At the height of the Gen Z revolt last year, I attended a seminar on coaching young people. I learned many things about mentoring, the most important being the need to befriend them. That is why I decided that the best way to mentor Theophilas and change him was to bring him closer to me.
Once I failed to convince my sister that the boy should go back home, I decided to implement my plan for the week. I started arriving from work early. I would get home, and we would, with Theophillas, take a walk along the green streets of Mwisho wa Lami, talking.
Initially, it was mostly me talking, with the boy giving only yes and no answers. It was clear he had a strained relationship with others, and unless I came to his level, we would never move forward. To win him over, I had to show that I cared. On one of our walks, we passed by a shop where I bought him a new Arsenal T-shirt. Holding a new Arsenal T-shirt made him smile. From that day, he started speaking—albeit not much. But our walks did not sit well with Fiolina, the laugh of my life.
"Who do you think you are, Dre?" she asked one evening when we arrived home. "The two of you—arriving, taking a walk, and coming back expecting to find food ready. Who do you think is preparing that food?"
I did not answer her immediately, but later, I tried to convince her of my plan to change the boy. I told her it would take time.
"This is not a hotel, Dre. The boy thinks he is staying in a hotel," she said, complaining that he doesn’t help with chores, wakes up late, doesn’t even spread his bed, and doesn’t clean his room, what kind of boy is he?”
During our next walk, I asked the boy why he didn’t help with work at home. Having bought him an Arsenal T-shirt the day before, he was ready to speak. He said that back home, his mother did everything.
"I don’t know how to cook or wash utensils. That’s women’s work," he said.
I wanted to tell him it wasn’t just women’s work, but then I realised I couldn’t remember the last time I stepped into the kitchen nor did some work there myself. I asked him if he was ready to learn, and he said he was. Having opened up to him, he also asked if he could learn how to ride a motorcycle. I agreed to teach him—on condition that he helped around the house. He started waking up early and joining Fiolina in the kitchen. The boy was green in these matters, and in the initial days, Fiolina complained that he was actually making work more difficult. But I told her to be patient. The boy had never done this before. Every evening, he reminded me about my promise to teach him how to ride a motorcycle.
Last Sunday, after church, I carried him on the motorcycle and took him to a lonely part of Mwisho wa Lami, on a rarely used road. There, I started giving him lessons on how to ride a motorcycle. Although the boy struggles with classroom work, when it came to motorcycles, he was a quick learner. In just half an hour, he was able to balance well and ride a short distance. Within an hour, he was able to change gears smoothly and ride for longer stretches. For the rest of the afternoon, I taught him how to carry passengers properly. By the end of the lesson, he was the one who carried me back home—skillfully and carefully.
He was so excited about learning to ride that he properly helped Fiolina with kitchen work that evening. Even then, Fiolina was not satisfied.
"Kama Theophilas hataki kunisaidia, awache ," she told me. "The boy's mind is never in the kitchen, even as he pretends to help. Unless he learns how to cook, he is not being helpful in any way." I told her young people’s minds have never settled.
"Let’s take it slowly. He has to learn," I told her.
"What if I am away? Who will cook? Now that he can only wash utensils?" she asked. I almost told her to just say if she didn’t want Theophilas around, but I held back.
That Sunday evening, Theophillas asked me if he could take me to school the next morning. I accepted. He woke up very early, and after helping Fiolina in the kitchen, he carried me on the motorcycle to school. It was a good feeling—being carried, as I arrived in style. When we arrived, he wanted to return home with the bike and even asked what time he should come to pick me up. I told him that I wouldn’t allow to go back riding the bike alone, but that he should walk back home, and later in the evening, walk to come pick me. He left, reluctantly.
Taking me to and from school really excited Theophillas, and as such he is now helpful with home chores. Even Fiolina has acknowledged this. In short, I have, in two weeks, managed to transform Theophillas from a brat to a dutiful, respectful boy. Something Yunia couldn’t do for 20 years.
