Fiolina wasn’t at school when I arrived, nor was she in the house. I called several times, but there was no answer.
When I did everything I could to get Fiolina out of the dungeons of Kakamega Police Station, it was because of the deep love I have for her. While ours is a marriage of many ups and downs — no pun intended — the last few weeks had actually been amazing, barring her refusal to talk about her loan situation.
As you know, since the term began, she refused to live in the house I rented for her near her workstation. Instead, she has been living at home, taking care of me and all my many needs. So those three nights she slept in the cell were very difficult days.
The first night was bad — very bad — because I did not know where she was. But at least I thought she had gone somewhere and would come back later. The second and third nights were worse, because now I knew she was in police cells. That is not a hotel; it is a difficult place. What if someone harmed her? I kept worrying and did not sleep a wink.
That is why I worked so hard to get money to get her out of those police cells. I expected her to be very happy with my swift action — to thank me, to hug me, to appreciate me. Wapi!
Great meal
As you remember, the first thing she did was abuse the creditors — an action that nearly got her returned to the cells — but we handled the situation. When we got home, I went to Hitler’s, leaving her at home.
When I returned later on, looking forward to a great meal followed by a greater meal, to my shock, Fiolina was not around, and there were signs she had packed quite a number of things. When she had been arrested, I had told her folks of the ordeal, and I wasn’t very worried if she went there — they would be on my side, especially after I had bought Tocla, her brother, something at Hitler’s. I made a few calls and established that she had gone to her working station.
My attempt to talk to her bore no fruit, making me learn a new word — she was blue-ticking me. Not responding to my messages. Not picking my calls. Even when I used a different number, she declared a “network problem” as soon as she realised it was me.
I knew we would be talking within a few days, but by Monday evening, she was still ignoring me, still giving me the silent treatment. I could not just sit and wait. So come Tuesday afternoon, I rode my bod boda to her place. She wasn’t at school when I arrived, nor was she in the house. I called several times, but there was no answer. I then texted her that I was at the door waiting.
“What do you want?” was the curt response.
I told her I had come to see her.
“I don’t want you to see me. Go back home.”
That was the most painful SMS I had ever received from my wife in the many years we have been together. She is my wife, and I pay rent for the house she stays in. On top of that, I bought all the major things in that house and send her upkeep money regularly. How could she say she did not want to see me?
“Me, I want to see you,” I fired back.
“You will see me, but not today, please, dear,” she answered.
Using the word dear meant she was softening.
“I want to see you today, dear,” I replied. An hour later, there was no response, although I could see her online.
It was about 5pm. I could not just wait at her door. So I went to the nearest equivalent of Cosmos. It was called Terminal Two, the place had different colours of bulbs, making it difficult to tell night from day. That is why I was shocked to realise it was well past 9pm.
I went and knocked on Fiolina’s door.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“What do you want, Dre?” she responded when I identified myself. “I told you I don’t want to see you. How difficult is it to understand that?”
“It is not difficult to understand,” I said. “It is just not easy to accept.”
I reminded her how people had been robbed of their motorcycles at night.
“Please open, even if I will just sleep on the sofa. I will go back tomorrow morning.”
There was no response.
Later, she opened the door without saying a word.
Drinking alcohol
When I sat at the table, she went to the kitchen, warmed some food for me, and brought it. She then asked if I would shower and prepare the bathroom for me.
I felt at home — being far away from home, with her. After showering, I went to join her in bed. I thought she would resist. To my surprise, she did not. In fact, she turned toward me and moved closer to hold me.
“What is that you are smelling? Alcohol?” she asked. “You went drinking alcohol, Dre?”
“I just took a little,” I answered. “Not a lot.”
“That is not the issue. You were drinking, and you know very well I cannot stand that smell,” she said.
I was dumbfounded.
“Since when?” I asked. I was genuinely confused because in December and even the better part of January, I had been drinking without any problem.
“And what did you expect me to do when you did not open the door early enough?” I snapped.
“I can’t believe you can talk to me like that,” she continued. “I cannot sleep with a drunkard.”
She got out of bed, dressed warmly, and went to the sitting room. There she lay on the sofa, covering herself with the Maasai shawl in the house.
But I could see she was on her phone.
And when I WhatsApped her, she did not respond.
She woke up early the next morning, singing gospel songs and prepared breakfast for me. When I woke up, she had already prepared my clothes for that day. I went to school in Mwisho wa Lami and came back.
Same story. Everything done for me — but not a single word said to me. And no response to any of my messages.
I have been coming back every day, and she has been taking care of me — but no talking to me.
For those who have ever lived with someone who is physically present but emotionally distant, you will understand what I mean. It is easier to fight. It is easier to shout. Even anger has sound. But silence? Silence is a different kind of punishment. Those of you with a diploma in women's studies, what could be the problem, and how do I get out of this situation?
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