When I was called last week and informed that my sister Caro — Mwisho wa Lami’s immediate former Cabinet Secretary for Misinformation, Miscommunication and Broadcasting Lies — had once again been assaulted by her useless husband Maskwembe, I was very distraught.
And after taking her to the hospital in Mukumu, I knew I had to do something. I could not just let the matter pass. Not this time.
When I organised for Maskwembe to be taught a lesson he would remember all his life, I did it out of love for my sister.
When my attempt to teach Maskwembe that lesson failed, I was sad, but I did not give up.
I knew that God’s timing is always best, and with His guidance, there would be another opportunity to teach that useless man how to behave.
If the man is so interested in beating something every day, he can buy a drum and enjoy beating it. My sister Caro is not an isukuti .
Luckily for me, Nyayo and his strong friend — who unfortunately developed a cough at the wrong time — were not caught, and no one could tell who Maskwembe and his friend chased.
I also had escaped unnoticed, as no one saw me.
Meanwhile, Caro spent only two nights at Mukumu Hospital, and the next day she was brought to Mwisho wa Lami Dispensary, where she could be observed closely.
I have been visiting her every two days to check on her and encourage her. I wanted to start talking to her about life after the hospital, but I hesitated, with the doctor warning us not to discuss “tough things”.
I don’t know why I am calling that man a doctor — he was a student who failed KCPE at Mwisho wa Lami, disappeared to Nairobi, and returned calling himself a doctor just because he wears a white coat and has a stethoscope around his neck, an instrument he doesn’t even know how to use.
It seems the “strong person” who accompanied us to teach Maskwembe a lesson — the same man who could not even suppress a cough at a critical moment — was also not strong verbally.
He must have told one person that he had been contracted to discipline Maskwembe, and that he was happy the attempt failed and lucky to escape with his life.
The one person he told another, who told another, who told others. And the matter reached Caro.
Last Thursday, when I went to the hospital to visit Caro, I did not need a calculator to know that things had changed.
Just when I said I needed to leave, she asked Fiolina — the lucky laugh of my enviable life — to step out. She also asked Theophila, my sister Yunia’s son, who is always nearby, to leave.
“Bro, so unataka nikuwe mjane, sindio ?” she asked. I was taken aback. I asked who had been spoiling her mind.
“I know what you tried to do to my husband. I am a reporter, and I get to know everything.”
I could not deny it, and I told her I just wanted to teach Maskwembe a lesson.
“You wanted to kill my husband, bro? You wanted me to be a widow? What will you gain? Will you marry me?” she asked, trying to sit up despite being on machines.
Immediately, a nurse came in and asked her to calm down. “Please relax, Caro, I don’t want your pressure to go up.”
“I can’t believe my own brother would want my children to be orphaned.” She then said I should come so we can talk the next day, and they covered her head.
I really blamed Nyayo for bringing a weak man. Assignments like that need a strong person — physically, mentally, and verbally. How do you call yourself strong when you cannot even suppress a cough? That evening, I approached Nyayo and asked for a refund of my money.
“The assignment was not done, and you guys have let the story out!” I shouted. Nyayo said he would not refund, saying that if I was so unhappy, I should report the matter to the police. He knew I could not report.
The next day, I was surprised to see Fiolina around during lunchtime.
“I thought you would be in hospital with my sister,” I told her.
She informed me that although she wasn’t there, she had organised everything.
“Wewe enda huko ujionee mambo,” she added. I asked if there was anything I could take to Caro.
“No, she is fine. In fact, she can even eat hospital food.”
“Babe, kuja unikalishe ,” she said. I wondered who “babe” was. Immediately, Maskwembe came from the toilet and helped her sit upright.
It was an awkward moment seeing him in the room, helping her sit up. I wished the ground could open and swallow me, but such things only happen in dreams. There was an awkward silence for long.
“When did the doctor say you will be discharged?” I asked, to break the silence.
“Today. Babe — sorry, Maskwembe — is here to take me home.”
I stayed quiet, not wanting to ask further.
“No, no, I didn’t say that,” I answered, words failing me. “I just hope you’ll be safe.”
“Look bro, all marriages have problems. Yes, babe, here beat me, but the mistake I made was childish. I deserved to be beaten!” I was shocked to hear that.
“But he has asked for forgiveness, and I have forgiven him. I am returning to his home.”
“I know, sister, but surely you can’t be beaten every time. He might kill you one day!” I said.
“He cannot kill me. Babe was just disciplining me — that is what every husband does. He is not like some people who can send murderers to finish you.”
There was an awkward silence again, then the nurse came to say she was ready to be discharged. I left so they could dress up. I could hear giggles and laughter —
“Stop it Babe… ngoja tufike nyumbani … please, babe…” and other nonsense. They left ten minutes later, walking past me like I did not exist.
I washed my hands of Caro’s marriage completely. Maskwembe can do to her what he wants. It is their life. I will never come to her aid again.
