When Fiolina—the lucky laugh of my life—made the decision to return to my arms, I felt grateful for her unconditional love, unwavering support, and impressive ability to tolerate me. I looked forward to a great life ahead. Moments when Fiolina truly connects with me are rare, so it was important to cherish them.
There were already clear and visible benefits: My clothes were being washed and ironed daily, breakfast was served in bed every morning, and lunch was organised. I enjoyed early, freshly cooked dinners every night, and there was more dinner after dinner, every day. In return, I committed to love her unconditionally, overlook any shortcomings, and support her in everything she does.
To facilitate this, I contracted Nyayo to take her to school every morning and bring her home every evening. Some days, I took her myself. People needed to know she was married—and they also needed to know who the husband was, so they would keep their distance. The one thing I committed to was overlooking any shortcomings.
However, I shouldn’t have taken that vow so seriously. I just didn’t know what it meant to support your spouse unconditionally. You already know that Fiolina had taken a significant loan and given it to Apostle Elkana, the spiritual superintendent of The Holiest of All Ghosts (THOAG) Tabernacle Assembly, Mwisho wa Lami Chapter. That loan reduced her salary to almost nothing, which is why I had to step in and finance her life.
It all started when, last Thursday, I received a call from a number I didn’t recognise. I was in class when my phone started ringing. Moments later, a text followed:
There are seasons when Fiolina loves me unconditionally, and others when I am clearly the most useless man on earth.
Photo credit: John Nyagah | Nation Media Group
I wondered what was so urgent that someone had to text. I don’t live in Nairobi; I live in the village. Any real emergency would reach me immediately—I wouldn’t need to be called. The caller kept calling even after I texted that I would call back. Eventually, I stepped out of class and answered.
“That’s my wife! What has happened to her?” I asked, my heart racing as I instinctively walked toward the motorcycle, ready to rush to her school.
“No, relax. Fiolina is okay,” he said calmly. “I’m calling from Afro Credit Services.”
I paused. He continued, “Your wife took a loan of Sh30,000 in December and listed you as the guarantor. We’ve been unable to recover the money from her, so now we’re following up with you.”
“I’m not aware she took any loan,” I began.
“Now you know, Mwalimu,” he cut me short. “And your name and number were provided. If Fiolina can’t pay, then you must pay.”
He went on to explain repayment options—either in full or in instalments over three months—and informed me that he had already sent me the M-Pesa Paybill and account number.
“Young man, what did you say your name was again?” I asked, still in shock.
“My name is not important,” he replied. “I am from Afro Credit. When will you start paying? It would be best if you cleared everything today.”
I was stunned. “How can you just call me and demand payment for a loan I didn’t know about—and didn’t take?”
“Mwalimu, speak to your wife. I’ll call you back in 10 minutes so you can tell me how you plan to pay.”
“Hello, my sunshine!” she said cheerfully. “How are you feeling this morning? I’ve missed you—we haven’t spoken for hours.”
“And how are you, dear? Kuna mtu amekuchokoza? I can deal with them,” I joked.
Fiolina was so happy, with a wide smile that reminded me of the old good days when life was good.
Photo credit: Nyagah | Nation Media Group
“I’ve received a call from a company called Afro Credit. They say you took a loan and used me as a guarantor. Is that true?”
“It’s a long story,” she replied. “We’ll talk in the evening. Don’t panic—we’ll sort it.”
Then, switching gears completely, she asked, “Have you eaten? I packed for you chapati and ndengu—you’ll enjoy.”
Moments later, the same caller rang again.
“Have you spoken to your wife?” he asked without greeting. “When are you starting to repay? Did you receive the M-Pesa Paybill?”
“I’ve talked to her. We’ll discuss in the evening. I’ll call you back,” I said.
“Mwalimu, that’s what Fiolina says every day—that you’ll discuss in the evening. So far, we’ve received nothing. Please call her again and agree on a payment plan. I’ll call you in 10 minutes.” He hung up.
By now, he was seriously getting on my nerves. I called Fiolina again.
“It was good,” I replied, then went straight to the point. “What kind of people did you borrow from? They have no respect. They keep calling me.”
“Wanakuanga tu hivyo,” she said casually. “Tell them to stop harassing you.”
“Be a man and tell them off,” she said, then disconnected.
“You need to leave me alone,” I told him.
“I wouldn’t be calling you if your wife hadn’t taken money from us. I have no interest in you—just pay and I’ll stop calling. When are you starting to pay?”
I hung up, but he kept calling.
“Why don’t you block the number?” Kuya suggested after I explained everything in the staffroom. “Mimi hawawezani na mimi!”
Ten minutes later, another unfamiliar number rang.
“Why are you blocking me?” the voice said. “I can always get you. I can even tell where you are now,” he said when I picked.
“Listen to me, do not call me again!” I thundered into the phone.
“I will not leave you until you pay,” he said. “Talk to your wife. I will call you tomorrow.” I also blocked that number.
That evening at home, Fiolina allowed me to discuss anything under the sun with her—except the loan. Whenever I tried to bring it up, she skillfully dodged the topic. On Friday, the same person began calling me incessantly. I literally couldn’t do anything with my phone. He kept calling continuously, switching to a new number every time I blocked him. I switched off my phone. Since I have two lines, yesterday, I decided to switch to the other one. I now understood why Kuya kept changing numbers. To my shock, the lender called my other number too.
“Unafikiria wewe ni mwerevu sana! We know you. We know everything about you. If you can’t pay, give us one of your motorcycles—we know all of them.”
I blocked him on all numbers and switched off my phone completely. Yesterday afternoon, I heard that my dad was looking for me. When I went to see him, he told me that the same person had called him, threatening that I would be jailed if the loan was not paid.
Mzee’s phone was also ringing every 10 minutes, piling pressure on him. Eventually, he switched it off too, just to get some peace. Meanwhile, Fiolina still wouldn’t let me discuss the matter. At this point, I’m considering starting to pay them just so we can have some peace. We can’t live like this.
