Every year, as sure as the sun rises in the East and sets in the West, my sister Caro — Mwisho wa Lami’s immediate former Cabinet Secretary for Misinformation, Miscommunication and Broadcasting of Lies — quarrels with her husband Maskwembe and seeks refuge back home.
I have checked all the years she has been married, and I can confidently report that there is no single year she hasn’t returned home. You all know how it happens.
In the first week, she is very angry, calling Maskwembe a dog, among many other terrible names, vowing never to go back to her marriage.
By the second week, her heart softens. She says she can only go back if he apologises, agrees not to beat her again, not to abuse her, and to treat her with care.
By the third week, she claims she has spoken to Maskwembe, has forgiven him — but she sets a condition: she will not leave until Maskwembe brings some four-legged creatures to our home. And she will be adamant, even telling us she has already chosen the cows, and that she will only return after the cows are delivered. Her departure time is determined by the number and quality of the cows.
“Akileta ng’ombe mzuri, I will return the very day, but zikiwa wasiwasi , I will delay the journey kidogo.”
Except for this year — when Maskwembe brought cows that turned out to be stolen — Caro usually returns to her condemned husband without him paying anything. I deliberately call him condemned because it is true — he is condemned, and no right-thinking person would return to such a man. As you know, we cut all communication with Caro, warning her that if anything happens to her, we will not be held responsible.
But whoever said that blood is thicker than water is right. Despite me swearing that I would never rescue Caro again, given that she has repeatedly ignored our advice about Maskwembe, this week I found myself doing everything I had sworn not to do.
It started when I was busy at Hitler’s doing what I do best during long school holidays. My phone was charging in Hitler’s house, and Hitler’s Sandra came to tell me that my phone was ringing off the hook. I called back. It was a call from the dispensary telling me to rush there urgently — someone was very sick.
I couldn’t imagine who it would be, but I left immediately and went.
She was lying there, not moving, not speaking.
I did not need a calculator to know she had been beaten. I did not require a mathematical table to know who had beaten her. Her face was swollen with bruises, her hands bore marks of struggle, she could barely open her eyes, and her attempts to speak were futile because she couldn’t open her mouth properly.
The dispensary said they could not handle her condition and requested that she be transferred. I moved with speed. I called Maina, the hardware owner, and using his car, we ferried Caro to Mukumu Hospital for treatment. We travelled with Fiolina — the lucky laugh of my enviable life.
There was a long queue at Mukumu Hospital, but I used my sweet language to have her seen by a doctor quickly. As soon as this happened, I left Mukumu, leaving Caro in the good hands of Fiolina. I wanted to go back and hunt down Maskwembe.
“Look for one strong person — kuna kazi,” I ordered. He asked for details, but I told him only: “Kuna mtu we need to deal with.”
I kept checking on Caro’s condition through Fiolina. She kept updating me, even telling me Caro was now able to speak. I was extremely happy with her — because at that time, she and Caro are not on speaking terms. Okay — is there even a time they have never been on speaking terms?
“I need you alert,” I said.
He wondered why, but he told me he was already at Hitler’s. “Sijakunywa sana,” he assured me.
When I arrived home, I called him. He was anxious to know the assignment, but I told him to relax.
We took some weapons — two rungus and one panga — fastened them on Nyayo’s motorcycle and left for Hitler’s, where we intended to take a glass or two as we waited for darkness.
That must be the height of madharaua — you beat a woman, and you go to their village for entertainment!
As soon as darkness settled, we left. We rode the boda boda and parked it at a small restaurant. Before we left, Nyayo and the strong young man he had brought asked what the assignment was — or rather, who the assignment was.
“It is Maskwembe,” I said. “My stupid brother-in-law.”
“Unataka tumalize yeye, ama unataka tu alama?”
“Don’t finish him,” I said. “Just give him alama kubwa, something he will remember for the rest of his life.”
Nyayo nodded confidently, saying that this was an area he had deep experience in. Then we discussed costs. After we agreed, he asked for a deposit.
“Kama hakuna deposit narudi nyumbani ,” he warned.
We passed a few homesteads and reached Maskwembe’s place. The compound was dark, silent, and without a single sign of life. We went to the village drinking den, but there was still no sign of Maskwembe. We returned to his home again. Nyayo insisted he would definitely return.
We hid in the thickets by the roadside, ready to pounce.
Half an hour later, we heard footsteps approaching. It was very dark, and Nyayo whispered confidently that it was Maskwembe. Just as they were about to reach us, the young man Nyayo had brought began coughing uncontrollably — a loud, dry, village cough.
The two men chased after Nyayo and his coughing assistant, who disappeared deeper into the village. Since I had not been seen, I remained hiding in the thicket for some time as the chase continued. After about 20 minutes, I quietly walked back to the restaurant, started my motorcycle, and went home.
Nyayo arrived back in Mwisho wa Lami two hours later and came to see me, saying he was sorry for bringing an immature boy to such an important mission.
“We are lucky to be alive,” he said.
I told him it was Maskwembe who was lucky to be alive— and that I would still find another way of dealing with him.
