The strike came via a letter that I received from Fiolina’s father.
When we left each other here last Sunday, peace had finally returned to my household after the unfortunate “Battle of Breakfast” involving Fiolina and Catherine, the mother of Branton, who, as you all know, is my son who is not my son!
Fiolina had resumed her rightful position as Commander-in-Chief of my family, the Cabinet Secretary for Home Affairs, and, unfortunately, also my blood pressure.
Life had become beautiful again. Too beautiful. Enemies of development — and I suspect you, yes, you are one of them — were not happy. Every experienced married man knows that when life becomes too peaceful, danger is usually somewhere nearby doing warm-ups. It is just the nature of life that Satan uses bad actors to create problems and remove peace and tranquillity from people’s lives.
Mine came in the form of a letter.
You will all remember how I met Fiolina in 2012. Ours was a Simon Makonde story — only that Makonde’s story took seven days – ours took four. While visiting Senje Albina.
I met Fiolina on Monday, we called each other on Tuesday, she visited me on Wednesday, and by Thursday, we declared ourselves husband and wife.
Her family would learn that their daughter was married two weeks later. We needed to formalise the marriage. And no, we are not talking about weddings or marriage certificates. They needed dowry.
I dispatched Mwisho wa Lami world-renowned negotiators, who included my dad, Rasto, Alphayo, Hitler, Nyayo and Tito — with Alphayo, a retired Kenya Railways employee, leading the delegation.
Then Fiolina had nothing. She had apparently dropped out in form 2 from her village secondary school — a school with very few students, which has since collapsed.
What I mean is that education, when it was being distributed, did not reach their side.
Even in the village, I expected Fiolina, the lucky love of my envious life, to celebrate me.
From an exposure perspective, she scored zero, having never left her village her entire life.
I do not want to get into her dressing, including what she wore underneath, for I do not want to be accused of ridiculing people.
But I liked her for one thing: she was pure kienyeji — what we call mali safi. If coming from humble beginnings was a competition, Fiolina would have emerged first runners- up to poverty itself.
In me, she and her family met the most sophisticated, richest, most exposed, most handsome, best-dressed man.
So when Alphayo and team arrived in her village to negotiate dowry, they made it clear that we were doing the family a favour. They also made it clear to the family that, unlike Fiolina, their son — yours truly — had options.
In fact, there were many people lining up; all I needed to do was whistle, and chaos would erupt.
We got Fiolina on the cheap, even though it was still the most expensive dowry ever paid in our entire clans. My family complained that I accepted.
We lived happily ever after. Or so many thought.
I started working on my kienyeji project. I bought her new stylish clothes, took her first to Kakamega, then Nairobi, enrolled her for KCSE exams and coached her at home until she passed the paper, took her to Mosoriot TTC, where she was exposed more, and introduced her to things like salons, among others.
Her people were happy with me, and even when there were problems, they could overlook them and forgive me.
Plus, I was staying with her brother Tocla’s children, Honda and Electina. I could get away with a lot.
Trouble started when she completed Mosoriot TTC, when they started saying their stock had appreciated, without saying that I had appreciated it.
They wanted more dowry payments. Because dowry is rarely paid in full, whatever we agreed over a decade ago, I have been paying in instalments every three years – they wanted the amount we agreed reviewed upwards.
And when she got a TSC job — with my help — despite her spending all the money on her family, including building a house for her brother Tocla, the family started sending feelers that we should renegotiate. They never came out clearly, only sending tell-tale signs.
This is despite the fact that I have not even tasted any of Fiolina’s salary, despite her working for close to a year now. It was only the other week that I tasted matumbo bought from her salary.
Anyway, one of the reasons they never really pushed hard was because, in matters love and liking, Fiolina and I have not been in a good space the last few years. We are either quarrelling or recovering from a quarrel.
I broached the subject with Fiolina, the lucky laugh of my enviable life, without disclosing the plans I have for her in December.
So when they heard that things were now good between us, and that love was in the air, they decided to strike.
The strike came via a letter that I received from Fiolina’s father. The letter was addressed to my father, but through me. Fiolina’s father never stepped into school, except the day he took Fiolina there, and could not write a letter.
But this was a long letter appreciating me for living peacefully with his daughter — of course, we know he was being economical with the truth there.
He went on to say that they were happy with Fiolina’s transformation and were inviting me to visit the family, accompanied by the same delegation that had visited them the first time.
He added that the purpose of the visit would be to cement the relationship, explore opportunities to deepen it, appreciate the different families, and recognise the increasing value of our marriage.
He even suggested a date when we should visit: Saturday, 30th May.
Mzee may not have spoken those words; whoever wrote them may have hidden them cleverly, but I needed no calculator to know what they were asking: A renegotiation of the dowry.
Everybody, even unborn children, knows that dowry cannot be renegotiated. I did not even consult my father or the wazee. I wrote back to them myself.
I did not go into many words. I did not make any promises, nor did I even suggest a new date. But basically, I told him to go to hell without telling him to go to hell.
And I added that I would not entertain any discussion around dowry.
The only discussion I could consider having is me being appreciated — for building Fiolina and for the support I had given the family.
And that I could ask for a refund, but I did not.
Ng’oo! I will not renegotiate dowry.
Of course, Fiolina— one she got to learn about my response — was angry, and she has been sulking ever since.
I am not afraid that she could leave me; she cannot. For she knows she can be replaced in a flash!
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