As the country was busy responding to police brutality — which led to the loss of a colleague in the profession, Albert Ojwang — I was unable to join this national fight properly. I was dealing with another injustice of momentous proportions.
If you remember, two weeks ago, I received a letter from my father-in-law, though Fiolina, the lucky laugh of my envious life, prefers that I call him my father, or if I must add something, my father-in-love. I decline the request. In fact, based on what happened when we met, father-in-laugh suits him really well.
Ostensibly, the agenda of the meeting was to inform me that they expected me to visit them one of these days, and that they would be reopening my book at their place. For those in the financial sector, they were saying that Fiolina’s stock had appreciated—and not only were they keen to earn more dividends, they also wanted to cash in on the stock.
I was not going to take this lying down. I realised I needed a panel consisting of Danstan Omari, Cliff Ombeta and Nelson Havi if I had any chance of winning this case. Since I could not reach all three, I assembled a bench far more potent than the above—one that could meet Fiolina’s side head-on.
As Nairobi was burning on Tuesday, I hosted a retinue of eminent elders and minds at my home. Leading the team was Alphayo, a renowned marriage negotiator of many years; Rasto, a bride price financial expert; Hitler, a customary anthropologist; Tito, a jack of all ancient trades and master of no modern marriage procedures. Also present was Nyayo, a renowned disruptor of events—more potent than Gaucho—and his wife Anindo, who specialises in accompanying marriage parties.
I did not include my father as he is wishy-washy, not knowing which side to support: at times leaning toward Fiolina’s side; other times remembering I am his son. You don’t go to war with such people.
“We need to prepare a proper defence ahead of the visit to Fiolina’s family,” I said when I started the meeting and went on to inform them of the contents of the letter Fiolina’s father had written to my father—a letter I tore into pieces.
“Dowry has never been renegotiated. We have no such precedent in our cultural statutes,” declared Senior Counsel Alphayo. “In all the years I’ve been alive, this has never happened. Not even before I was born—my grandfather would have told me.”
“If a man feels like adding something on top of what was agreed, he can do so, though it is discouraged,” he added, shaking his head. “And even then, it should be done through other means—not as dowry. They can send money or buy gifts to the wife’s family.”
“And Dre has done more than just that,” said Tito.
“It is true,” I said. “Just last week, I bought Fiolina’s father a suit and shoes. The other month, I sent him money for—”
“Stop it right there,” Alphayo interrupted. “Does anyone have a pen?” he asked. He then ordered Tito, the owner of the perennial Busy Bee Academy, to start recording everything. “We need to document each and every coin you’ve spent on your in-laws. We must be prepared for this important event. Watajua hawajui .”
With guidance from Alphayo, Rasto, and Hitler, Tito went ahead to list everything I had done that directly benefited Fiolina’s family. Among others, the list included:
How I upgraded Fiolina from a village, uneducated girl to a sophisticated modern lady by taking her to Mosoriot TTC, helping her get a job at Mwisho wa Lami School, another job in Kakamega, and now, a proper TSC job. I had also exposed her by taking to her to Nairobi and other places, and dressing magnificently.
With the help of Tito, we calculated every coin I had spent on school fees and upkeep for Tocla’s two daughters—Electina and Honda. When the total amount was computed, I now understood why my sister Yunia never liked this arrangement. She said I was wasting money on other people when I could have spent it on her. The money was even more than the dowry I had paid.
We tabulated every gift I had given Fiolina’s parents: dresses, suits, shoes, maize (every year), money, mobile phones, airtime, shopping money—literally everything. When the full list was done, I wondered whether I work for myself or I work for them. Thank God my father was not there; he would have left the meeting angry.
It was clear Fiolina’s parents had benefited from me more than he had. Even Rasto wasn’t happy and said: “If my son is doing this to Wairimu’s parents and leaving me to suffer, the boy deserves a thorough beating!”
“All children of today are like that, including my son Kizito,” said Alphayo. “He treats the parents of his wife better than he treats me. I can’t believe it.”
Hitler looked at Tito, who said nothing—for it was clear the claim wasn’t true. For those new in Damascus—sorry, Mwisho wa Lami—Sandra, Tito’s wife, is Hitler’s eldest daughter. Tito is the meanest man you’ll ever meet.
Other than educating his children, I also supported Tocla in many other areas. I gave him a job when my house was under construction. He knew nothing about construction—he was just there to earn money. I bought him lots of alcohol at Hitler’s and other places for years. I even helped him buy a motorcycle that didn’t last three months.
I enumerated the many times I had been called to send money because Fiolina’s parents were sick. Thank God I had many M-Pesa messages—it was easy to tabulate. Alphayo and Rasto just shook their heads, wondering why they had never thought of getting money from their sons-in-law.
Beyond gifts, I had also been there for Fiolina’s family. When their house was struck by lightning, I helped rebuild it. I fenced their compound. I helped Fiolina’s mother start a paraffin business, which was thriving until electricity arrived in their village.
“Thanks Dre for all this information,” said Alphayo. “We need two days for Tito to work through it and calculate all you’ve done for Fiolina’s family.” He added that we should all go to Hitler’s place to drown our heads after a long day’s work.
“I’m just wondering,” said Rasto, “if Dre had not married, or hadn’t spent what he has on his in-laws—he’d be a very rich man!”
“You’re absolutely right,” added Nyayo. “He’d be the richest man in Mwisho wa Lami and beyond. Ukiomba Dre pesa kila wakati ana sema hana—kumbe pesa yote imeenda kwa kina Fiolina. Nimeshangaa !”
We were now at Hitlers’, and they had already ordered a bottle—fully knowing that I would pay. I paid for their drinks that day and the next. But I did not mind, as they had really helped me prepare to meet Fiolina’s parents.
Through my father, we responded to my father-in-laugh’s letter, telling him to let us know the day we can visit. We are ready for that visit! They will not believe it!
