Anyone who has undergone an ordeal like the one I experienced in that Shakahola place in Nakuru – I am not even sure if it was really in Nakuru – will tell you that such an experience takes a toll on your body, mind, and soul.
They will also tell you that recovering from such an ordeal takes a long time, and for one to recover; they need true and undivided tender loving care.
I must commend the lucky laugh of my life, Her Majesty Fiolina, for having given me tender loving care from the time I was in the hospital and when I came home.
As the most known teacher in Mwisho wa Lami, word about my disappearance and subsequent appearance spread far and wide. As such, as soon as word spread that I was back, everyone wanted to visit.
I am sure my sister Caro had a lot to do with the spread of news about my ordeal and return. As such, we had a steady stream of visitors from morning to evening.
I would wake up a little late, that is 9am, to find visitors already at my home, seated in the sitting room, waiting to hear my ordeal. Long-lost friends, far-fetched relatives, neighbours, and residents of neighbouring villages, church members, teachers from far and wide, people who claimed to be relatives of my late mother, drinkers, friends of teachers, you name it.
They would join me for breakfast, which consisted of brown porridge. I do not remember the doctor recommending this, but Fiolina insisted that it was what the doctor ordered. As I took the porridge, I would narrate the ordeal one more time.
Around 10am, as the sun came out, chairs would be put outside, and with support, I would walk slowly to bask in the sun, with the visitors following. The guests would keep streaming in for lunch, and those who were in would join me for lunch, usually brown ugali, white meat (either fish, chicken, or matumbo) and greens.
I would eat with whoever was there. After lunch, I would be supported to the house to take a nap. By the time I woke up around 3.30pm, there would be guests waiting for me, who would join me to take tea, as I, for the umpteenth time, narrated my ordeal.
Some of the guests would come with household shopping, others would leave money, and many would cheer me up, while others were just a nuisance.
We started noticing people like Nyayo, Alphayo, and Rasto, who would arrive just in time for meals. They would say they did not want to eat, but would proceed to eat even more than me. There was also another category, those who brought different medicines. It started with my aunt Senje Albina; who came with some concoctions which I initially refused, but Fiolina encouraged me to take.
“Hospital will never heal you fully,” Senje Albina said, adding that she had cooked for me mwarubaini that I must take. It was both in bitter liquid form that I needed to take once a day and some dirty ash to lick twice a day.
She was not the only one; more and more people started bringing different medications. I started rejecting many of them, but I would notice that if the person was from Fiolina’s clan, she would encourage me to take it, but if it was from my people, she would throw them away.
“Be careful, Dre, some people do not have good intentions,” she said.
In the initial days, life wasn’t bad as the love and the gifts visitors brought us kept us going. Fiolina would explain to everyone that I needed a special diet of fruits, brown ugali and chicken, making it easier for her to keep the table full.
My sisters Yunia and Caro, Mwisho wa Lami’s Minister for Miscommunication and Rumors and Broadcasting Lies, would also join to help her with the work of cooking. Life was good and I was being well taken care of.
But things took a turn when two things happened two weeks ago. The first was when Catherina, Branton’s mother, visited me.
Luckily, my sister Caro was around. Fiolina just said hello and left – her face looking like a mandazi. Caro served Catherina and I, and it did not help that Catherina stayed for almost a whole day – and she had come with two full boxes of shopping, not to mention that she left me with a fat envelope.
The next day, I mistakenly called Fiolina “Fiona.”
“Who is Fiona?” she asked. “You have been calling me Fiona for long and I want to know who Fiona is.”
I tried to tell her that I had suffered some memory loss but she wondered why I had not forgotten anyone else’s name.
“You remember everyone’s names but when it comes to me, for some reason, you forget. Who is Fiona?”
The next morning, she did not serve me porridge, instead she brought strong tea with no sugar, and lunch was white ugali and kunde. And the food brought was just for me, nothing for visitors visiting me. There were no fruits.
“Where do you think the food is coming from?” was the answer when I asked why my guests were not served and why the change in diet.
“I have no job Dre and you haven’t given me enough money, how do you expect me to feed you like a king daily?” she responded.
“And can you be a man, please! Even a baby grows; it has been weeks since you left the hospital yet you still want to be treated like the day you left the hospital.”
“I know my brother,” said my sister Caro, “he is still weak and is not pretending.”
“You can’t know my husband better than I do,” Fiolina stopped her.
“He is very active at night over-working me but come morning he is weak and fragile, wanting to be treated like an egg, this can’t continue. Tumechoka!”
“Stop it woman, this is Dre, this is not all men, if your men are like that usiniletee.” She said.
“And since your sister is defending you, let me leave her to take care of you for a few days. I am going back home to also rest and take a break. It has been a busy two months of taking care of you like a baby yet there is no appreciation.”
With that, she packed and left.
“I can’t believe Fiolina has gone back to her old bad ways,” I said to Caro later on that day.
“Zakayo ni yule yule - mfupi,” Caro said. “Hawezi refuka.”
I made no comment. With schools opening, I pray Fiolina will be back to take care of me as I plan to go back to work soon.
