When we parted ways here last week, we were having a great time with Branton, my son, who is not my son.
As the whole world knows, Branton is not my son. He was born over nine months after his mother, and I had called our situationship over, and over 10 months after we had done any bad manners.
However, because Catherina had visited me in broad daylight—and known and approved by my parents—and due to my love for world peace, when Branton was born, and Catherina said I was the responsible one, I decided to accept the boy as my CSR project to the world.
While there were people who knew he was not my son, many would swear we are identical twins. I ignored all that and accepted the boy into my household.
Because his mother and I, at the time, did not see eye to eye—nor hear ear to ear—Branton and I have never had a good relationship. Ours has always been transactional. “I need fees, I need a new uniform,” and such like things.
When Fiolina, the laugh of my life, abandoned me, Branton came to stay with me. The boy and I formed a great relationship. We spoke freely and could discuss any topic under the sun. If you remember, the other week, he had boldly asked me if his mother could visit, and I had said no. Although I had given a weak reason, I considered the topic closed.
When schools opened last week, Branton convinced me that he saw no need to go to school early.
“Daddy, I won’t lie to you, nothing happens in school the first week,” he said confidently. “I will report in the second week.”
When I returned from work on Wednesday evening, I found the house looking spotlessly clean. And as had started happening, I found one cup of lemon tea on the table. Whether it was a plan to make sure I do not go to Hitler’s, I would like to say I liked the arrangement.
I threw the books wherever I threw them and settled to take my tea slowly, smoothly and in a relaxed manner. Branton did not even come to say hi, which was unusual. I could hear people speaking in the kitchen.
I wondered who Branton had brought home. In the past, I would have stormed the kitchen, ready to send away whoever he had brought. But I had new faith and confidence in the boy, so I did not disturb them—even when the other voice sounded female.
I went to shower and came back to find the best dinner ever. Ugali, chapati , rice, chicken, fruits—and forget about the meals themselves; the way everything was arranged was better than what Golf Hotel does. Nicely arranged plates, cutlery well set, serviettes in place, salads and spices neatly organised. There was even soup.
As Branton and I ate, someone knocked on the door and entered even before we said “welcome”.
“I hope you are enjoying the meal?” the person asked. I was shocked. It was Catherina, Branton’s mother. So it is she who had been in the kitchen with Branton.
“It is great, Mum,” Branton said. “And I am happy that you helped surprise Daddy with an amazing meal.”
“He deserves it,” said Catherina. “He is an amazing father.”
I was still speechless—shocked, but also enjoying the meal. I did not want anything to interfere with me enjoying it.
“You did not mention you would be coming,” I said to Catherina.
“No, I wanted to surprise you.”
“What do you mean, surprise me? This is not a surprise—this is an intrusion.”
“It’s not what you are thinking. I came here because of my son, Branton. Not anything else.”
I had forgotten Branton was in the room, so I invited Cathrina to join us and eat. She did, and as we ate, I was already thinking about how best we would handle this situation when Branton was not present.
We ate mostly in silence. Catherina took a few bites, finished quickly and went back to the kitchen. A minute after she left, someone else entered the house unannounced.
It was Caro—Mwisho wa Lami’s CS for Misinformation, Miscommunication, and Broadcasting Lies.
“Branton, you are around? How come you haven’t come to see your grandfather?” she asked. Branton told her he was busy with schoolwork. We invited her to eat too.
“Eish! You people eat like rich people. So much food!” she said as she washed her hands and joined us. She served herself generously and settled down to eat. Just then, Catherina re-entered the room, carrying a plate of something I did not understand.
“Mlamwa ... sorry ... Mama Branton, kumbe umekuwa ukiishi hapa?” Caro asked.
“No, I just came today to see my son. I was to go back today, but the rain was too much,” Catherina replied.
“So you will sleep here?” Caro asked, with a pointed tone.
“Yes, but it is not what you are thinking,” answered Catherina.
“I know you, Caro,” said Catherina.
“Good people, can we just enjoy this meal and talk later?” I said, bringing the matter to a close.
Caro ate so quickly you could tell she wanted to leave immediately—but at the same time, she did not want to leave the food. Catherina had brought cake, which Caro attacked with equal speed.
“I have to go,” she said, hurrying out of the house.
I did not need a calculator to know where she was going. She was off to broadcast to the whole world what she had seen—of course with extra salt added. I tried to follow her, but she vanished into the darkness.
I took my phone to the bedroom and came back to the sitting room to watch the news. Catherina went to sleep in the other room. When I went to the bedroom, I found nine missed calls—from my sister Yunia, my dad, and Pius. Fiolina had also sent me a message: “How are you, dear?”
I decided to ignore everything and sleep. Before sleeping, I called Catherina and asked how long she would be around. She said she would leave the next day. I wanted to tell her to leave earlier, but maturity overwhelmed me, and I said nothing.
By 7.30 am, when I got to the sitting room, there was a full breakfast—tea, nduma, eggs and fruits. I started eating quickly because I needed to get to school—I had a meeting.
Just as I was finishing, Fiolina stormed into the house. She looked at the breakfast and said nothing. She just sat.
“I have brought you some juice to drink before you go. And can we pack lunch for you?” Catherina asked as she entered the room—she had not yet seen Fiolina.
“What are you doing in my house? And who are you packing lunch for?” Fiolina asked, then started wailing loudly.
I wanted to intervene—but I stopped. I had not sent Fiolina to her home. I had not invited Catherina to visit. I had not invited Fiolina back.
This was not my problem. I had bigger problems at school that I needed to attend to. I quietly left for school, leaving the two of them to sort the mess they had created.
In this world, people must solve their own problems.
