When we parted ways here last week, I had just missed a bullet. If you recall, a week earlier, Fiolina had left me after believing unfounded stories from enemies of development about Xtash. While away, Catherine — Brandon’s mother — had come to visit her son and had grown comfortable in my house.
Fiolina, having been informed by my sister Caro that her possible replacement was in my house, arrived unannounced and found Catherine preparing breakfast for us. Naturally, she confronted her.
A weak man would have tried to get in between them, tried to stop the confrontation, but I am a real man. I decided not to get involved in women’s business — I let the two women handle their issues themselves. I went to school, refusing to pick any calls from home or from anyone.
I had not sent Fiolina away, I had not invited Catherine, and I had not invited Fiolina back either; they needed to settle their own beef. In the afternoon, Brandon came to see me at school. Branton, as I had observed, was now a grown young man.
“Dad, you told me the truth. Women came from Mars, I think,” he said as he sat down.
“I told you so. Women are a special kind,” I replied, asking him what had happened. “They started fighting, but I stepped in and separated them, which was not easy. Mama Sospeter then went into one of the rooms to take a panga. I locked the door from the outside, which allowed my mother to escape. I only opened that door after Mum had left.”
“It was fierce. Mama Sospeter confronted me, I feared she wanted to kill me, but I held her hand strongly, preventing her from causing any harm. She then told me she did not want to see me in her house again." He went on: “I quickly collected my things, and that is why I am here. I am leaving for school. You will not see me again in Mwisho wa Lami."
"No, Mwisho wa Lami is your home, you can't say that," I offered. "Not when that woman is there," he said, tears coming down his cheeks. "She threatened to do to me something I can't even speak about." He went onto a long sob.
“Don’t call her that women, she is your mother,” I told him.
“She is not my mother, she is not,” he said, then cried some more. “I am going to Kakamega, I will go to school next week,” he said. Please remember what you promised, to find me space in Musingu High school. That is my school.”
“As I said, I will try.” I answered. A few minutes later, a boda boda rider, whom he seemed to have ordered, arrived. He hugged me, then boarded the bodaboda and left.
“Your sons have arrived,” his mother sent me an SMS at around 5pm.
I went home that evening the way a man walks into a house where he is not sure what is waiting for him — slowly, with my ears very alert and my eyes scanning for any sudden movements. A soldier entering enemy territory has nothing on a married man returning home after a day of domestic warfare. The compound was quiet. Too quiet. Fiolina was in the kitchen. She did not greet me, but she was cooking, which in the language of women means: I am still angry, but I have decided you are not worth starving. I have been married long enough to know this is actually a good sign. I sat down and waited. She brought food and placed it on the table without looking at me. It was one of the best meals she has ever prepared for me. She sat across from me. I ate. She watched me eat with the expression of a magistrate observing a suspect.
“So that woman cooks better than me, right?” she asked.
I looked up from my food. This was a trap. I have fallen into this trap before. Every man has fallen into this trap before. It is the oldest trap in the history of marriage, older than the institution itself.
“I would not know,” I said carefully. “I did not eat her food.”
“I left two women in my house,” I said, “and I went to work.”
Fiolina stared at me. I could see she was doing calculations in her head, trying to determine whether what I had just said was an insult or a compliment to herself.
I told her I usually don’t ask who has cooked lemon tea. I didn’t know who had told her that I liked lemon tea. As I took the tea, she went to the bedroom. When I joined her later that night, I found the bedroom smelling very nice. She had lit a red candle, which made the room feel quite welcoming — very welcoming indeed. Needless to say, though I joined her late, for obvious reasons, we slept very, very late. When I woke up the next morning, Fiolina was not in the bedroom. She was singing in the kitchen. A sumptuous breakfast awaited me: fried eggs, toast bread, and tea masala — my favourite.
As I took breakfast, she also prepared to go to school. We would leave at the same time, but before she left, she packed lunch for me in a box.
“Please don’t forget the lunch box,” she said, hugging me tightly.
“See you in the evening. I will come home early,” she said. I found her home when I arrived later that evening. The aroma of delicious matumbo hit my nostrils as I walked in. Everyone knows I love matumbo .
“I passed by the butchery and decided to buy something your doctor recommended — white meat,” she said as she hugged me, took my bag, and helped me remove my jacket.
It has been an amazing last few days. I know I praised the meal Catherine prepared for me, but I want to say it is nothing compared to what Fiolina — the love of my life — has been preparing for me every day.
I am forever grateful to God for giving me Fiolina. I plan never to look any other way. You remain mine, Fiolina, and I hope I remain yours. Let us do this life together.
