When Fiolina packed her belongings, including our son Sospeter, and went back to her people, I was very worried.
Indeed, the first two days were tough and lonely. I couldn’t even venture out of my home because before leaving, she had made sure everyone knew what a useless husband I was—and that I had another family in Kangemi, Nairobi—which you all know is not true. I just happen to be in a “situationship” with Xtash.
To be fair to her, Fiolina did not personally inform everyone that she was leaving or that I had another family—I can’t have married someone who does that. She only informed Caro, my sister and the Permanent Minister for Misinformation, Miscommunication and Broadcasting Lies. Of course, with a little incentive, Caro had the job done within a few hours.
“How many children do you have with Shitasi? Can we meet them?” asked my sister Yunia, who has never hidden her disdain for Fiolina.
On the third day, Catherina, having heard that Fiolina had left me, sent me a text asking how I was and whether she could dispatch Brandon to me.
“Living with that boy is stress redefined and full of trouble,” she said, adding that at his age, Brandon needed a father figure in his life. It was not lost on me that she said father figure, not father. That says a lot about what she thinks of me.
I told her to release Brandon to me—not because I particularly wanted to stay with the boy, but because I was suffering in certain areas, including food. If my name was not already ruined out there, I would have simply been going to eat at Kasuku Bar. But Fiolina and Caro had combined efforts to ensure I lost credibility, and as a result, I couldn’t face people.
He arrived the next day. Interestingly, he seemed happy. You could tell that at his mother’s place, he had been living like he was in prison. On the first day, he cooked, but we ate differently.
On day three, he was in the kitchen when I woke up. I joined him there. He was making breakfast.
“Of course. I can prepare fried eggs, boiled eggs, scrambled eggs—whichever is your favourite.”
“I don’t really have a favourite. I just love eggs.” I said,
He said he spent a lot of time in the kitchen at his mother’s place and, as a result, learned quite a bit. We leisurely took breakfast, then he went back to the kitchen to wash the utensils. I joined him there, and we talked as he washed. It was clear that the kitchen was his favourite place. I wondered where he picked that from, because the kitchen has never been my place.
“School is fine. I’m just trying my best.” Then he asked if he could make a request. “Can I be transferred from that school?” he asked.
“It’s a terrible school, Dad. Please get me another one.”
It was the first time he spoke to me so freely, and I realised I no longer had a boy as a son, but a young man.
After this, we went and sat under the trees and talked about many things—life, education, and more. He told me many things he didn’t like about his school and how he wanted to change. I asked which schools he had in mind.
“Kakamega High School, Musingu High School—those ones,” he said, adding that he believed those were the schools that could make a mark on him.
“That was needed when we were joining Form 1,” he said. “Plus, you are a teacher. You know many people. You can make it happen if you want.”
I told him I couldn’t promise, but I would try. He was very happy.
“What do you want for lunch? I prepared chapatis yesterday. Do you want them with ndengu, beans, or rice?” he asked me.
I could not believe that was my son speaking. I asked for rice. He left me and went to the kitchen. He took his time there, and about an hour later came back.
“Do I bring your lunch here, or we go to the house?” he asked.
I told him to bring it outside, which he did. We leisurely took lunch as we talked about many more things.
“I have friends, but not one I can call a girlfriend.”
“I am your father, son, don’t hide anything from me.”
“Okay ... in the estate where we stay, there is this girl, she is in Form 2 at Lugulu Girls. We like each other.”
“That is not all,” he said. “We spend a lot of time together, but we haven’t done anything bad. We just talk, and we love each other’s company.”
After lunch, I went to take a rest. That day, I felt like going to either Hitler’s or Kasuku, but I still had no confidence to walk outside. So I called Nyayo and asked him to get me a few beers from Kasuku Bar and Rest.
When they came, it was Brandon who took them and placed them in the fridge. I started taking them at about 6pm. I asked Brandon if he wanted one.
“You can get a glass,” I told him.
“Not beer—that is for wazee . Maybe whisky,” he said.
“What? Whisky?” I asked, at first shocked, but quickly realised I did not need to be. Otherwise, he would stop talking.
“Any good whisky. I like Glenlivet, but I can only afford Jameson. I’m not sure you can find those huku ushago, but you can try.”
The next day, I went to Kisumu to sort out some issues with the bank. Before I came back, I bought a bottle of Jug Daniels. I was sure Brandon would like it, and it would bring us together.
“Dad, why don’t you stay together with my mum?” he asked me last Thursday, the day we opened the Jug Daniels. He was on his third glass.
“It is complicated. When you grow up, you will understand these things. Women are difficult, my son.”
“Now that Sospeter and his mum are not here, can my mum come and stay with us for a few days?”
“I’m not sure she can. That could cause some problems—big ones,” I said.
“What problems? If Sospeter can be here with his mum, why can’t I be here with my mother, even for a day?”
“That is something we can talk about later, son,” I said. “Just know women are complicated.”
I changed the topic to discuss other things, including school and his interests. He was open and honest with me. I am enjoying the company of my son.
Fiolina, wherever you are, you do not need to come back. I am just fine.
