A “Criminal” Before Hamomi by Gaylord Ndong’a
My name is Gaylord Ndong’a. I come from Western Kenya. I am 15 years old. I was born in a hospital in the absence of my father. You see, my parents’ marriage was doomed to fail from the beginning. When mother took me home from the hospital, she was met with hostility from her in-laws. They hurled abusive words at her, among them, “prostituted.” They demanded from her proof of the paternity of the child.
The mistake was my father’s. He lived in Nairobi where he worked as a bus conductor and left mother with his parents. He only visited her once a year. His parents threw her out of their home soon after my birth, claiming she was not to be trusted at all. Looking back, I think they were crazy because I resemble my father very much. So we went back to mother’s parents. Her father understood our dilemma and told his daughter to stay. My father came soon after we had left, and he was very disappointed with his parents’ decision. But they laid the blame on my mother.
He came to visit us, believing that my mother had betrayed him. So when he arrived, he did not talk to her nicely, and neither was she talking to him nicely. They had a bit of an argument before mother told him to leave. But he wouldn’t. He started to cry like he was a girl, right there in front of my grandparents. Father begged mother to listen to him. He didn’t want to lose his wife and son.
“Tears came to my eyes, and I wished my mother had been there to care for us. I didn’t know how to protect my sister anymore.”
Mother agreed but on conditions:
That father would buy a plot and build a house for her so that she would not have to live with his parents. (They were terrible.)- Father would come to visit us at least once a month.
- Father would have to start paying for her dowry in installments.
Father agreed to these conditions but could not meet them immediately, so he promised to fulfill them with time. Meanwhile we had to go back and persevere through the peppery treatment of my paternal grandparents. Mother had her second child, a girl, who resembles Father too. After this, mother lost her optimism, and began to doubt if father would fulfill his promises. One day, after a bitter disagreement with my grandmother, she decided she’d had enough.
Off we went back to mother’s parents. Mother waited until my sister was almost two years old. Then she looked for a job in Kakamega where she worked as a shop assistant. When I was in Std. 3, my mother died after a short illness. My father took us to live with his parents. We joined school there and settled down to life without our mother. We lived in my grandparents’ house, while our cousins lived with their parents in their house. They had heard stories told about my mother. They had heard the word “prostitute” used several times, and they took to calling me and my sister “prostitute.” It hurt so badly that I didn’t play with them or make friends with them. As days went by, I became convinced that I needed to teach them a lesson in order to stop them.
My cousin, a boy of my age – 9 years, used to go collect milk every evening from a home ½ kilometer away. I noticed that he used to stop on his way back and play football with his friends before proceeding home. I waylaid him and quietly picked up the milk bottle unobserved, then I smashed it on a stone and went away. That night I heard him being whipped by his father.
“…he was given a message [for] Father. It was urgent… it was about his children. They were dangerous… I wondered, ‘Me? Dangerous?'”
Two days later, I waited for him on a dark path, hidden in a small bush. When he arrived, singing happily, I barked loudly like a wild dog to scare him. He dropped the milk bottle and bolted homewards. I picked up the bottle and smashed it into bits. Again, the cane from his father. The next day, he was in a bad temper and called my sister, “Go away, prostitute. Go and die like your mother!” This annoyed me very much, but I kept quiet. Tears came to my eyes, and I wished my mother had been there to care for us. I didn’t know how to protect my sister anymore.
My idea that day was to sneak into my cousin’s house and create a lot of trouble for him. So I did, but I got caught in the process. I had taken powdered pepper and mixed it in their maize flour. Just as I was turning to leave, my uncle’s strong grip stopped me! The beating was brutal. I think I passed away because I woke up in the night to find myself in bed. It was very dark and quiet. I think I needed to pee, but I couldn’t move a muscle. My body was sore all over. My right eye wouldn’t open because it was swollen.
I couldn’t go to school for two days. I heard bits of conversations around the homestead. I heard, “…Yes, very stubborn… just like their mother…” Why did they hate my mother so much? Any mention of my mother in that home never pleased me. Someone was leaving for Nairobi and he was given a message to take to Father. It was urgent, and it was about his children. They were dangerous… I wondered, “Me? Dangerous?” No they would never understand. I wanted everyone to be my friend. I love people, respect people, obey people, follow people – that’s what mother always repeated to me. But now it was not working. However much you love and respect people, they would ever understand you or give back the same. Now I had become a bad boy, a “criminal” because no one loved me.
A few days later Father came. He was very disappointed to see my bruises. He didn’t bother to ask me what I had done. He just listened to my uncle’s side of the story and kept quiet. Nobody knew how he felt. But he noticed my sister’s uneasiness with everyone. My cousins forgot to sing the “Prostitute Song” while Father was there. Looking back, I wish they had, so then Father would have understood.
Suddenly and without warning, Father decided that he was taking his children with him to Nairobi. My grandparents’ protestations fell on deaf ears. Soon we were on a bus to Nairobi. It was my first time to travel more than 50 km to anywhere. I was very excited. For me it was the best day in my life. I said, “bye bye” to the “prostitute song.” I enjoyed the ride thoroughly. I got to see several towns that I had only heard of along the route. It was interesting to see the tall buildings for the first time in my life. And there were more cars than I had ever seen in all my life. Truly, dreams come true.
The only problem with the fulfillment of my dreams is that we didn’t end up in any of the nice places I had seen. Our home really was in shabby, dirty, crowded, poorly built iron sheet-walled houses! This was not part of the dream. I was sure, but there we were. However, there were many advantages to it. There was clean tap water nearby and there wasn’t any manual work or mistreatments from anybody.
My father did not want to waste time before taking us to school. In fact, he had already found us a school before bringing us to Nairobi. That school was Hamomi Children’s Centre. The year was 2010 when I joined grade five.
