Lucy Mwelu | A Morning in the Life of a Dad

The silence is loud this morning. It screeches. Howls like a wounded animal. I toss and turn, pulling and pushing everything in the bed into and away from me. I open my eyes and stare into the darkness; I can almost make out the brown hue on the ceiling board. Soon that wetness will give in and slowly by slowly a hole will begin to form. The question is, will it hold out until August? If the hole appears in July, then the board has to be fixed and if it is fixed it means the money has to come from somewhere, but where? Rent money? No, arrears. Three months. The landlord now appears on top of my call log list. Sometimes the color beside him is green but mostly it is red, just like his face when he spots me entering the house after sunset, after the stars begin winking, after the moon commences its show for the night. His eyes follow me to my house. His voice echoes in my head after I close the door. I wonder if he too is lying awake. 

I turn to my side and stretch my arm. It is 3:00 am. One more hour and I will have to engage in an ungraceful dance with icy water, the kind that pierces your skin upon contact. One more hour and I will have to take the form of a cat so that Baby Nina’s batlike ears do not capture the sound of my feet moving about. One more hour until I can wake my wife up and ask her ridiculous questions. Where are my pair of socks? Have you seen my gloves? Why do noses run and feet smell? She is a patient woman, my wife. She answers all my questions with carefully selected words that are always accompanied by a gentle smile. The moment I place my hand on her arm her eyes will snap awake, and her hands will reach for my face. She will then sit up on the bed and listen to me while I ask a series of absurd questions. For instance, one day as I was putting on my reflector I asked her, “Will it ever get easier?” In a heartbeat she answered, “Yes, I’m certain of it because I have the best husband in the world.”

She is sound asleep now. Her quiet breathing adding to the loudness of the night. In a few hours she will wash, dress and feed Baby Nina. Then the pair will head over to Mako Market where she will spend all day convincing suspicious customers that her tomatoes are better than her neighbor’s. She will be scoffed at, insulted, belittled and ignored by a myriad of potential customers before a trusting one comes along and buys her tomatoes. Of course, the close of this sale will come after vicious haggling as both the seller and buyer must aggressively fight to save that extra coin. Baby Nina will spend time on her mother’s back, her arms, her hips, her side and on the dirty ground next to the squished, unusable tomatoes. She will stare curiously at passers by and cry periodically at unfriendly faces. She will scout for her usual peers and attempt to crawl toward them before her mother notices and lifts her off the ground of endless possibilities. Then eventually she will concede to her helplessness and enjoy her mother’s warmth as she is once again tossed on her back. 

Baby Nina will join school soon. Well, nowadays they call it playgroups. It sounds absurd really. Why can’t my child hang out with the neighborhood children like we used to? Why must they now be gathered in one setting, offered some toys and be introduced to the concept of social interaction? Where was playgroup when my peers and I would eat wet soil because it smelled delicious after raining or when our mothers would leave us alone in the house for hours on end to fend for ourselves as they worked odd jobs to get us food? Did we not adjust accordingly to social surroundings by picking fights with random children and mirroring wrestling styles we had seen on TV? Is that not creative, social play? So why do I have to pay sh20,000 to have Baby Nina do things she could do for free? Yet I know. I know I would rather acquire a loan from a shylock than let Baby Nina miss out on this opportunity to be better than me. 

It is 4:00 am. I know instinctively. Sleep completely detaches itself from me. My body feels lighter, more agile. As if on autopilot, I sit up, close my eyes, thank God for a safe night and plant my feet on the cool red oxide floor. I make my way toward the “plastics area” where I pick an empty bucket. Every other bathroom plastic seems to be housing different soaked clothing items. Stealthily, I leave my temporary place of rest, painfully aware that I will not be reacquainted with it until the sun sets once more. I quietly shiver as I think of my dance with the cold water.

*                                       *                                            *                

My wife is beautiful. Her face is glowing against the burning candle by our bedside. She keeps glancing at the baby cot. Her attention torn between ensuring Baby Nina gets enough sleep and my whispered rantings. 

“Did I tell you about Mama Tim?”

She shakes her head, a shadow of a smile appearing on her lips.

“She told me she will pay me a month’s worth of transport money after she reaches her shop, that all her money is there.”

Her eyebrows crinkle, a smile fully forms on her lips.

“So, I being her daily transporter, naturally take her to her shop, trying to balance her sack of goods in front of me, and her enormous weight behind me.”

“My hardworking husband,” she whispered, her eyes ever so slightly shifting toward the baby cot.

“Then we reach the junction, right? And someone starts yelling for me to stop my boda!”

My wife’s eyes widen. Her mouth slightly parts.

“It’s an elderly man with a walking stick and he is pointing it at us! At first, I think it is a customer with a grudge, but then Mama Tim starts screaming for me to accelerate the boda and get her out of there!”

“Tell me you stopped to listen to the old man.”

“Have you heard me? He had a stick! Has an old man ever hit you with a walking stick?”

“Is this something that normally happens to people?”

I stop tucking my vest inside my trouser. We stare at each other. We smile before bursting into laughter. Both of us abruptly stop and stare at Baby Nina’s cot. All is quiet. Our smiles return. I continue tucking my vest.

“Go on, what happened next?”

“I step on it, of course, leaving a whirlwind of dust behind.”

“Poor old man.”

“With a stick. You keep forgetting the stick. Anyway, we finally arrive at the shop and Mama Tim gets off instantly bringing relief to my boda. I get off too and help her with the sack of goods. I place it outside the shop as I wait for her to fetch my payment. She mumbles a thank you and enters the shop and guess what?”

“She locks herself inside and doesn’t come out?”

I stare at my wife. The corners of her lips are twitching. There is a playful spark in her eyes, or is it the light from the burning candle? I cannot tell. What I can tell is that I hit the goldmine with my wife. I watch her as her eyes flicker to the cot. 

“Yes! Later, after I finally accepted that I will not be paid for that job, I went back to the junction to talk to the elderly man.”

“With the stick?”

I smile as I put my reflector on. I suddenly worry that Baby Nina will wake up and see the reflector in the dark. She would probably scream, unaware that her daddy was getting ready to brace a world of Mama Tims for her. 

“With the stick. He told me that he too had an unfortunate run in with Mama Tim. He had lent her money two months ago. Apparently, two months ago Mama Tim would hire somebody to carry her goods which is actually cheaper than ferrying the goods with a motorcycle right? But the moment she defaulted the loan-”

“She got herself a reliable boda guy.”

I flash her a smile before approaching her for my daily goodbye embrace. After we separate, she mirrors my smile and cups my cheek. I plant a light kiss on both her hands and head toward the living room. I fumble a bit, desperately trying to locate my helmet in the shadowy room. Unable to find it, I turn to go ask my wife if she knew where it was. I bump into her, my helmet in her hands. The rent. Mama Tim. The ceiling board. Playgroup. They all seem solvable at this very moment. 

With my keys and helmet in hand, I open the door. I freeze as loud squeaking fills the house. Instant guilt hits me. Had I not promised to oil the hinges yesterday after work? I smile apologetically at my wife even though she cannot see me. Soon after, I am on top of my boda, my eyes ferociously searching for early risers who need to move from one point to another. This morning the air is nippy, and my eyes, which have completely failed to adjust to this morning routine, begin to tear up. I decide to have a cup of tea at my usual spot and as I shift lanes, I try to recall if I left breakfast money by the bedside table. Panicking, I reach for my phone inside my heavy jacket while glancing at the road ahead of me. Baby Nina had developed a love for celeriac recently, and mornings can get chaotic if her meal is changed-

Someone is screaming. It is one of those blood curdling screams, the kind that make the tiny hairs at the back of your neck stand up. I can’t breathe. The ground is hard. My back hurts. I can’t breathe. Wait, why can’t I move my legs? I can’t breathe. I am choking on something. A cough is stuck in my throat. I am choking on something. Something velvety. Am I coughing or have I conceded to my fate? My chest is on fire. I can’t breathe. More screaming. Movement around me. I can’t breathe. I try to sit up and then it hits me, I am the source of those screams. Someone is trying to help me sit up. I grab their arm. I am heaving, shards of glass fall to the ground silently as I struggle to sit up. I use my other arm to nudge at my heavy jacket. I need to breathe. I need to breathe for my wife and Baby Nina…Baby Nina. Celeriac. I need my phone. I try to turn my head. I scream. I can’t turn my head. I need to breathe. My eyes start closing. They can’t close; they shouldn’t; I am not in my place of rest. I try to keep them open. I try to breathe. I try to sit up. It is all too much. Before I succumb to the darkness, I catch a glimpse of the sunrise and wonder if Baby Nina is awake.

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Image: ChatGPT remixed