Turns out, the so-called weaker sex is unarguably the stronger one. The things they go through, wacha tu. Especially, I shall always admire and respect the rural woman.
They flow along contentedly with life - they know no dates, no anniversaries, no birthdays and, certainly no surprise dinners. Yet, they steadfastly hold the marital fabric intact in these households.
So, I pass by Mutua's home. The name has been changed to protect his privacy. Ok, whom am I fooling? More like, to protect my neck. Mutua was a classmate in elementary school. Ways back, but dropped off in class seven.
At the time, we'd attend school quite big-bodied. For decency's sake, let's say he'd attempted to wrestle a teacher.
In the same class, he'd befriended a girl - two villages past his ridge. The girls too were quite grown at the time. They'd grow up way before their time. A typical girl in Class 6, would be micro-parenting a troop of younger siblings. And, so did courtship come up much, much earlier. She'd fallen for Mutua.
They had dropped out together. She'd shortly elope to Mutua's mud-walled hut. To be fair, it was quite flashy, for a Simba. It even had a ceiling fabricated from pieces of school-milk cartons. They'd branded it a marriage.
It didn't quite raise eyebrows. It was common fanfare, at the time. It survived. Now, close to two decades later - was going strong. Oh, they'd been blessed with two sets of twins.
Anyhow, as I arrive in the home, only the wife is present. She's still pretty much the Kanana I knew, talkative and stuff.
In our schooling days, Kanana was pretty gangster, almost legend-status. She had pierced her ears halfway through an Arts and Crafts lesson, with an Acacia thorn - without a squeal.
It's a regular homestead in our village. A goat pen. A chicken coop.
A well-swept compound... The younger set of twins is just learning to crawl. The easier twin tumbles over trying to make a move towards me - a bare bum - nibbling on something that looks like a crumb of duck shit.
I don't want to ascertain it. So, I glance at Kanana, my classmate's wife:
"Where's this mjamaa......", I ask.
"Oh, haven't seen him since Sunday..." She says.
She points to the main house. It's a modest timber house, with running rails painted white and blue. It sits facing an outdoor kitchen, with mud walls plastered halfway. I can spot a covered, boiling pot engulfed in flames at the fireplace.
Kanana points at the door. She wants me to look at the door. Or, what remained of the door. It's not a door, really, but just a doorway. What should have been a door, is a few feet off - to the right - placed against the wall. The steel hinges seem ripped off, angrily.
"What gives?" I ask.
It's a genuine question. I've read of angry landlords in Nairobi slums ripping off iron sheet roofs and doors to eject non-paying tenants. This is mushatha! Rent is a foreign concept.
"Well, it's your friend...." Kanana says, in a noncommittal, shrug-it-off manner, as she picks through grains of beans on a straw tray.
"Mutua came home at midnight, last Sunday. He was a little happy, and decided we don't really need a door..." Kanana says, with a shrug.
"Nilichelewa kumfungulia mlango..".
She points to a crowbar a few feet away.
In case you didn't know, 'my husband is a little happy' is village-speak for 'roaring drunk'.
Mutua had staggered home at midnight, banged on the door, and before his wife could open, he'd picked a crowbar from atop the chicken coop. He'd banged it on the door, waking both sets of twins - then, ripped it off!
"Who are you to lock me out of my own ******** house...", he'd thundered.
He had then staggered off into the darkness. What left me in a daze, is how Kanana seemed all cool, about the whole saga.
It's Thursday. Since the previous Sunday, Mutua's been missing.
I salute the women in my village. You are, indeed, the stronger gender. Marriage is a trudge down the narrow path.
