As the D-day drew closer though, the tension could be felt in the air. Probably because they had started hearing conversations in their homes about the upcoming elections. Or maybe it was because that was all everyone kept talking about in the churches, at the salon they used to go to, at the shops near their homes or even the groups of people who gathered around the shopping centre, or maybe it was because of the posters of electoral candidates everywhere?
Wanja loves to watch the sunset. There is a certain magic that she feels whenever she’s watching it. Perhaps it is because sunsets signify the end of a day.
“The more the days pass, the closer I get to forgetting and the closer I get to healing my broken heart and the scars on my body,” she often consoles herself.
“Acceptance and forgiveness are the first steps towards healing,” her therapist often tells her.
This is her third year seeing Dr. Sally Karembo. Every second Thursday of the month from 10 a.m. till noon is spent here. Initially, opening up was tough for her. Wanja had never thought that she needed a therapist. She thought that time would heal her wounds. Well, the physical ones healed, at least some did. The mental and emotional ones not so much. She never expected that at twenty-nine years old, she would be where she is right now. She had different plans for herself, but life happened.
Mr. Mwai, Wanja’s father, had relocated to Chelgut when he was only nineteen years old. Chelgut was a village tucked away in the middle of the Rift Valley so it had cool weather suitable for farming and keeping livestock. He had grown up in an orphanage and when the time came to venture out into the world, he decided to go to Chelgut because he had heard stories that the farmers there owned huge parcels of land and they were always looking for help with the farm work. He was therefore confident that he would get a job there. He was right.
As soon as he arrived and asked around, he was directed to one of the farm owners, a Mr. Kibet. After being asked a few questions, he was hired. He was given a small room in the servant’s quarters and he started work the following day. For about ten years, Mr. Mwai worked devotedly and diligently as the farmhand, he related well with his employer. During his employment, he kept saving a portion of his salary. He had big dreams for his future.
“One day, I will be one of the biggest businessmen in this town,” was what he always told himself.
When Mr. Mwai felt that he had saved enough, he informed Mr. Kibet that his time to leave had come.
“You have been faithful and devoted to me and my family for the last ten years. You became part of the family. I still remember the first day you walked into my home, you were so young. Now, I am proud of the strong and wise young man you’ve grown into. I give you my blessings as you depart from my home. May the work of your hands always be blessed.”
On hearing this, Mr. Mwai could not contain his emotions as he bid farewell to his employer who had become his father figure.
“Here is a token of my appreciation,” added Mr. Kibet as he handed him an envelope.
With the money he had, Mr. Mwai started a small agrovet business in Eldoret town. Shortly after, he met his wife, Rose Chebet.
“She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he always said.
One of the reasons why he adored his daughter was because she looked so much like her mother. She had her mother’s big brown eyes, a sharp nose and chubby cheeks. She also had Rose’s kind heart.
“You are truly your mother’s daughter,” he often said to Wanja.
Over the years, the couple gradually acquired a lot of wealth under the Mwarose family business. By the time Wanja was born, the family business was expansive enough to place a solid silver spoon in her mouth.
Although most of their neighbours were from the Kalenjin tribe, with a few others from the Kikuyu and other tribes, ethnicity was never an issue.
A younger brother had died a few hours after birth. The loss of her son broke Wanja’s mother. No other children came after that.
“I never asked the cause of his death because none of my parents ever talked about it. I think the fear of losing another child kept them from ever trying to get another one,” Wanja once told her therapist.
She therefore grew up with all the love and attention from her parents. They adored her. She was disciplined, they saw to it. Her mother was particularly conscious about teaching her the value of seeing the good in people and loving everyone regardless.
Wanja had many friends but she particularly loved two—Atieno and Cherono. They were all around the same age and in the same class, and they had all lived in the same estate for as long as they could remember. Atieno, youngest in her family, was dark-skinned, had milk-white teeth and was very pretty. She also had a great sense of humour. She always said something hilarious even when she was in trouble. She was very intelligent and the most dramatic in the squad.
“I want to be a neurosurgeon when I grow up,” she always said.
She had big dreams of studying abroad because she believed that the USA trained great neurosurgeons.
Cherono, whom they had nicknamed Chero, was a tomboy. Having three older brothers might have contributed to that. She was way taller than her friends. None of them had ever seen Chero in a dress or skirt. She was always in shorts, pants or dungarees. She had long legs and always won all the running competitions she participated in.
“One day we will cheer for you in the London Olympics,” they often told her.
Chero always stood up to bullies and anyone else who tried to mess with her friends.
The three friends often talked about the boys they had a crush on, their dreams, their fears and more. When Atieno got her first period, she called her friends for “a crisis meeting”. They had been taught about menstruation in school. The teacher had even demonstrated how to put on a sanitary towel but, for some reason, Atieno froze and did not know what to do, hence the need to call her friends. Chero had not gotten hers yet. Wanja had gotten her first period two months earlier. Luckily for her, she could talk to her mother about it and knew what to do. Wanja brought her hot water bottle to help Atieno ease the cramps as her mother had advised her. They sat with Atieno in her bedroom all day long because she did not feel like leaving her bed.
“I also felt like that the first time, you’ll be okay,” said Wanja.
“But how does it feel?” Chero was curious. “Can you feel the blood dripping into the pad?”
Both Atieno and Wanja burst into laughter.
“I feel like someone is cutting the inside of my uterus with a razor blade, and no, I don’t feel the blood dripping into the pad. I can’t even explain it. Wait till yours comes then you’ll understand.”
“I wish there was a way I could avoid that ordeal entirely. I don’t like how it sounds. How can I even run when I’m wearing a pad? Gosh, imagine the horror if it fell down during a race!” Chero covered her eyes as if she were living the embarrassing moment then.
“LOL! That can never happen,” said Wanja. The conversation surrounding the myths, misconceptions and facts about menstruation went on for the better part of the day.
They had sat for their national primary school examinations in early November. The elections were drawing closer. Elections did not mean much to them. All they talked about were the high schools they wanted to join and how they would celebrate the festive season that was around the corner.
As the D-day drew closer though, the tension could be felt in the air. Probably because they had started hearing conversations in their homes about the upcoming elections. Or maybe it was because that was all everyone kept talking about in the churches, at the salon they used to go to, at the shops near their homes or even the groups of people who gathered around the shopping centre, or maybe it was because of the posters of electoral candidates everywhere? Everywhere, random people wore t-shirts and caps in different colours for different political parties, with the pictures of the presidential candidates, Kariuki Kimani and Mzee, on them.
“I can’t wait for these elections to pass,” said Chero.
She was piqued about not being able to watch television in peace as everyone in the house wanted to watch news updates which were basically all about the upcoming elections. The same thing with social media. It had started feeling like it was too much. There had even been rumours that violence would erupt if certain politicians were not elected.
Wanja had asked her dad about it. She too had heard the rumours when she went to the salon to get her hair done and she was scared.
“They are saying that if Mzee is not elected as president, people will cry.”
Her father dismissed the rumours as idle talk and tried to reassure her that all would be okay. He himself was not sure about things being okay since he had also heard about the threats. However, he felt it was his duty to convince Wanja that everything would be okay, because that is what fathers do. They reassure their daughters.
With time, people began to talk openly about the threats and the stories ceased being mere rumours.
“Mara ii wakiibia Mzee kura, damu lazima itamwagika!!” said Opiyo, the shoe shiner at the town centre. Due to the nature of his job, he often attracted a small crowd around him. Some needed their shoes cleaned while most were hawkers selling sweets and other things next to his stand. Some in the crowd agreed with his sentiments while others were so convinced that Mzee, one of the presidential candidates, would lose the elections.
“Kariuki Kimani ndio anachukua ii kitu,” said one of his customers. An argument ensued and it went on for some time. It was evident that political temperatures were rising. The animosity could be heard in their voices.
It was a few days before the elections. For some reason, the girlfriends had stopped hanging as often as they used to. At first, Wanja thought that it was probably because Atieno and her family had travelled to their rural home on the lakeside. She was the one who always came up with the ideas regarding where and when and how they would hang out. She was the glue that held the friend group together. But still. Wanja was bothered.
“For some reason, Chero has been ignoring me and I don’t know why,” she complained to her mother while they prepared dinner. “Today she sat with Chebet and her friends in church instead of sitting with me like we usually do.”
Her mother felt bad for her daughter. She knew how much Wanja cherished her friends.
“Try talking to her so that you can know where the problem is, it’s probably a misunderstanding,” she advised.
Unknown to Wanja, Chero’s parents had forbidden their daughter from interacting with her. It wasn’t just them. People were aligning themselves in tribal camps. Some politicians even asked “their people” to come together and vote for “their person.” They could even be heard on the local radio stations spewing hatred against certain tribes. The same thing across all the social media platforms. Spiteful comments were lobbed at opponents and their supporters. Nobody knew how it had gotten to this.
When the election day finally came, the polling stations were opened at 6 a.m. By around 9 a.m., the queues had gotten long. Wanja accompanied her parents to Kapsapit Primary School where they were supposed to cast their votes. Wanja herself could not vote but she wanted to see how the voting was done. Wanja did not, however, go inside as one had to produce their national identity cards and voters’ cards to be admitted into the room with the ballot boxes. She was impressed that there were armed police officers walking around to maintain peace and order.
Within a few minutes, her parents were done and they left. Her father went to work while Wanja and her mother went home. The town looked deserted with most businesses closed. There were very few cars there. Back home, Wanja spent the better part of the day watching television and on social media. Almost all national television stations were covering the elections. There were some parts where violence had been reported after supporters of different candidates clashed. Wanja found all that boring. She preferred to watch a movie.
Her mum, on the other hand, was busy cleaning the storage room. She had said she would clean it when she got time to do so. Today felt like a good day to finally get it over with. As she was cleaning, she found old photograph albums in one of the boxes labelled “memories”. The first one was her wedding day album. It had a white cover with a picture of a bride and groom with “Our wedding day” written on top. She could not believe how quickly fourteen years had gone by. Then, they were much younger, thinner and poor. She called Wanja so that they could take in that moment together. Wanja had seen the photos before but looking at them while her mum explained what was happening just before and after a picture was taken felt good. In that moment, Wanja hoped she would one day get married to the love of her life just as her parents had. She admired how her parents loved each other. It wasn’t always rosy but they always worked things out and she loved that about them.
When her mum picked up the next album, her eyes lit up. On the cover was a tiny white baby and Wanja instantly knew that the pictures inside that album were her baby pictures, all taken during the early months of her life, right from the day she was born.
“You were so tiny and precious. I didn’t want to put you down,” said her mother when they saw the first picture in the album. In the picture, Rose was cradling Wanja just a few minutes after she was born. Her husband was standing next to her, all smiles. Thirteen years later and Rose was still very happy and proud of her little girl.
It was a special mother-daughter moment, a moment Wanja will never forget and one that she holds dear in her now broken heart. Memories like these make her miss her mum so much that her stomach hurts and her heart bleeds.
The polling stations closed around 6 p.m. That evening, Wanja’s parents sat in front of the television watching the presidential results being tallied. The results from the different parts of the country were trickling in and the sum being added up. Initially, the gap between Kariuki Kimani and Mzee was small but as the night progressed, Mzee began to lead. The following morning, they were woken up by people shouting outside.
The crowd protested until the police came along and dispersed them with tear gas.
It turned out that in an unexpected turn of events, Kariuki Kimani had been declared the president-elect the previous night. Mzee’s supporters protested the outcome, declaring that the elections had been rigged.
At around 9 a.m. that morning, Wanja heard a knock at the gate. It was Mr. Salgei, the area chief. He was a very tall man, with big teeth that didn’t seem to fit in his mouth. Feared and respected in equal measure, he was known to be fair and just. He was good friends, as well as business partners, with Wanja’s parents.
Leading him into the house, Wanja was sure that something was wrong. Mr. Salgei was not his usual jolly self. He looked worried and he kept looking over his shoulders. He exchanged greetings with Wanja’s parents and asked to talk to them in private. There was some tea in a flask on the dining table yet Wanja’s mother asked her to go prepare tea for their guest.
Mr. Salgei cleared his throat.
“I should not be here but I have known you for over ten years. We are good friends and business partners. I would not want any harm to come your way so I’m here to warn you.”
He paused as if to allow them to process what he had just said. Wanja’s parents looked at each other, panic written all over their faces.
“You have seen the protests taking place and from what I have heard, it’s only going to get worse. You know that Mzee’s running mate is a Kalenjin from here while the president-elect is a Kikuyu. Some people believe that the elections were rigged and they want to prove a point. There is going to be retaliation and it’s going to be ugly. My source informs me that the Kalenjins in this area are planning to chase away all the Kikuyus from here. They are referring to the Kikuyus as ‘madoa doa’, stains that need to be wiped out. I think it is best that you leave for some time until things cool down.”
“This is my home and I have not done anything wrong to anyone,” exclaimed Wanja’s father. “Why should we leave? We voted like other Kenyans and we had nothing to do with the outcome of the elections. I have been nothing but good to the people of this community. My wife is from here, I am therefore one of them. If they want to come, let them come. I will deal with them.”
He could not believe that after living in this community since he started working as a farmhand at Mr. Kibet’s land, then started his own business, bought land, married from the community and raised his family there, created job opportunities, got involved in community development projects, attended so many harambees and so much more, they would still consider him a stranger.
“You are being termed as an intruder and an outsider while your wife is being called a traitor for getting married to a man from a different tribe. Kindly listen to me and leave because I might not be able to protect you.” Mr. Salgei advised.
After the chief left, Wanja came into the living room. She had heard everything that they had discussed. Her parents assured her that all would be well and that there was nothing to worry about but they were wrong.
At around 8 p.m. that evening, their dinner was interrupted by screams.
There were people in their compound shouting.
“Ua! Ua!”
“Kill! Kill!”
They had gained access into the compound by forcing the gate open and were now throwing stones at the front door. Scared, Wanja began to cry. Suddenly, the front door flew open and six men walked in. They were armed with bow, arrows, stones and machetes.
To the family’s surprise and shock, they recognised the members of the group as their neighbours and friends whom they had known for years. Immediately, one of them hacked at Mr. Mwai’s head with a machete. Mr. Mwai cried out loudly as he fell to the ground, blood gushing from the deep cut. When Wanja and her mother saw this, they started screaming and before they could get to him, some of the men held them back. They continued screaming, hoping that someone, anyone, could come to their rescue. Just then, the men started stripping them. When Mr. Mwai tried to get up to help his wife and daughter, one of the men cut him again on his leg. As he crawled to this family, he cut him on his back and several other times on his hands. He groaned painfully as he bled more. Two men were beating him, stamping on him mercilessly. Without thinking twice, two men started raping Wanja and her mother as the father watched while lying in a pool of his own blood. It was the helplessness in the eyes of her dying father that hurt her the most. She will probably remember that look forever.
The sight of her mother being raped as she screamed for help will never leave Wanja’s mind.
The pain she felt as Kip, their neighbour, defiled her was the worst pain she had ever felt. The more she resisted, the more painful the experience was. This was not how she had planned to lose her virginity, in such savage hands. Before she could process anything, Oti, another neighbour took over from Kip and she blacked out.
She woke up in a hospital ward with her whole body in pain. She felt like her skin was on fire. She had bandages all over her body, including the left side of her face. She couldn’t see clearly and she couldn’t move. The smell of medicines mingled with the scent of blood. There were so many people there in the ward, with bandages on different parts of their bodies, some crying out in pain. It was too much for her and she lost consciousness again.
The next time she woke up, she was alone in the room. Just then, a nurse walked over to her bedside.
“Hallo,” said the nurse. Wanja could not respond. She wanted to but she could not talk. She was in so much pain. The nurse left and came back shortly with a doctor. The nurse removed Wanja’s bandage so that the doctor could examine her face. Wanja tried to touch her face but her hand would not move.
“Where are my parents?” Wanja managed to ask.
Before any of them could respond, there was a knock on the door and her maternal grandparents walked in. When they saw her, her grandmother broke into tears and Wanja, being overwhelmed by emotions, broke down as well. After some time, her grandmother explained that their house had been torched and both her parents had died in the fire. Somehow, Wanja had managed to run out of the burning building.
“It was a miracle that you survived and we are very grateful to God.”
The news of her parents’ death cut through Wanja’s soul and she wished that she had died with them. She would later learn that her parents had been burnt beyond recognition and only ashes and a few bones had been buried.
The doctor explained that she had been in a coma for almost a month and that her burn injuries were healing well and she would be out of the hospital soon. When the bandages were finally removed from her hands, her left hand had scars and had been deformed.
She would later recount the experience to her therapist.
“The first time I saw my face after that incident, I could not recognize myself. I had a huge scar on the left side of my face and all my hair was gone. I remember wondering who that ugly person staring back at me was. I loathed myself and I detested the people who had done this to me even more. I wanted to die. I wished it was a bad dream that I would soon wake up from but that was my reality. That is what I would have to live with for the rest of my life.”
When she was finally discharged, she went to her grandparents’ home. On her way from the hospital, the aftermath of the violence was still visible. There were burnt buildings everywhere. Blood stains could be seen on roadsides posts and the smell of death hung in the air. People had been hacked to death using machetes. Some had been burnt alive in their houses and their properties razed to the ground. Thousands had been displaced and hundreds had run away. They all had one thing in common. They all belonged to one tribe, the Kikuyu tribe. That was their only mistake.
At her grandparents’ home, she was warmly welcomed by her relatives, but she was emotionally numb. She had been told that her parents had been buried in her grandparents’ home and she requested to be taken at their grave site. The burn injuries on her legs had not healed so she was wheeled there. She tried to get up from her wheelchair but she fell next to her mother’s grave and began to cry. She was carried into the house where she cried for hours until she could not cry any more.
In the days and weeks that followed, she also got to learn, through the news and social media, that Kikuyu businesses had been specifically targeted, looted and then burnt. She was bitter and she felt hurt. Perhaps it was the invisible scars that hurt her more than the visible ones? The most horrible incident of all was the burning down of the church she used to attend with her parents. Women and children who had run into the church after their homes had been attacked were burnt to death. An unknown group of armed men locked it from the outside, surrounded it and then set it on fire. As women tried to rescue their children by throwing them out through the windows, those men would throw them back into the fire. More than forty women and children were burnt beyond recognition in that church. The country had almost fallen into anarchy.
In an unexpected turn of events, there was a handshake between the two presidential candidates, Kariuki Kimani and Mzee. It was agreed that Kariuki Kimani would be the president and the office of the Prime Minister would be created for Mzee. That was how peace was brokered between both men. Meanwhile, many lives had been lost. People had been murdered and butchered like animals. Children like Wanja had been left orphaned. Hard working people lost everything; their homes, their businesses, their properties, everything, and were turned into beggars and internally displaced persons living in camps. As for the politicians, their lives continued to go on normally. None of them was ever held accountable for propagating violence through hate speech and funding the violence through arming the perpetrators and paying them to do the heinous acts.
Sixteen years later, Wanja has moved to a new environment to help with her journey towards recovery but she still feels the impact of the post-election violence. Many other people still do. The rest of the country might have moved on but they are yet to. She probably will never move on, but she hopes that the therapy will help ease the burden that she has carried in her heart for all these years.
She reads that there were meetings held in Eldoret town occasionally between the victims and the perpetrators, in a bid to embrace reconciliation. She has never brought herself to attend any of them. When she mentioned it, her therapist suggested that it would be good for her to attend. Wanja, however, is yet to decide if she would do so.
Right now, she is teaching herself to forgive, even without apology. She is learning to love herself again, building her self-esteem from the ground up, and she is doing it with grace and love, and that is good enough for now.
“One step at a time,” she reminds herself every time she watches the sun set.
END
- Lest We Forget || Waruguru Susan Chomba - February 12, 2022
Wow! A nice read, this one.