It was a hard experience watching all my love go down the drain. People stared at me, not believing I was the wife, or probably pitying me for what lay ahead for me. I was feeling so bad that if it wasn't for mom, who came and held me, I would have found myself on the floor, for I was fainting. When I regained consciousness, I was lying under a tree. There were people beside me, whom I could not recognize at once. It surprised me to realize that these people were my mom, Jack's mom and sister, a few friends and relatives. I didn't talk to anyone oftherri. What could I have told them, anyway, and they had witnessed everything for themselves? They had their lovers around; mine had been whisked to a land of confinement. I picked my handbag, hung it on my shoulder and left. I wanted to have time alone, time to condemn the devil who had done all this to me, to think how I would manage a life without the one I loved; to try and imagine I was in his hands, my head on his chest as it used to be; to imagine the caressings he very well knew how to perform, and.. .to start my endless tears.
Life was never the same any longer. Nothing would give me consolation in the coming years. I think the only days I would say were better were those when I
went to see him in prison. I would weep on seeing how he was reduced to zero. But on coming back home I'd feel him. My imagination of our past at such times would make sense. All I hated was to hear him tell me to find another man. Twenty years wasn't long enough to make him an old man. I wasn't twenty yet and I felt there was hope that my luck didn't lie
anywhere near him. Probably it could be that he said it from shame, or to comfort me. But from whichever angle I observed things, I saw him as my only future. I wanted him to live in my memory and I was glad I was able to keep him with me even in his absence.
Years passed by and I continued visiting him in prison. I would talk to a prison officer and persuade him to smuggle in some money for him, because I had learned that he needed it. He had never asked me for money but I could guess it was because he wanted me to keep whatever I earned; he claimed I needed every penny I earned, now that I had no one else to support me and I had a child.
But I wanted him to be happy and to know that I was up to that time with him in memory. I would give the officer one hundred shillings for himself and two hundred for my husband; he would send a message to tell me he had got the money and that I should not do it again. "If I am caught with the money, dear, it will be the end of me," he would say. "Money is illegal in prison, dear, it is a crime to be in possession of it." The same warden he would send to bring the letter to me would be having another letter for a friend of his, or for his sister, Connie. The letters would be demanding money from them. Jack was a mysterious person and up to that time, prison seemed not to have changed him any bit.
I took his son to visit him, twice. When the baby was two years and when he was eight. The boy, who reminded me of his father every time I looked at him, was so much like Jack. He had adopted his fathers manner of asking questions, which stung like a bee. There were times he wanted to know why he was a son of a woman while all his classmates were sons and daughters of men.
"Mum, don't I have a dad?" He was eight then and in Standard II.
"Why do you ask, son?"
"Why do I have to call myself Zollo Nyambiu. Weren't you married when you begot me?"
"My son, every child in this world has his dad. Some were unfortunate, because their fathers died from car accidents, others drowned in rivers during heavy rains, and others died in hospitals."
"But they still refer themselves as their fathers' sons, dead or alive. What happened to my father? Please tell me, mum. You weren't married, then?" This gave me shame, especially when it came from my son.
"I was married, son, and I am still married."
"To my dad?"
"Yes, son, to your dad."
"And where is he? Why doesn't he come to visit us or stay with us?"
"But he comes and goes, son. You have seen him here many times."
"That is a lie. That man who comes here can't be my dad. Why is he so black and I am so brown? I was told by Aunt that he isn't my father. That is why I do not use his name." He was tormenting me, ignorantly, and there was nothing I could do about it. The boy seemed too clever for his age. I had no doubt that someone had told him the truth. But that was not all: he too had some intelligence that I hadn't seen in most children. I had to tell him the truth.
"Son, your dad is in prison. Do you know what prison is?"
"I think I do. What does he do there?"
"Just staying and being trained."
"To become a teacher like you?"
"No. To become something else. A carpenter, a cobbler, a tailor or a mechanic. It is for him to decide what he will be when he comes out."
"When will he come?"
"Not soon, son. But he will come and join us."
"And why don't we visit him in college?"
"Not college, son, prison. You said you know what prison is."
"Yes, when do we visit him in prison? Mom, I must see dad. Please…"
I had to make arrangements and take him there. He did not give me rest. Every morning he made sure he reminded me of the visit as I took him to school. I had long left East African Airways and joined teaching. This was arranged by Jack's mother, who up to that time took care of me. She had taken me up to the college and for two years she stayed with her grandson. Jack did not know of it; we had decided to keep it to ourselves. My mom had no objection. She liked Jack's mother and said whatever was decided between the two of us had her whole approval. That way, life was made easy for me.
In February, 1979, I told my son we would go to visit his father in prison. That night he did not sleep. I woke up early in the morning and went to his bedroom.
The boy wasn't there. I thought he had gone to the toilet so I went to the tableroom. He was there. He had taken a bath and changed. I was surprised, I looked at the wall clock and saw it was 6.30 a.m.
"Son, why did you have to wake up so early? It is cold in the morning."
"Mom, I am eager to see my dad. I couldn't sleep. Let's go. You said we would go early." In one hour, I was ready.
We reached Naivasha town at around 8.30 a.m. The boy didn't see much on the journey, as he was aleep. The dirt road to the prison was over two kilometres. When I was alone, I normally went on foot when I knew I was too early. This time I hired a taxi.
Jack was brought to the visitors' room at 9.30 a.m. While we waited, his son kept nagging me. He would go to the prison officers passing by and enquire why his dad had taken so long. He even asked one officer whether his father wore such uniform.
He was disappointed to realize that he wasn't going to shake hands with his father but instead talk with him on the phone, looking at him through glass. But it was a very clear vision.
"Here comes your father now. See, he is a short man, as I told you," I said when Jack appeared.
"Isn't he coming here, mom?"
"No. You'll talk to him on that phone. Go closer." He started weeping. I was surprised; I had not seen him weep for over three years. I went and took the phone.
"Why did you have to come with him? What do you want him to know, so that he could hate me?" He sounded angry. It was ridiculous that that was the welcome he gave me. I wasn't surprised; I expected that from Jack. Not that he wasn't grateful of my visits. It was only that he was concerned, seeing that my journeys cost me so much in fare and time. But he failed to realize that in trying to be that good, he was hurting me, as I had as much concern for him as he had for me. This, however, was the last visit I ever made.
"Ask your son that question. He will tjell you. Do you know how much and for how long I have resisted?"
"What do you think I feel seeing his tears. Do you…"
"Jack, will you never learn to be soft. I find it fair to warn you that your son is very intelligent. So try to act like a good father. You'll talk with him and find out for yourself."
All the time we were talking, his eyes were on his son. I could sense that he was overjoyed to see him and probably noticed their resemblance. "Give him the phone. He has wept enough." I turned to Zollo Junior. "Here son, talk to your dad.
If you continue weeping, he will dislike you and will never come to join us. Take care." He took the phone.
"Hello, son. How are you?" the father called. The smile on his face reminded me of everything. I hadn't seen it any time I visited him. It probably had been reserved for the son.
"Dad, when are you coming?"
"Very soon, when I know you are good to your mum, I'll come."
"Am good to her, dad. I told her I wanted to see you. I knew that black man who comes home wasn't my dad. I am happy to see you. Can you come with us? Isn't your training over?"
"Not yet, son." He was now looking at me. The son had talked of another man.
"I don't like the clothes you are wearing, dad. They look bad."
At least he was sweating it out. I enjoyed every minute of it. If there was anyone who could change him, it was his own son. I could see how much bothered he was as the son pestered him with questions I, for one, couldn't answer. The warders with us were laughing, admiring the intelligence of the young boy who sounded doubtful any time he was given a dissatisfactory answer. But his father was Vll
another one who wasn't easily outsmarted. They made a good pair. We all marvelled at the happiness between the father and son.
As for me, I went to my usual practice: weeping as the buried memories of my most beloved man came back. They talked for the maximum time, fifteen minutes.
Each time the warder went for the phone the son would protest, almost violently. It was only when his father was forced to put the receiver down that the son reluctantly banged his also. We went out, but not before the son saw him disappear. The son had known the father, and the father likewise. The debt now was on the father. Would that change him? I wondered.
I got the second child after nine years. Jack's son was approaching his tenth birthday. I felt like having badly offended Jack. I could not visit him again, I couldn't stand his eyes looking at me with a baby that wasn't his. I didn't want him to question me either, which I was sure he would. I found it best to stay away from him, because I too didn't like what I had done. But I was still single and longing for him.