Baba

Baba,

When I was 4, the sun rose in your eyes and set at your feet. I thought the birds and the bees bowed down to you when you left the house. And Batman brought you back home in his automobile in the evening. Little Terry and I would meet you at the gate with open arms and toothless grins. And you’d blissfully carry us like sacks of cotton to the house. From your pocket, you’d retrieve two toffees wrapped in green checkered napkins and hand it to me. You’d proudly watch as I gave one to Terry.

That is how you taught me how to share Baba.

When I was 10, I started noticing the worn-out shoes on your feet, the permanently stained shirts that you repeatedly wore, and the burrowed wrinkles on your forehead. That was when I realized that the only automobile we could afford was perhaps, a trolley. I took note of our closet of a house, with its weather-beaten walls, and abrasive floors. I was taken aback by how commodious the kiosk around the corner was.

It’s like the world was grand, but we sheltered in a speck of dust.

I also remember the women that frequented our place. They were, for lack of a more abhorrent word, insufferable. They only put on a face when you were around. Behind your (tired) back, they pinched our skinny little arms and scolded us like prisoners from Alcatraz. What was her name? Jezebel? The evil woman from the Bible? Yes, Jezebel was a saint compared to them.

Fortunately, they came as fast as they went.

I remember Madam Sheila though. Not because of her lavender scented hair that enveloped us when she bent over to kiss us. Or her sunlight of a smile when we showed her our silly drawings. Or the sweet aroma that filled our shoe of a house when she was in the kitchen. Or how soft and gentle you became when she was around. I remember Madam Sheila because, on the day she left, it was the first time I ever saw you cry. And seeing you cry made me cry. Only in my old age did I realize that she was the one you truly loved. Madam Sheila was the closest to a mother we ever got. And she left behind three broken little hearts.

I also remember that amidst your waterfall, I got the shameless guts to ask you,

 “Where is my mother?”

 I swear we could have flooded the house on that day. Drowned in a sea of salty eye extracts.

Everything changed from that day. I’m convinced that something tweaked inside you. For starters, I no longer saw any foreigners around the house. No brazen women with mismatched jewelry. No male acquaintances convincing you to spend your few coins on a bottle. No prayer warriors offering the kingdom of God if only we could spare our breakfast silvers. You formed a protective bubble around us, dedicating your life to modeling us for a bright future. Brighter than the life you had led.

You taught us invaluable skills, Baba. Like how to act like a lady and a gentleman. How to be assertive. How and why to be empathetic. Where to direct our energy. And my personal favorite, how to defend and protect little Terry.

Some lessons were so random. Like when you opened your doors to Mama Aisha as she hid from her abusive husband. Or when you'd return excess change.

You’d tell us that this world was in need of so much love to blanket all the hurt.

But what blanket would suffice Baba?

You exposed us - to the very best of your capability - to books that would teach us about sales and marketing. You introduced us to people that had polished negotiation skills, mostly fish vendors and hawkers. You bounced ideas off little Terry and me, training us how to be dependable critical thinkers. Skills we’d never learn in school.

You made little Abraham Lincolns of us.

Over the weekends, when you were not on your watch guard duty, you’d teach me how to make cabinets, stools and all sorts of furniture. I remember crying bloody murder when I had a potato aim and struck my thumb with a hammer. While I begged the sun to scorch me alive, you were busy with Terry by the stove, teaching her how to make samosas and cakes. The Gospel truth is that I despised the weekends. It was tormenting to watch the other children play football at the playground while you hassled us over the proper length of drawers and fussed over wasted eggs.

By the time I was 18, I could sell lingerie to a nun. I had become a long lanky boy with an eloquent tongue and a sharp mind. I had run small businesses of selling sweets at school (and other businesses that cannot be mentioned because you do not deserve a stroke Baba, haha). I generated enough income to take little Terry to a better school and helped her access quality sanitary towels.

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In a month, I’ll be 26-years-old Baba. A grown man with a slowly receding hairline and some tufts of hair on the cheeks. I guess your genes took no shortcuts when it came to me. Thanks to your relentless deeds to produce the finest of children in society, I currently own Clarence Furniture. It was named after you of course. I have just opened two new branches in the nearby cities bringing a total of 17 stores in the country.

Little Terry is not little anymore. She was impregnated by one of these sweet-tongued street buffoons. He immediately took off when Terry disclosed that she was expecting. But for my ego’s sake, let’s just agree that she was scared that my skinny bones would poke him and strangle him to his inglorious death.

Her son is five years old now. An intelligent young man with questions that can dethrone a king:

"Why do I have two eyes if I only see one thing?"

"There is someone in my head that talks back to me...do I have superpowers?"

"Are girls...aliens?"

Do not worry, Baba. Terry is not struggling. Thanks to you, she has a chain of bakeries that I swear has the best pastries in the state. You guessed it! She also named it Clarence Bakeries! She gets contracts with the government and serves high-end people. Yet, she becomes more humble every day.

If that’s not impressive enough, Clarence Talent School just enrolled its first set of students. It’s a volunteer-run organization that helps youngsters hone their skills to be able to change their lives. A chance like the one you gave us.

I’m writing this for a competition Baba. I’m supposed to write of a superpower.

How do I tell them that my superman did not wear underpants over tight clothing but shabby oversized clothes? How do I properly express that your only superpower was your empathy and devotion? How do I tell them that you sacrificed your chance of love and friendship from your peers to cater to our personal development? How do I tell them that I would not be the man I am today if it were not for you?

You are the greatest man that ever graced this earth. You deserved more than this world ever gave you. Yet, with the little that was given unto you, you planted magical seeds in us. Seeds of love and perseverance that will pass from generation to generation. No material gift will ever fill that basket of gratitude. For the rest of your remaining life, Terry and I shall take you to heights that you only ever dreamt of.

With utmost respect and admiration,

John Kamau.