Who am I?

To my daughter Sunjua,

Receive greetings from your dad. I have purposed to paper and pen since technology as you have learned is always on the monitor. Today I feel well enough to convey some crucial knowledge of my work and life…

I am sorry...I am really sorry…I weep as I write since I know what evil things I did when…

What I mean is that for many years I told you of your close mother; that she loves you and she misses you, and that she wants you to grow into a beautiful and steady young lady. Well, that is true except for one thing. I am actually not your dad.

If there was a letter worth burning in hell, if there was a human worth facing torment without reprise; if I was death.

This was the very beginning of all tours I made in the world just to meet my ‘dad’. My past years had been so encouraging and with the great honours and degrees I had achieved, the final statement was not a shocker but a theme to pursue – sort of expounding a thesis about metamorphosis of renaissance art. But to put it simply, I was heart-jacked!

June 7^th I unraveled my anguish to Regina my childhood friend. She loosed her bun and led me straight to a lab. “Let me ask you something.” She cajoled.

I knew that she was a very open minded spirit; she never required anyone’s permission to empower me with such rhetoric. She just shot questions and let any ashes rise with the fire they burned in the minds of many of her fiends and allies and so I knew then that whatever idea clicked in her was enough to make a honeymoon a global pandemic.

The weekend of reading the letter I was in Kenya, with Regina. What we had gone for was far beyond comprehension. She had proposed a tour to the Old Town where she knew a guy who knew a colleague of dad and the tour certainly came with its surprises.

First, the very fabric of Swahili is deeply ingrained in the Coast. My dad was a researcher for the East African Cultural Society delving into the intermarriage of the Arabs and Bantu language group. He therefore had to know the in and out of Swahili where /a/ is just that, /a/ and not /ae/. This is what he always loved narrating to me and I confirmed it to be true as I got to Regina’s guy.

“Jambo na Karibu.” A very bright man with a cologne worth noticing a mile away welcomed us to his coral stone house. I was desperate to sit since the humidity in that region only confirmed that my muscles were for cool zones. And as if reading my mind, a lady in a kanzu followed in with glasses of juice.

I took one glimpse at the man and knew that he wanted us to feel at home and so I opened my mouth, “So, I am Mazuri’s daughter and…” Regina handed me the glass that had remained on an ornate ebony table before us. “Thank you.” A smile flashed on the man’s lips.

“Oh yes, yes. I know you. You have the very heart of your father,” I choked.

“And the green eyes; beautiful, beautiful like her mother’s.” The lady who brought our juice just stood there giggling while my blood was racing deep within. I was vexed.

“Asante,” Regina spoke as she placed the glass on the table. “This is the lady I had informed you of earlier.”

“Yes,” nodded the man.

“She wants to know if her father...stills work here.”

“Miss but I must inform you that your father packed last week and went by ship to Europe”

“What do you mean?” Regina was herself again and the lady was gone.

The conversation was not helping and so I drifted like the breeze to the letter. Dad had not even got to sign his name which was the strangest thing, but he had not finished writing the letter either which left me in space looking for the ninth planet, and the tenth.

“So what I will do is take you to his colleague and maybe she can help you.”

“Okay, that will really save our time.” Hands shook, hands waved, my spirit seized.

On the next ride I was just in the back seat reasoning with myself. Who am I and where do I come from. All I ended up with was images of the sky in the jeep we rode.

We came to the next interviewee’s home which was a fancy little thatched house with a pretty kitchen garden and a stone pavement from a swinging doors to the balcony. After beholding the scenery of hibiscus and palm I quietly sat on a bamboo chair with quilt cushions. Tea and biscuits arrived and I knew that I was in England once again.

“Welcome, or should I say Karibu sana,” Oh what a smile the words dripped with. “I am Marie lie and these is my lovely home.” She even knew who she was while I had begun doubting the credence of my name.

With a mouthful of the evening cup Regina once again introduced me and stated the purpose of her visit. She was the one doing the talking. I was recording, sifting, deleting, comparing and decoding.

“Oh what a beautiful and steady young lady you are.” Madame Marie stretched her hand to touch my frail being. My hand rose with habit and did the rest for me. “I have been briefed of all your predicaments and I wish to enlighten you on what I can to elevate you to…” English can also hurt!

Madame Marie went on to tell tales of how dad was the best mate to work with. How he had the ability to notice the faults of projects and ‘weld’ them just in their conception. If dad had just pointed out my mother it would have been better than leave me with Madams of noble estates. But was I being too irrational.

Just as the sun set on the Indian Ocean we were in a plane to Rwanda. I do not even know what we had gone to do but since Regina had arrangement for visiting her aunt who knew my dad there I was dragged along.

Then the strangest thing happened. I recalled the words of Madame Marie and the letter dad scribbled and I quickly turned to my associate to tell her to turn the plane back.

“But honey we are not in a personal jet.” She simply replied but I strangled her till she went to the cockpit. Obviously, since I was crazy she went to the bathrooms. I did not even know which direction the pilot would be facing till we arrived in Rwanda.

The moment the plane touched down, my mind was set to take the next flight back to Kenya. When a friend has your hand and her name is Regina, you either fall in step or fall and I was wise.

We made a seventy-mile bus ride to the Volcanoes National Park and alighted just at the gate followed Regina to inside the park and boarded a motor cycle to her aunt’s homestead. Yes, she lived in a game park and no, she was no game warden.

We were cordially received and served huge sweet potatoes as my mind still tried to decipher the words of Marie. Regina’s aunt proudly flashed a book co-authored by my dad; African Cultures: Swahili and its Origin. And she began reading bits and interpreting till I slept.

It was our journey to Europe that had me ask the questions of where all these trips led to. I had not mustered the nerve of questioning earlier for I was just but a walking dead riding through the motions with a void stare on my face. Yet, I had my father’s heart and my mother’s green eyes.

I was thirty-five and not married and I asked myself why. I was tall but not a basket-ball player, and I asked myself why. I was beautiful but not a model, and I asked myself why. I even questioned my pet, a mouse, why I had bought it and not a cat. Then my dad knocked one day and reminded me that he was not my dad, and told me that I was a test-tube baby...