Tag Archives: brother

Brother, it’s Christmas!

Dear bro,

Merry Christmas my brother. It’s my prayer that you, Othieno, are doing well in Nairobi. Allow me to convey greetings from your family back at home. Grandma also sends her greetings. We are doing’ fine except Father. We were happy that Obondo delivered the maize to you. Crops didn’t do so well this season and that’s why they are less compared to what we sent you last season.

Father has been sick, for a while now, but we didn’t want to bother you with it. We took him to the local health centre and the doctor said he has developed stomach ulcers…wounds in his stomach…due his excessive use of chang’aa (he rarely eats as he is drank most of the time). We have tried talking some sense in him but our words have fallen into deaf ears. We even talked to Nyaloka not to be selling chang’aa to him,but still he comes home drank. We even sought spiritual intervention from Omondi Ja polo, who told as that he has been bewitched. We bought; candles, about 10metres of fabric, a hen and paid him some money, mom had to sell that goat that was left to raise the money. All that money was swept down the river. His drinking got from bad to worse. Anyway, that’s enough about baba.

Mama is managing well,but I know she’s just putting on a brave face not to worry us. Deep in her eyes I see pain. She talks about you most of the time. Worried that you might marry those ojua (know-it-all town ladies) and make your life miserable. Or worse still, squander all your money and disappear with all your belonging like they did Owiti. But I assure her that you are smart. She didn’t raise no fool. You can identify a decent lady from athongo (a loose lady). Grandma travels with her in the worry-train too. They have promised to talk to you about their concerns when you come home for Christmas. I overheard them talking of proposing that you take Adhiambo, Okere’s sister as a wife. I agree with them. She has grown up and is very respectful. Her behind is the type you like. She’s also not the loose type. She’s very hardworking…noticable from her love for farming. However, the final decision will be yours to make.

Our younger siblings; Anyango,Akeyo and the little boy Othwindi are already in the mood for Skukuu (siku kuu) , christmas. Skukuu cries can be heard across the village. Making me remember how we used to wake up early to do the call out: ‘Sukukuuuuuu!’ then Owiti and his brother would respond with: ‘Obwogouuu!’ across the stream. We would do the shouting for weeks until the very Christmas day. The night to the big day took like forever. It was always the longest night of our childhood. We woke up quite early, as did mom to bake maandazis. Do you remember that day you stole some of those maandazis and gave some to me,then we stashed them in our pockets to church? Hehe. That was gross. We came back from church and mom noticed our pockets were shinny with cooking oil stains. She then denied us some more, saying we already ate our share. Miss those days.

Anyway, I don’t know what you plan on buying me this time when you’ll be coming home, but there’s this jeans trouser I saw when some Nairobi boys came for some burial here in the village that really caught my eye. It looks like an old pair and with tarters around the knee, I don’t know how they call it but I’d love it if you got me a pair of one of those. And any nice shoes you see there in the city. I want to walk with you on the skukuu day and I need to look the part. I wish I had gone to secondary school like you. This village would have respected me. I could have been in Nairobi too,with you. Together we would have taken care of our family, big brother.

Othwindi, our younger brother, lost his shoes before they closed school for holidays. I don’t understand how. So, you’ll have to consider him in your shopping. Akeyo has overgown the shoes you bought her last christmass, the dress too is torn. Anyango has, at least , been the responsible one. Her shoes and dress are still in good condition, but you don’t want to bring a conflict by leaving her out. Just try and get her something to even things. As for mama and grandma, you know how you always do your magic with those two.

I would like to leave it at that. I have a lot to discuss but that can wait. I’ll be a attending the village baraza today. Ogwindi was found stealing maize from Nyar Puoyo’s farm and the matter is to be handled by the elders today. Nyawiny was also caught yesternight cohabiting with her pastor inside the church by some boys who were attending a village disco and were attracted by some sounds emanating from inside the church. The pastor managed to escape but not without leaving behind his jacket, containing his wallet that had an I.D, and a hat. The pastor has since gone missing. I’ll tell you more when you come home. Bye for now.

Your loving bro,

Onyango.

Merry Christmas and Happy New year to all who took time off their busy schedule to visit this space. Shout out to; Sakko da Prefekt, Wizzi,Alade, Calvo, Oposhe, Pee, Rigo aka Wambizi, Kivi and G-Mlazoh. It’s that time of the year. Hope to see you guys.

Just before you leave. Support a brother by clicking and watching Bandika Bandua by Prefekt and Lexxboi

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A Letter To My Brother Overseas.

Letter To My Brother Overseas

Dear Otis, 

It is with deep sorrow, mixed with enthusiasm, that I write you this letter from your village, Mlaha – do you even remember that name, your village’s name? Sorrow because I miss you so much my brother, and enthusiasm because this is the first letter I have written to you  and because I believe it will reconnect us. OK, how are you doing over there? It’s been 25 years since you left home for loka (overseas ), 25 long dreary years. I was your favorite… remember?… and you had promised to come back for me, I was only five then. Do you even remember me, Onyango?  I pray you still do, because just a mere thought that you might have forgotten my name, brings me down to tears. 

When you left for the white man’s land, mother told us( me and our two sisters) that you were going to become pastor, preaching the message to the whites. We got very proud and bragged all over the village about it, about how great you were going to become. Anytime an aeroplane flew over the village, I told my friends that it was carrying you, and they believed it, because I believed so, too. Mom became the envy of the village, her son had flown on a plane, to the land yonder. You instantly became an inspiration. I remember the letters you sent home occasionally, mom kept them under her mattress because they meant so much  to her. Once, I did still a letter to go and show it off to my friends, mom found out and I received a dog’s beating, but I didn’t mind, because you promised to come for me and the beating will be no more. 

When I clocked Seven years and began attending school, your letters reduced to one in a year, we couldn’t understand why, but mom always told us that you must be busy preaching the word of God. That consoled me but still I looked forward to the letters. Eventually, the letters abated. What ever made you stop? Still, my childish heart trusted and hoped and waited. The planes flew above occasionally, but they brought us no news of you. Were there no pens and papers? 

One day I found mom praying to God to take care of you, she begged God to tell her why you had stopped sending letters. I listened outside her bedroom hoping to hear what God would tell her, but no answer came. I heard her sobbing and I got scared, I found myself too letting down a free flow of tears wash my tender face. I was only ten years. From then, mom stopped talking about you. I took care not to broach the subject anytime she was around. Another day, our younger sister, Akech, mentioned your name and I could see nothing but marked dread in mama’s eyes. I could tell she was hurting inside, she just didn’t want us to know, or get worried. That day she went to bed early and when she woke up next day morning, she was sick. I retreated to that bush next to our home and cried my heart out, I cried for myself, and I cried for mama too. I prayed to God in those tears, those young tears. I begged Him to answer mama’s prayers, I implored him to, at least, send a message to you. I shouted to planes flying over the village to bring you back home, to let you know that we miss you terribly. 

By the way, when grandma passed away, why didn’t you come? Did she not send you dreams of her demise? We waited for you and even extended the burial date, just in case your flight had been delayed, but nothing. We were really optimistic that you wouldn’t miss grandma’s burial. You had promised to buy her a car, and even take her to Nairobi before she dies, what happened to that pledge? I’m sure she is so sad in her grave, she did fight death, a gruesome battle it had been. She lived every second holding tight to those promises, they kept her alive. Like mama, she was haunted by your silence. She lived in despair till her dying day. In her eyes she still clung to a thin thread of hope, that one day, someday you would show up at the gate. And all the silense would be like a mirage. Some kind of a weird dream she had been having. She grew frail each passing day, until finally death wrestled breathe out of her withered lungs. 

My brother, mum almost died that moment, when you didn’t show up for the burial. She got so depressed. It’s like she was trying to burry you with grandma, to ease her pain. She had a nervous breakdown, wish you had seen the anguish in her eyes. The agony of losing her eldest son. What pulled her out of it, was Okong’os return from… um… the U.K. He had gone there only five years earlier ,and drove back to the village receiving a king’s welcome. He had come home and gave mama some cash, saying  he saw you and you sent him with the money, and that you promised to come home soon. And that you apologised for the silence. He brought no letter though. Was it true? That you sent him? We began the wait with renewed energy. We pictured you coming home, driving your own car. Probably, with a white wife. Mom was alive again. 

Otis, do you have a heart?  Did we, your family members, wrong you in any way? You know that you had been like a father to us after dad’s death, we all looked up to you, even mama. Why did you have to desert us? Was it a sin so heavy that you can’t forgive us? Mama died four years ago. She collapsed one afternoon and that was the end of her. The doctors said she died of a heart attack. Mama missed you to death. Thinking of you is what did her in. If only you had written a letter to her, it might have made a difference. Maybe she still would have been alive. We buried her and I tried to burry you with her like she tried to do with grandma, but I couldn’t. I almost lost my mind, but I had to remain sane for our lastborn. 

Our other sister, Auma, got married, married to a man who is married to alcohol. She endures beatings and insults, and no matter how much I try to talk her out of the marriage, she remains adamant. All she says is: You don’t understand.  Maybe she is right, I don’t understand. I managed to send our lastborn to a Teachers Training College and she’s graduating next year. I don’t have a formal job here at home and that has made it a living hell for us. I have cut down most of the trees on our land, for sale and others I used to burn charcoal, just to make sure Akech completes her training. Recently, I started making mud building bricks behind grandma’s house. From it I hope to raise capital to start a business. I had to leave school in Form Three because mama couldn’t raise the money for school fees, I don’t blame her though. It wasn’t easy being a mother and a father, but she did her best. 

This letter, though stained with my tears and bloated in other parts, is all I could come up with. I couldn’t contain the emotions and I hope you’ll understand. Even if you won’t come back home, please try and write back. Just tell me that you hate me, even if you don’t explain why, I promise to understand. I won’t push any further. I do believe you are still alive, I can feel it. You don’t have to fulfill any promises, because I’m no longer a kid anymore, mama is dead and grandma is no more. I’m hurt because I love you. I’m hurt because I care. 

Yours sincerely, 

Onyango.