A Life Autopsy
Retracing my steps to see how my upbringing laid the groundwork for attracting a psychopath
Iwas born in Kisumu area; my first memory is of a place called Kibos, a beautiful community with Nandi hills on the backdrop. My father was a math teacher in a local primary school, and my mother was a lab tech working in a veterinary research institute called KARI. Yes, we are a STEAM family.
My dad was a tall, charming, light-skinned, bespectacled man with a deep bass. Think of a blend of Barack Obama and Gus of Breaking Bad. He always had a grin on his face that hid a fiery temperament. My mother is short, dark-skinned, and beautiful, with a soft soprano voice that gets into alto when unhappy. They were opposites.
I am the third child of eight. During this period, we were still five in Kisumu. I remember heading to school with my father when I was the youngest. My older sisters always scrambled in the morning to leave ahead of him. I never understood why, but I recall showing up at the school gate, and the entire school, including teachers, would run into classes. The school compound would clear up, and it would go quiet.
My dad’s nickname from the students was Mr.“fire.”
Students feared him, and a meeting with Mr. Fire would send shivers down the spine of anyone. Parents who had Students with indiscipline issues would beg the principal to admit their kids into the school so that Mr. Fire could straighten them up. These cases would have ended in Juvenile schools in the US.
He was highly respected, loved, and feared. The school performed well and produced top students during his reign. Students who had been written off ended up in top high schools and became scholars, thanks to Mr. Fire. Some are high-ranking today in the Kenyan government and still remember him.
Being his daughter granted us status and favors. Saying our last name was a key that helped open & navigate our community.
Corporal punishment was the order of the day. A relic of colonialism. It worked… at least for the immediate future.
At home, my dad had a cane we nicknamed “omieri”. My dad’s beatings, or “discipline” as we say in Africa, were excessive. I think he would blank out with anger and forget that he is still whipping you. It wasn’t long before I realized he was not there while beating someone. Something else had taken over. So I started resisting; I would hold the cane, tell him, “Dad, I think that’s enough,” or flee. He would multiply my beatings, but I soon wore him out.
My sister Al was my opposite. She would lie there dutifully and take it. That level of submission has always intrigued me. I could never. I refuse to submit to beatings. Soon, my father would begin closing all exits and doors to ensure I didn’t flee. So it became a dance of him trying to hit me with a cane, me catching it and arguing my case, him multiplying, Starting over and over…” Have you thought of just talking to me? It will be more effective”, I mumbled one day, I must have caught him by surprise because he laughed so hard. A friendship began.
#alifeautopsyseries
