Beyond a wife
a letter to her father
Dear Papa,
How did it come to this? This thick cloud hanging between us; these feelings of bitterness and pain? As I write, I’m overwhelmed by guilt, my conscience torments me. My soul is in turmoil. How can I have such feelings against a man who has raised me all my life? Shouldn’t I be grateful, that I have you, and that you’ve never failed to provide? At the back of my mind mama’s words ring so loud, don’t we do it all for these children? My conscience isn’t letting me sleep.
I have so many questions which I find hard to ask; nowadays, every question somehow transmutes into a me vs you, a war of words with banging of doors. . I see how you choose to ignore or mishear my voice when I am bold enough to mention what I find uncomfortable. I see how you’ve disengaged, choosing to stay away from altercations with me. I see the silences and can anticipate what they mean; that I am a disobedient child, that I am attracting a curse upon my life. Woe unto me.
I vividly remember us driving home that day as we talked about your frustrations, I sincerely wanted to create a platform for us to air our differences. I wanted to understand you (I still want to understand you), understand why grown up me fights so much with you, yet for little me you were superman, a hero. We talked and talked, telling life tales until we got to this: “When I was a little boy and I would see old men cooking and cleaning in the kitchen, washing their own clothes, I was very puzzled. Where were the women in these people’s lives? Now I am a grown man, and I understand, I have to cook for myself, brush my own shoes and, my four children, all daughters, would not do this for me,” You finished, after which a short silenced ensued.
You broke it afterwards, “Even the bible says that women should subdue to their husbands who are the ordained heads of the home. You will be a grown woman one day, if you don’t learn how to do these things, you will not find a husband.” Silence. I had nothing to say afterwards.
Even now, my physiology does not know how to process the uncomfortable emotions that I felt then. I’m muffled, puzzled, lost. In my stomach, butterflies fly, they contort and fly up my throat. They stick to the back of my throat, and lump into a hard ball. A difficult ball to swallow. Not once have my sisters and I let you do the house chores, while we sat and lazed around. Why would you feel that we your children, have failed to give you a comfortable life? What is comfortable? What is enough? Did I miss a cultural interpretation?
Remember when I wanted to talk to you about taking a semester off from school, and I took you out to dinner? After a delicious meal, I mentioned how I’d been thinking of something serious that I intended to discuss with you only for you to interject, “Unataka kuniletea ng’ombe? Do you want to bring me cows?” I was puzzled, muffled and didn’t know what to say afterwards. What are serious matters to you? Why is marriage the first thing your brain conjured up? Do you see me beyond my dowry?
When I mentioned both of these to mama, I saw how dumbfounded she was, how she couldn’t explain. I see it every day in her eyes, in her hands, in the wrinkles on her face. I saw it the day I tried to take on her house chores, only for my hands to subdue after sores and blisters appeared on the joints between my fingers and palms. They were stale tales of her struggle, her labor, the labor we all can’t see, the invisible labor she offers every morning, every evening, every weekend.
See Papa, I am not blind anymore, I see how mama stifles her voice. I see her wake up every morning to cook, clean and wash. Afterwards, go to work, and then be back home to receive you and us in the evening. I see how she chooses to fight with pots and fires in the kitchen as you entertain the guests to a cup of sweet tea, made to the precision of “shaken not stirred.”
Papa, I’m struggling to be, and struggling to find me. Before I am a person, I am a woman. I am a woman or am I? What kind of woman? A woman attacked for being too ambitious, her ambition scaring away potential suitors; a woman chastised or not wanting to have a family and be a stay home mum. Should I choose to be both, a woman questioned for not “having it all”, a perfect balance between work and life and children and careers. My womanhood follows me everywhere, even where charity begins, where I thought it would be hailed. At home, my mere presence is an inhibition for you to cook, to clean, to cater for yourself. This woman who has no space to just be. How is it that you don’t see me beyond my womanhood? Beyond my being someone’s wife, my subduing to my husband, my children? Beyond being a daughter?
I remember when mama found out I had a “boyfriend”, back when I was a romantic teenager, oozing puppy love. Almost a decade letter, but her words are still etched in my heart or perhaps somewhere at the back of my brain, “Don’t you see, your father will disown you when he finds out? You’re being a terrible example to your sisters! Don’t you see that you’re just going to be my child, while your successful sisters the children of your father!” Papa, what makes me your daughter? Better said, what outside of me would make me your daughter? Am I not biologically yours and mama’s child? Did I miss the cultural interpretation of being someone’s child somewhere in my childhood?
Papa I hurt, Papa I hurt. I’m hurting because I’m leaving, and I’m not here to take care of my mama. As I leave, please take care of my mother, let not her hands wither, let not her heart grow faint, let not her womb and heart bear the pain of birth again, the pain of leaving her home to join yours. Please hold her hand, see her wrinkles and scars, her body withers so I succeed, so I can fly on plane and go to America. She breaks her back, gives herself no breaks, and is surely the giant on whom we all stand. We continue to see far, for her knees have yet grown weak, woe unto us when they do.
I pen off, hoping I get the courage to send this letter. But I’m afraid of being too bold. But papa I just want to know, what kind of woman would you like me to grow into?
Yours loving daughter,
Cherotich
