Watoto wa Mr. Magoweni

We grew up in a very secure environment.

We had what influencers now call financial freedom.

I hope, yes.

We had a beautiful house on the hill,

Big parties that always left the mtaa talking for years.

We never cared about Hasda.

We had a DSTV dish by our house and an internet modem.

I remember my dad picking us up from school in his four-wheel car.

Mum was very active in social circles.

This lifestyle was not new to her,

But we all loved her golf days.

Because we looked forward to spending time at the country club.

She was in every chama that popped up,

And not just a member. She was the chairperson in all.

She had a taste for expensive hobbies,

And at times we joked,

"How did Dad bag such a rich girl?"

She would smirk at us and go about her business.

Now we know better.

We were also known as Watoto wa Expensive Drunkards.

At that time, that sounded rich.

At least Dad did not drink silly,

Sleep in sewers,

Or shushu on himself.

So we were comfortable with the lingo being thrown around.

Then my dad lost his job in 2019.

I was in Form 4,

The year we were supposed to build the retirement mansion in Mudzini.

We all had our room sketches ready.

Mum had one request, a sauna.

"Bebi, hata lift nitakuwekea," Dad would reply.

He sat us down and explained the situation.

You could hear the fear of the unknown in his cracked, quiet voice.

You could see Mum’s blaming eyes on him as he spoke.

"But Mungu… God will provide,"

My dad, who had never uttered God's name

Or even set foot in church since Lydia's baptism, said.

Several months in, we started what Mum would tell her friends.

"We are going minimal, watoto ni wakubwa, na vitu ni mingi sana."

But I think they saw and knew we were selling things to Baba Ryan Rehani.

His pickup had been to our compound several times to collect "vitu mingi."

My younger sister drowned herself in books

Because all her friends had cut her off.

She was too broke to afford an ice cream,

And that made us suffer from her outbursts from time to time.

"Mum, call Guka sai! Siwezi kula ugali na papa again nimechoka!"

We all helplessly watched my dad get up

And head to the bedroom to probably cry.

Mum’s expensive hobbies were thrown away.

She started a food business with only viazi karai on the menu.

I remember us walking Marikiti under the scorching sun,

Sourcing for things,

The long queues at that shop near Fire,

Just to get cute plates za customer.

We dusted the Jubilee campaign tent

That had been stored in the store.

We were all confused by Mum’s obsession with aesthetics for a base ya viazi,

But according to her, presentation matters.

Dad, on the other hand, had decided he would not work anymore.

He opened a kibanda ya makaa

And took Karisa from Mudzini to come and do the "hard work."

His job was to shout at Karisa and count money.

When his best drinks ran out,

He started going to Magoweni.

A move that made them argue with Mum from time to time.

"Baba Liz, wachana na mnazi!"

Until he became a regular.

He would come home with stories.

We would laugh with him,

Until the stories never sounded funny.

But a cry for help.

We watched as he trembled while using his phone.

We watched as he repeated the same stories.

Our house fragrance was now mnazi scent—his breath, worse.

We noticed when Mum started airing their High Destiny mattress early in the morning.

Magoweni had finally caught up with us.

Mum silently wiped a tear

As we all watched Dad wet himself with no idea what was going on.

We were now Watoto wa Mr. Magoweni.

All his gym gains had disappeared.

My dad slept in the sewage.

We picked him up from the dens at 5 AM,

Bailed him out from the police

Because he fought with Katana.

The kids followed behind him, singing,

"Baba Liz ni mlevi... anakojoa!"

And Dad would try and run after them.

But bear no fruits.

We knew that mtoto wa Kadzo was our step-sister,

Hence why Mum bought her new clothes

And secretly gave Kadzo shopping every month.

Or why Mum made sure she ate viazi and uji at 4 PM for free.

Mum’s knees were black.

Not from pleasure, but from prayer.

She had doubled in age.

Her eyes had big, dark circles.

Her skin was dry.

Her skin tone had changed.

Her makeup now mvuke wa kuni.

She spent more time lamenting to God than talking to us.

Her family’s worries had finally caught up.

And proved right.

We looked at Dad’s frail frame on the hospital bed,

And Mum whispered,

"He's going away as a poor man,

With a dream and a handsome smile."

She bitterly laughed

And joked how he looked malnourished from love.

We were finally the stories he used to narrate to us.

The white house on the hill.

Now a ghost of broken dreams,

Haunted by the echoes of what could have been.