‘You’re rich eh?’ “No. We’re not.” “But your dad drives motorcar.” “It belongs to his place of work.” “But your mom has nice hair and works at an office.” “We’re not rich.” “But you wear shoes to school.” “You wear shoes, too.” “But mine are not like yours. You bought yours at the Bata shop, eh?” “No. My mom bought them at the market.” “But you’re rich, eeh?” “No, Shiku. We are not rich. We need to run. We’ll be late for school.”
Karī (kar- eı) was used to these questions. She loved this place. Here, she had memories of great adventures. Here, she learned how to speak her mother tongue, Kikuyu. She still remembers that first day of school when she walked into her third-grade reading class, and she thought they sounded like they were chanting a spell or some weird ritual. She now prides herself in being able to name most of the trees in the forest in this beautiful language.
Her family had moved around a lot and had lived in 4 different counties in Kenya. This beautiful land covered with lush green tea farms had been home to Karī for four years.
Karī never thought this would change until that warm, sunny Sunday morning. Grandma and one of her brothers had just finished feeding the chickens, her other brother was fixing his car outside, and her youngest sister was playing beside her. She heard the car outside and ran to the window to see if her mom and dad were home. Her dad was coming home from the hospital today, and she was excited!
His doctor pulled up and walked around to let her mom out. She seemed different and didn’t lift her head up as she walked down the stairs to the front door. Karī knew something bad had happened, but she wished it away. She wanted her mom to open the door, smile, and tell her everything was okay.
The doctor opened the door and let her in and the moment she saw her children, she broke down. She then uttered the words that sent Karī’s world moving in slow motion.
“Daddy is gone.”
Karī’s grandma threw the empty jerrycan down, held her head, and begun wailing. Her elder brother stood in shock, and her other brother ran to his room and locked the door behind him. Her little sister ran and hugged their mom tight. Kari just stood there and watched everything unfold like she wasn’t there. Minutes later, their house would be full of strangers, family, and friends. This would go on for a week, like an unending cycle. Strange people asking if she needed anything, people taking things that belonged to her dad… Karī wanted to wake up from this nightmare. She wanted her father back. She wanted her mom to smile again. She wanted to go to school and see Shiku and answer her silly questions. She wanted her beautiful, adventurous life back.
“Karī, I feel bad for you. You’re going away, eh?” “I don’t think so, Shiku.”
Shiku would soon be right, but Karĩ would forever wish for the Saturday before the Sunday that changed it all.
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