The Child of Our Choices
It's the bother of raising kids that made me absent. Like an absent voter who doesn't make an effort to impact the future. Your vote counts.
I look at her again.
For a long moment I say nothing.
Because the truth is…
The future rarely arrives as a stranger.
Sometimes it arrives carrying your own blood.
And suddenly my mind drifts back.
Back to a different time.
A younger version of me — long before the tumbler, before these conversations with Jamo.
Back to the day I met her mother.
Because if we are to understand the future standing at that door…
we must first understand the past that brought it here.
The past was easy.
I remember growing up playing Chobo uwa, times when the president would just decide to extend school holidays and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Times when the president visiting an area meant we would miss school and line up along the road clapping and yapping like little monkeys in a zoo waiting for bananas… and sometimes we even got them.
Times were simple.
I met Jamo way back in high school. We clicked just like that. The guy was from a good family so the school box always had the necessities to make life easy.
Our friendship carried on into college.
And that’s where I met her.
Her mother.
Saying beauty, is an understatement. She was made — the kind of beauty that makes a young man suddenly believe the world has more poetry than problems.
It started with the usual things.
Small walks.
Long talks that meant absolutely nothing but somehow felt important.
Those quiet evening walks where the sun slowly disappears behind the hills and two young people pretend they are discussing the future… when in reality they are just enjoying the illusion that the future will take care of itself.
Young love is like that.
It makes promises the future never agreed to keep.
Then one day she told me she was pregnant.
Just like that.
And suddenly the little romantic walks turned heavy. Heavy with responsibility. Heavy with expectations.
And the truth is… I was not ready.
Not ready to be a father.
Not ready to be a man.
So I did what stupid young men do when life suddenly demands maturity.
I ran.
Quietly.
No speeches.
No explanations.
Just distance.
And life continued.
Years passed.
Jamo and I kept meeting like this — drinks, laughter, complaints about the damsel, complaints about his marriages.
The tumblers slowly became our permanent companion.
That chapter of my life became something I filed away in the back of my mind like an old receipt you know you should deal with but never do.
Until tonight.
Because the past has a funny way of showing up when you least expect it.
As we sat there, she slowly walked toward the dance floor.
The lights caught her for a moment and the music softened around her.
And Jamo… my buddy Jamo… could not take his eyes off her.
The man was staring like a young boy seeing sunshine for the first time.
I watched him watching her.
Then he slowly turns to me.
“A daughter?? Man… really?? And you never even mentioned that to me?”
I could hear something in his voice.
Not anger.
Pain.
The kind of pain that comes when you realize something important is about to be taken from you.
I look at him.
Take a slow sip from my glass.
Then I tell him quietly,
“She is not my daughter.”
He looks at me confused.
And I continue.
“That’s not who I am. I don’t take responsibility. I might complain once in a while… but I don’t take responsibility.”
And that, is exactly me and you.
That is exactly who we are as voters.
We complain.
We shout.
We blame leaders for everything.
But the truth is simpler and much more uncomfortable.
As voters, we make the choice.
Who we choose is our responsibility.
Leaders are meant to serve us.
To listen to us.
To understand our needs.
To build the future we demand.
But that only works if we are wise.
If we keep making the same mistakes… we cannot expect a different future.
Across the room she laughs at something someone says on the dance floor.
Jamo is still watching her.
Maybe wondering if this is the beginning of something new.
Maybe wondering if the future has finally arrived.
And me…
I sit there quietly refilling my glass.
Because sometimes the past you once ran away from returns… not to punish you.
But to remind you that the future has been waiting patiently for you to grow up.
As Chávez once said,
“Once you educate the people, you cannot make them unlearn.”
We have seen the future.
And the future is ours.
They think we don’t see.
But we are faceless… and yet we see.
Gods of Taita Taveta, let’s make it in our own image.
Next Saturday, stay tuned for the next episode.
For any queries or information, reach out to us at Voice of Taita Taveta
📍 X: @doctalve
📧 Email: doctalve@gmail.com
— Voice of Taita Taveta
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