Mama Mboga's Survival: Life at the Bottom of the Bottom-Up Economy

 

I have never been an angry woman. Not because life has been kind, no. Life has tested me enough. But I have always chosen optimism. Even on the gloomiest days, my husband has never given me a reason to doubt him. Poor maybe. Struggling definitely. But a good man? That one I know.

Yesterday was market day. The little cash I had saved for stock disappeared into household needs. Call me a bad businesswoman if you want, but when children are hungry, profit margins become stories for another day.

I stood outside my kibanda staring at the few cabbages and bundles of managu I had brought from the market. The three hundred shillings Baba Gabu sent the other day was barely enough to buy maize flour for porridge. I am not blaming the economy. I am not blaming fuel prices. I am just telling you what life looks like from where I stand.

By the way, Gabu tried calling his father yesterday. The call never went through.

A small worry crossed my heart, but I brushed it aside. Optimism is a stubborn thing. It refuses to die even when common sense tells it to.

My son's phone went off later that night. He never got the chance to speak to his father about the job he had been promised.

I looked at the vegetables again. Nobody had bought them since yesterday. The cabbages had already started turning yellow. I peeled off the outer leaves, picked up my uteo and began chopping.

I laughed to myself.

At the rate things were going, I would finish that cabbage one leaf at a time before a customer appeared.

Life has been hard lately. Gabu has started carrying a certain anger inside him. The quiet type. The dangerous type. The type that sits in a young man's chest when he watches his parents struggle and realizes prayers alone are not paying the bills.

That morning he had walked two farms away to charge the phone at a neighbour's house. We cannot even afford electricity consistently these days.

I am not complaining.

My husband is trying.

I am trying.

Maybe God is still drawing the map and we are simply walking the rough parts.

The pastor told us recently that greatness requires sacrifice. The problem is nobody explains where poor people are supposed to get the sacrifice from.

Five children are not easy.

Farming is failing.

Food prices are climbing.

Three meals a day has become a luxury we remember.

Gabu wants to work. He says he sees his father's struggles and wants to help. He applied for the new university scholarships without telling his father because he didn't want to add another burden. The system looked at him and decided he was not needy enough.

Imagine that.

A boy from a family surviving on hope is apparently too rich for help.

He has been working as a farm hand in Mheshimiwa's farm helping here and there when needed. He went asking for help to get to university, he came back with a job, apparently 'watu ni wengi' it might take time for him to get bursary, so work it is.

At least Mheshimiwa gave him casual work on the farm.

Speaking of Mheshimiwa...

Lately he has developed a habit of appearing at my house at strange hours.

He says he is checking on us because Mzee works away from home.

Maybe.

But I have never liked the way his eyes linger.

A woman knows.

We always know.

I was arranging vegetables when I saw Gabu approaching from far away.

At first I couldn't tell what was wrong.

Then he came closer.

The way he walked.

The way he held his shoulders.

The way he avoided looking directly at me.

Something had happened.

A knot formed in my stomach.

As he got nearer, I saw it.

Pain.

Fear.

Tears fighting for space behind eyes determined not to cry.

At the edge of my vision, one of the goats I had been chasing all morning finally reached the kibanda.

The stubborn animal pulled at a loose support.

The entire structure gave way.

My cabbages rolled into the road.

Managu scattered everywhere.

The wooden frame collapsed with a crash.

I turned to save what I could.

When I looked back, Gabu was standing beside me.

Silent.

Breathing hard.

His fists clenched.

"Mum..."

His voice cracked.

"Mum..."

I felt something cold crawl through my body.

"What is it?"

He swallowed.

"It's Dad."

The words landed like a stone.

The fear.

The worry.

The exhaustion.

The anger I had buried under years of optimism.

All of it rose at once.

I felt heat rush through my face.

The world tilted.

The road moved.

The voices became distant.

And then everything went dark.

And in that darkness i found peace.

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 our next episode. We are now on Facebook @Alve Mwaregha.

For any queries or information, reach out to us at Voice of Taita Taveta @doctalve or email doctalve@gmail.com.

— Voice of Taita Taveta