By by Godwin Odhiambo
Meta Description: A powerful story of how my grandfather read the signs of danger and acted decisively, saving our lives one stormy night.
I was born and brought up in the Western part of Kenya. This is a region that suffers from deep-seated underdevelopment due to our bad politics that reward sycophancy and support, and punish any opposition through underdevelopment. As a result, several years of poor leadership, political favoritism, and systemic neglect have turned underdevelopment into a form of punishment for political dissent. Poverty is widespread, and in many families, survival is a daily battle. Coupled with the high poverty levels, I also grew up in a polygamous home as my dad had many wives.
It is worth stating that in this part of the world, polygamy was commonplace, and a man’s success was not measured by his wealth or education but rather by how many wives and children he had. Monogamy was scoffed at, and during gatherings and beer drinking sessions, the monogamous among the men were always served last. They were made to sit closest to the door as the polygamous men argued that any bad news or happenings about their only wives would send them bolting out in panic since she was the only one and could cause accidents that would bring the drinking to an unceremonious end. In contrast, the polygamous ones would be unperturbed as they knew they had other wives, and losing one was not as disastrous.
My mother, being the eldest wife, bore the brunt of hard life as my father had totally neglected our household, and as a result, life for us was always a struggle, and even though we were still young, we could see and feel my mother struggle and break her back to ensure we had at least a meal a day. Whereas poverty was then, as it is still, a way of life, our family situation was far worse. My dad had five wives, and although he was employed as a patient attendant by the government, he had neglected our household and was staying with our step-mothers and our half-siblings, where he worked; he seldom came home. Most houses in the village were grass thatched and mud-walled. This was the standard, and so there was nothing wrong with the way of life as it was the norm; however, our house’s condition was worse since we had an absent father, so there was no one to ensure the house was in a habitable condition. Thatching the house was the work of the man of the home, and though we were boys, we were still too young to do such hard work.
We shared a compound with my paternal grandfather, and though he cared deeply for us, cultural boundaries prevented him from directly fixing our house, for it was taboo for him to thatch our house since it was his married son’s house. He felt for us, but there was very little he would have done because the other option was to pay someone to thatch our house for us but he was also struggling financially and he didn’t have the means to hire help either, so he often supported us in small but meaningful ways. We could count on him amid our struggles.
Our house had one main room, which functioned as the living room, bedroom, and kitchen. The house was in very poor condition; it leaked badly, and during rainy seasons, we looked for the driest corners that were not leaking too badly and huddled there trying to stay warm and dry as water dripped from the roof, while waiting for the rain to stop. That was our life. On this particular day, it rained heavily, and as usual, we struggled to find any dry spots to sit and share the little meal my mother had managed to prepare with difficulty as the firewood had been rained on that day and even starting the fire proved difficult and only motherly devotion and the sacrifice born out of love made it possible to prepare the meal.
The clouds were threatening yet again, and we could tell that it would rain again that night. We innocently shared the simple meal that our mother had prepared with love, as she struggled to find dry spots where we would sleep that night. On most occasions, my mother made the meals and felt the food would not be enough for all of us. She always just took a bite and let us, the children, eat. I still wonder where she got the energy to look for the food, as she rarely ate. All of a sudden, it began raining heavily, and we scampered to our safe corners where there was some relative safety. My mother struggled to place our bedding in safe and dry corners, trying to keep our bedding from getting soaked; this in itself was a struggle.
My grandfather always had a soft spot for us and often tried to help wherever and whenever he could. So on this day, while we struggled to find safe spots in our soaked house, we heard his frantic calls from outside. The urgency in his voice sent cold shivers down our spines, especially the young ones. Soon, he was in the house and told us to leave and go with him to his place. My mother tried to argue, but he stood firm and took my youngest sibling with him. We followed him into the rain, barefoot, cold, and confused.
I vividly remember how my mother, reluctant to leave everything behind, made several trips in the downpour to carry whatever she could salvage — bedding, cooking utensils, and a few clothes. After a few trips, my grandfather firmly stopped her, saying it was no longer safe.
A few moments later, as we lay in the warmth of my grandfather’s house and struggled to find sleep, still shaken and soaked from the ordeal, we heard a loud crashing sound from the direction of our house. Our young minds could not comprehend what had just happened, but we heard my mother gasp and murmured a prayer while both my grandfather and grandmother sighed at the same time.
At dawn the next day, we rushed outside. The sight that met us was terrifying: part of our mud-walled house had collapsed completely. The wall had crumbled under the weight of the storm. Had we remained inside that night, we would likely have been crushed in our sleep. My beloved granddad had correctly foreseen the danger and saved our lives at the nick of time. Were it not for his quick thinking and action, death would have been inevitable. We all hurdled around my mother next to the rubble, until my grandfather came and took us away, assuring us that all would be well.
Despite the passage of time, I still carry that night in my memory like it happened yesterday. The fear, the rain, my mother’s prayers, and my grandfather’s stern, loving voice. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here to tell this story.
Years have passed. Both my father and grandfather are no longer alive. My father remained distant for the longest of times, but I have found peace. I’ve forgiven him. Life, after all, is too short to carry the weight of resentment, and nothing lasts forever.
As for my grandfather, he was indeed a great man, and I remain forever grateful. His wisdom and courage were gifts that protected us when we were most vulnerable. I owe him my life.
And my mother, the woman who shielded us with her love and sacrifice, is still with us. She has, over the years not lent a shoulder to lean on but made the leaning unnecessary. She remains my support system. I pray for her daily. She is my motivation, my reason to strive harder every day. I work not just to succeed, but to honor her struggle and resilience. May God continue to give her a long life.
