The Girl With a Winsome Smile

The Girl With a Winsome Smile

©2011, 2018, 2020 Kitui Wakape

Image©cottonbro pexels

Dedication

To all those whose hopes and dreams keep them alive...

When the world says, "Give up," Hope whispers, "Try it one more time."

Chapter One

Central Prefecture Town

An octogenarian stood inside a rickety, wooden kitchen detached from the main house. His unsure eyes stared at the misty white valley below as if searching for something. With froth forming on either side of his sperm-whale lips, he kept mumbling to himself. Addressing no one in particular, he declared, "She'll never succeed! The seed of her womb will amount to nothing!"

He spat on the fire and opened his trouser zipper with shaky, heavily veined, and calloused hands. Within a few seconds, a jet of yellow liquid shot into the fire, the half-burnt wood hissing in effect before the fire went out. After he was done, he spat on the fire again before leaving the kitchen through a creaky door.

At the main stage at Central Prefecture Town, an eighteen-year-old girl emerged from a PSV matatu. On one hand, she carried a sisal chondo. On her other hand, she clutched a small holdall. Behind her, a man, barely twenty followed in tow.

"Hurry up," he said impatiently, carrying a gunny sack shoulder high. "Ignore the touts," he added, passing her by. She followed meekly, ignoring the whistles, hooting, and the commotion of the bus stage.

The girl tried her best but her protruding stomach seemed to wear her down. She looked at her husband with pleading eyes. In resignation, he walked back to fetch her. He picked both luggage and balanced them precariously on his sack You're becoming a woman now. Be strong.”

Later he added, “We need to beat the 7.30 p.m. curfew,” he said, turning and smiling at her. “We are boarding one of those shuttles, he said, pointing at dark blue mini busses that were parked at the edge of the bus stage.

A neatly dressed tout approached and directed them to the booking office while he packed their luggage inside one of the minibusses. Later they emerged from the booking office. With time, the bus was full and they embarked on a ten-hour journey to Kikapu Prefecture town.

***

Kikapu Prefecture Town, Seventeen Years Later

Zawadi sat staring out the open wooden shutter of their two-roomed wooden shanty house. She had just finished serving supper that consisted of inadequate ugali and greens. Having served everyone; her crippled and hallucinogenic mother, three siblings, and left some for her father, there was nothing left for her.

Out of habit, she sat herself by the window as her family slept soundly after the meal. Their house was next to a tarmac road that went up past Kikapu Community School where she was a student, all the way to the farms owned by ranchers and large-scale farmers. A kilometre from her home, it branched to the top of the hill where the governor's mansion was. It was a domed white house with columns and plinths that always took her fancy. She imagined herself one day living there with her siblings and mother.

“Stop daydreaming Zawadi,” her mother said, coming out of her almost comatose existence. Her eyes were full of pity and sarcastic too. “The only way youll escape this life is when you are dead.

She slowly came down the log she was sitting on and walked to her mother who lay in a three-by-six bed, the only one in that room. Lovingly, she covered her exposed shoulders with a thin holed-riddled blanket and sat on the creaky bed facing her.

I'm going to build you a stone house Mamma,” she voiced her hopes. “You’ll see. When I’m done with high school, I’ll have so much money, Mamma. You just wait and see.”

“I didn’t know money grows on trees,” her mother said.

Zawadi’s cheeks moved up and down involuntarily. Her mother never believed in her, she thought angrily. It was as if anything she ever said was a far-fetched dream; if not a stale joke. It hurt her for everyone at school also thought she was a joker. As if spurred by the thoughts, she shot from the bed to a corner of the house improvised as the kitchen, and began washing the dishes.

“You never want to hear the truth.”

Stop it, Mamma. Its better if you sleep.”

Zawadi swallowed as she wiped her hands with an improvised hand towel cut from a disused wrapper. Her mother went quiet much to her relief. She checked to make sure that her siblings were well covered with a blanket on the floor. Satisfied that they were, she exited the door to the back of the house where she squatted and relieved herself. On a moonlit night, she noticed that the fence was rotten as a result of the habit. She made a mental note to finish repairing their toilet.

She stopped in her tracks to stare at the moon and a few stars that seemed to compete for prominence. It was then that she began counting them.

“One, two, three, four” She stopped when the corrugated iron sheet gate creaked open. Her father, tall and bony in his green oversized guards uniform stepped in. He eyed her sharply after padlocking the gate with a rusty chain and padlock. She looked forward to meeting him but as soon as he approached her, she knew that nothing between them had changed.

“Lazy bone,” he said, his wide lips twitched in comical anger. “Wasting time counting while doing nothing at school. Get out of my way!”

Zawadi’s heart sank. She wondered almost aloud why her father loathed her presence. She had tried impressing him by doing all house chores in time, to helping her sickly mother but he always found fault in her. If it wasn't a poorly prepared meal, it was something that had to do with leaving the door ajar while she slept. However, it was her tired bones that made her not even remember anything but sleep. The only people he showed affection if they ever met were her fraternal twin brothers Chacha and Cheka.

For her, however, it was Furaha, her autistic brother that had won her heart over. And though she never knew why her father was always grumbling, she suspected it had something to do with finances. Her father had vehemently opposed her joining high school, mentioning that the funds would find better use in meeting household expenses. The area chief, however, had insisted that no pupil should stay at home. "Orders from above," the chief had mentioned.

But when she had found her parents arguing about it one day, she had sought a part-time job at Muhindi's, a couple of Asian extraction, as a maid and a shamba girl. Each evening after school shed walk to work up to about eight before coming back home. Her father had never commented about it, but he had slowly left the responsibility of caring for the family on her tender shoulders.

“Zawadi,” he called gruffly from the adjacent room.

"Yes, Papa," she said, hurrying inside before bolting the door. He needed his supper.

“What did I warn you about that name?”

Im sorry, Papa,” she said, trembling at his door with the meal in her hands. She stepped back as he opened the door, afraid that his large hand would land on her cheeks.

“You must be deaf! he reprimanded, pointing at his ears, his eyes bloodshot than ever.

Im sorry she started, but he cut her short.

 

“I want these clothes washed this minute and the boots polished.

He took his meal roughly from her hands, disrupting the soup, which splattered on the earthen floor before he banged the door behind him.

“Yes, Papa,” she mumbled, suppressing laughter behind her throat as she picked up the clothes. “Always at your service, Papa.

By the time she was done, the clock was striking midnight. She quickly closed the door and squeezed herself next to her brothers, a lantern lamp, and a Bible in hand. Hardly was she done reading a verse when sleep took her away.

Chapter Two

The sounds of chirping birds filtered into the wooden house, accompanied by a streak of warm sunlight that passed through crevices, which fell directly on Zawadi's face. If it was on Saturday or the holidays, Zawadi would have lingered in bed for ten more minutes, intending to breath in the fresh air and let birds entertain her. Today however was a school day and she was almost late.

She sprang to her feet, casting away the blanket and began rousing Chacha and Cheka with her hand. Cheka responded quickly, sitting up on the mat before yawning and stretching. Zawadi ordered him to go and wash his face. For Chacha, however, Zawadi knew there would be a battle. He had grubbed the blanket tightly with an adults effort and whimpered whenever Zawadi wanted to take it away.

Fearing that their father would emerge from his room with a belt, Zawadi changed tack. If you dont wake up,” she whispered gently, “youll not be in time for the serving of the morning porridge.”

She smiled in triumph when he slowly let loose of the blanket. Zawadi picked the blankets and aired them outside on a grassy patch in the compound. While walking back, he saw Chacha relieving himself at their usual place. She saw the damage done along that fence and remembered about yesterday this time with more concern. The house they lived in belonged to an incarcerated uncle who was due for release that year. Her heart sank and she quickly pushed away that thought and walked back into the house.

Cheka was fully dressed and carried his books inside a yellow crumpled carrier bag, which contained his and Chacha’s exercise books. Both of them were Grade 3 learners at Shauri Yako Primary School, a government institution in the slum.

“Hurry up, Chacha,” the soft-spoken Cheka said. “We don’t want to miss the porridge.”

Standing at the doorway, Zawadi watched the two leave and felt thankful. The School Feeding Programme by the Central Government was helping keep vulnerable children in school by providing breakfast and lunch. This somehow relieved parents of a heavy responsibility.

As she dressed up, she felt fortunate that she would be eating at school too. She was however worried for Furaha and her mother. They survived on that one meal every evening. His father would eat at work but spent every coin buying packets of cigarettes that he puffed and exhaled like a factory chimney. He had made it clear that if she didn’t show any effort at school, he would stop paying her school fees.

“You’re a big girl now,” he remembered him say. “You’ve outgrown school.”

Jolted by the memory, she picked her carrier bag that contained her books, kissed Furahas and her mother’s foreheads lightly before leaving for school.

The bell rang as she walked into the compound. Ngethe the governor-on-duty was already there, ordering late comers around. Zawadi pretended not to have seen him and proceeded towards her block of classrooms.

“Where do you think you are going, Lazy Zawadi?” he sneered, his voice bringing Zawadi to a sudden halt.

If it wasn’t because she was already late, she could have given him a piece of her mind. But one misdemeanour, she thought, was enough for that day. In fact, she knew that an aristocrat kid like him would not hesitate to forward her name to the deputy principal for indiscipline. Five warnings were enough to forfeit her place in the school. She already had four.

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t noticed you or that the bell had rung,” she said in a pacifying voice, but Ngethe was quick to cut her short, glancing at his Rolex. Zawadi had seen one at Muhindi’s and its price had made her almost weep on the inequalities in life.

“This whole verandah must be washed,” he said. 

By who? Zawadi wondered. Why use the passive voice as though the verandah would wash itself? She stared at him, hesitatingly, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. At the back of her mind, there was the realization that he would interpret it as insubordination. She hung her bag on a tree branch and walked to the store to pick a bucket and a broom. She spotted her gang members in a crowd at the ablution block where she had gone to fetch water.

Well talk, Siz,” Matilda, a five-foot-five fair complexioned girl told Zawadi while leaving for the classroom.

Matilda was the leader of their four-member gang. There was nothing common between Zawadi and the other three as far as their family financial statuses was concerned. She was poor while they belonged to the upper middle class. What tied them together was the fact that they accepted her with open arms, and that they had cheekiness levels of varying degrees.

As she quickly washed the verandah, she was thankful that she had friends she could count on in times of need. Though what they called mission was sometimes unnerving, she found comfort that she had company. Otherwise, life in school would have been insufferable. Matilda had in fact promised to gift her for successfully carrying out a mission the previous week. The thought spurred Zawadi to complete the task. Having tidied herself up, she sauntered along the walkway back to class with the intention of chatting up Matilda.

***

No sooner was she done giving her friends high fives, when their squeals of laughter came to an abrupt end. Mr. Otinde, their mathematics teacher appeared in the doorway. The few students who had not settled quickly did so. He was fortyish, with grey receding hairline that made him look older than his actual age. His face hardened by previous teaching experience in the ASAL hardship areas gave him an aura of fear. Being a no-no sense instructor had earned him more enemies than friends.

This morning, he wasn’t in a particularly good mood. It seemed his  wife had quarreled with him because of a drinking habit, which made him unable to take proper care of them. Rumours had it that she was threatening to leave him if he didn’t quit alcohol. Matilda who was his neighbor had told Zawadi and her gang.

As he stood at the board, tension and silence were palpable. His unsmiling face had made even the gang members go quiet. Mwalimu was angry to boiling point and his efforts to control his anger seemed to be working against him.

Zawadi cursed under her breath, blaming herself for forgetting that todays first lesson was mathematics, a subject she hated. On any other day, she could have been more tolerant of Mr. Otinde and his boring lesson. However, today, things were different. She wished she could have dragged herself in the punishment and waste a whole thirty minutes if not an entire lesson. Mr. Otinde coughed.

"If you're the one who stole my textbook and the teacher's guide," he began, the veins in his head thickening in anger, "I'm giving you an ultimatum. Hand it over by today. Any later than that, and you'll understand why mathematics isn't your favourite subject."

Muffled laughters could be heard. Zawadi struggled so much not to look at the teacher. But she could feel his bloodshot eyes on her, as if they were walking and searching her heart for evidence of wrong doing. And when she lifted her gaze from the desk, her eyes locked with Matilda's, and they both looked away.

She stared at her tattered mathematics textbook on her desk and wished that Mr. Otinde would break the silence that hung in the air. Did he know who'd stolen the books?

"Turn on page ten and complete all questions there," he declared, leaving the classroom without explaining how they were to go about the exercise.

Tea break arrived with the sounding of the bell. For Zawadi, time had moved at tortoise's pace. During lessons, they had exchanged glances with her gang members, especially when teachers admonished the whole class for being a bunch of thieves. As she picked her cup, Matilda and the other gang members stopped her at the exit.

"Just a moment," Matilda said, as other classmates hurriedly left for the dining hall. Eventually they had their alone time when the last girl bolted out of the classroom.

"Guys, I hope you've seen how angry Oti was," she said, using his nickname.

"We have," Shiks concurred, resting her head lovingly on Wembo's shoulders. "Do you think we went too far this time?"

"Not really," Matilda said. "We made a bold statement. We don't want to be bossed around."

"So what do we do with his ultimatum?" the soft spoken Wembo asked, placing her arm on Shik's shoulders. "Ignore it?"

"I don't think so," Zawadi said impatiently, her stomach rumbling because of hunger pangs and fear. "Let's just place it on the teacher's table and forget about it."

"Not really," Matilda said. The other girls looked at her curiously. " Let's put him to the test."

"He's already lost his patience," Zawadi spoke again. " Let's just place it here. It will cover our tracks."

"I've something better," Matilda said in a rather patronising voice Zawadi had noticed in entitled people. "He said he'll forgive the one who stole his books. What if one of us returns the book to him and apologize? The way he was staring at us means he's suspicious. We could settle the bad blood between us once and for all."

There was a defeaning silence. All three stared at Zawadi and a knot tightened in her stomach. Not her again, she thought angrily.

"Zawadi, you'll help with this one too."

"But..."

"Let's not discuss any further," Matilda said with finality. " Finish what you started."

"That's not fair," she began but was cut short by Matilda's cross voice.

"Nothing's fair in this world,Siz," arching her eyebrows. They proceeded to exit the door, and Zawadi mumbled to herself. "You're a witch, Matilda."

As if in answer, Matilda gave an evil laugh, swaggering away towards a different direction and not the dining hall. They were leaving for the parking lot and she knew exactly what they were up to. Coming back to her senses, she aimed for the walkway to the kitchen, and was just in time to find the cook serving the last two latecomers.

"Why are you always late," the dark, sturdy chef Whepukulu asked. "Can't you be on time just for once?"

"I'm sorry," Zawadi uttered those words for the first time since joining Kikapu Community School, shocking herself and the cook. She was taken aback by the cook for instead of his usual tireds, he served her and added her two more slices of bread to her usual quota.

The other three gang members walked in just when she had taken her first sip. As she took tea somehow absentmindedly, she was aware of all three cooks lecturing the girls. They later joined her, giggling excitedly for they derived pleasure in breaking school rules. Today however the silence and uneasiness was palpable as they ate. For Zawadi, she had no appetite, only taking a slice of bread and chewing it slowly. And when Wembo reached for them, she didn't stop her or even care.

She was thinking more of the consequences of approaching Mr. Otinde than admitting the mistake. If the issue was forwarded to the deputy principal, then it would be the end of her. With only a year left in high school, that would be a big blow.

The bell signalling the end of tea break rang, bringing her back to reality. Noticing the almost empty dining hall, she picked her cup and bolted out the entrance. As she turned the last corner, she lifted her eyes in time to stop inches shy of Mr. Otinde who was walking in the opposite direction.

"Watch where you are going!" he shouted at her, tightly clutching at his books.

"I'm sorry,Sir."

"Get out of my way!" he said, and she did, letting him pass and watched him disappear into Form Two South.

As she turned to leave, she decided that admitting her mistake would have to wait a little while longer. She sat down in class just as Madam Pendo, their teacher of  English and Literature  walked in, smiling at everyone.

***

When the bell rang, announcing the end of the school day Zawadi delayed in class, going over her English and poetry notes. She knew that conditions at home wouldn't allow her to do anything constructive. Her decision was also tactical; avoid the gang members. Matilda had given up trying to convince her that they walk home together. Before she'd left, she gave her a scarlet evening dress with gold decorations which Zawadi had tossed in her carrier-bag. Having finished reading, Zawadi walked out of class. She was concerned with Mr. Otinde's 'sorry' ultimatum which had passed. Yet her conversation with Madam Pendo after the Literature lesson had left her confused and afraid.

"What's bothering you?" she had asked as they stood some distance away from the classroom door. "You weren't active in my class today, so unlike you."

"Nothing Madam. Just the usual girly moods."

Madam Pendo had studied her for a moment without a word. "That smile you have tells a story of a girl who needs help. If you need anything..."

"I'm fine, Madam."

"If you say so," Madam Pendo had smiled, though she looked pained. "But I hope it has nothing to do with that gang of yours."

Zawadi had been taken aback but had recovered her compusure quickly and refuted the claim. "I'm no member of any gang, Madam Pendo."

"It's okay," Madam Pendo had concluded, and was just about to leave  when she remembered something. "And Zawadi..."

"Yes, Madam."

"There's a poetry and Literature test next week. I hope you won't fail me."

Zawadi noticed a figure squatted at the gate next to a bike. He was tall, he could see,dressed in an expensive dark-blue  overcoat. His pair of trousers was well-pressed while his brogues glinted in the evening sun. His hair was well-kept and he seemed to have just had a shave. He wore one black leather glove while his exposed left hand was pressing the front tire of his racing bicycle.

Zawadi slowly approached, her nose immediately catching the scent of an expensive cologne. He noticed he was angry, his upper lip curved upward. Then reality struck her. This was the handiwork of her gang. For the first time, she felt sad.

"I can fetch you a pump from the store," she said helpfully.

"Do so quickly," he said, lifting his eyes to look at her briefly.

She was actually taken aback that he was addressing her. Glancing at his watch, he asked her to hurry up. It was the same watch Ngethe had but this one glinted like diamonds she had once seen when she had visited Kikapu town centre. Feeling useful, she left her carrier bag on the ground and rushed for the store room.

Not all Aristocrats were the same, she mused.

"I need a pump," she said, "as a matter of urgency."

"Can't you see I've closed?" the store keeper asked before adding, " But even if I hadn't, I wouldn't have given it to you. Since when did you start owning bikes. Not unless you have stolen it."

She said nothing at first though the words cut deep. Restraining her anger, she said, " It's not mine but Mzalendo's. He's told me to hurry up."

She smiled behind him as he quickly opened the door and fetched the pump for him. As she hurried towards the bicycle parking lot, she was surprised to see a man in jeans and a t-shirt place the bicycle on the roof rack of an SUV. She reached there just as it was speeding away.

"No wonder I'm not fond of them," she said between gritted teeth. She returned the pump and walked home in a rage.