Marikiti Mothers

source:privatetour.com

Ten PM, Sagana bridge. Two women haggle to get into a matatu. Another group is left behind waiting for the next one. They are both dressed warmly in heavy cotton sweaters and balaclavas to complete the look: each carrying two big carry-ons made from old gunny bags. They speak loudly disturbing the peace in the otherwise quiet matatu. From their discussions, you can tell they are going to the market. But why this late?

They get themselves comfortable and after a few minutes, they are all quiet. In a span of minutes, they blackout out one of them snoring loudly like an old un-serviced diesel engine.  Probably the only sleep they will get that night. 

After long while, the one seated next to me turns, with one closed eye, she asks, "Tumefika wapi?" I say Thika. She looks distraught. She tells me she feels like she has only been asleep for five minutes, though she has been sleeping for 45 minutes. Before she closes the other eye. I ask her politely. Na kwani mnaenda wapi usiku na ngunia?" With a tired smile, she tells me, sokoni.. "

She goes on to tell met that's their daily routine. every day, around this time they set off to Marikiti market to receive their farm produce. Before taking the matatu, they load them on the waiting lorries, clearly marked, then take a matatu to Nairobi to receive them on the other end some five hours later. 

Hoping not to offend her, I ask a rather intrusive question. "Who do you leave your children with at night?" She takes a deep breath, her mind wandering away, she tells me. " We leave them with our drunk husbands, and for the single ones, we leave them with God.

" Sensing that she wants to say more, pose another question. "Do you have children, and who takes care of them when you are away?" She says she leaves them in the hands of Jesus. She adds that her husband walked out on her when he figured she was pregnant with twins. They were both casual workers living in a rented house and he was not ready to take on an extra responsibility. Abandoned and heavily pregnant, she went back to her parents’ home. The father who deeply liked and cared for her even though she had gotten married against his will welcomed her. He gave her a small shamba to be growing foodstuffs to take care of her soon to be born twins. After a while, she starts producing more than her and her daughter’s needed. It's then when another woman introduced her to Marikiti Market (a fresh produce market in the City center) where she could earn extra money from selling the extra vegetables. Before long, the business was thriving ad she started buying more from her neighbors.

Right now are in Juja and she's already snoozing. I pose one last question. "Please paint to me how your day looks like. She tells me unlike normal people, her days are never 'normal.' She's normally home in two shifts between 11 am 4PM and 7pm-9M. All the other times she is out fending for her children. Between 10pm-11 Am she's either on the road and in and out of the market or collection areas

Every morning, she's expected to be at the market at 3am to receive her produce for the day which she had loaded earlier. At 11 am, she comes home to catch the all-important and elusive sleep. She wakes up at 2 pm to do the house chores and prepares dinner and 4 o'clock tea for her girls. She then heads out to go do the collection for the day and leave them at a central place where they will be picked for transportation to the market. Her girls are now old enough to do their homework unsupervised.

She then comes home around 7pm. Warms the food, signs the girl's books. They eat slowly as they recap the day. They all enjoy the moment knowing that soon Mama will be gone. Afterwards, she tucks them in to sleep. Does Hail Mary and the sign of the cross. She asks the Virgin Mary to protect her girls from any harm.

Sometimes they don't want their mother to leave, they cuddle and cry themselves to sleep. This breaks her heart but it's their only way for them to survive.  As soon as she closes the door, she calls her bodaboda guy who takes her to the bus terminus. Once she gets there, he waits for her to get a matatu to town. Ready for another night of work. 

They get to the market a few minutes after midnight. Their supply won’t get there until around 3 AM. Mostly, they sleep inside the vibadas. Here, there is no personal space. They huddle together so that they can battle the early morning chill together. They fall asleep almost immediately. In a few hours they will be up and huggle for their supplies. On rainy days, the look for corridors not far away from the market. Here they share with the street families who if they are not very careful, they might steal from them.

Around 3 am, the lorries start making their way to the market. One has to keep a keen eye on their ware and hope they get here intact. There have been cases of people losing their items as they are being offloaded. Someone pretending to be the owner takes them and disappears into the thick sheet of darkness of the poorly lit market. Worse of, if you have delicate food items, like tomatoes, they get squished together with the hope of making something that day.

Loise’s a story of many women in her locality, and indeed the country. Women who have been left by their husbands or abandoned when they get pregnant to be the bread winners. Women who sometimes have to work extra hard to take care of their husbands and their children. You ask what her are her fears, she fears that her children will end up like her, or even worse. She wants them to leave the village that is to cruel to the women. A village where the woman’s only hope is education. For now, she is doing her best to take them to school. She knows a time is coming when it might be overwhelming. The school fees will be a burden as their upkeep. She hopes by the time her daughters are ready to go to high school, her business will have grown and the government will have subsidized school fees. Feeding them won’t be a problem, but schooling them will be a tall order. She continues to work day and night, mostly at night with the hope of a secure future for her babies etched in the back of her mind.

I finally ask he if she had dreams growing up. She looks outside the window where the road is now well lit with lamps emitting golden rays and says yes, reflectively; but they have had to give way to her babies dreams. Since she cannot bequeath them any inheritance, she is giving them education.