Bokilo Mwasi

No. Not Charity Mwamba. 

It’s the one who pulls out all the stops to ensure that the only time you’re smiling is when you’re brushing your teeth. Fully convinced in her evil-scheming mind that you are the weapon fashioned against her dear Kimani (read kababa), she probably suffers hiccups every time he appears in one of your wet dreams. She never lacks the substitute of her famous thoroughly souped nduma, with claims along the lines of “Kimani wangu nimemlea na hii”, whenever you try to spice things up by employing the procedure you learned on a YouTube tutorial on how to cook jollof rice to gladden your mobali through one of the approved ways to his heart. Unsurprisingly, Kimani holding his phone in his left hand yet he’s right-handed is also your fault, courtesy of her shaky delusions. You can almost hear her reciting your eulogy of her own composition while smirking when she tries to gather every ounce of energy within her to offer you a greeting. 

There’s the one that just can’t sit still and look pretty in her trademark stylish kente dresses & headgears championing all of the late Orie Rogo Manduli’s regardless of the occasion whenever you’re around. If she miraculously keeps calm, it is to ‘relax’ on your living room couch feigning chatting with her ‘well-fed’ son (the ‘boys’ call him Biggie) with her chin up in the air, legs crossed with her arms draped around them and assuming an air of authority as she inwardly pronounces judgement on your upbringing based on the show running, Darcey and Stacey, which you are not a fan of but happens to be airing then on TLC, where you were earlier watching your favourite show, Doubling Down with the Derricos. Once or twice, you catch her throwing suspicious glances your way in the open-plan kitchen as you’re preparing delicacies for the family as though you’re sprinkling a pinch of silicon in the beef stew while adding washing powder to the maize meal. Clearly, you aren’t the wicked but somehow, there is no peace for you. 

What can you say about the one that is all over you once you enter her home compound with ‘ta vie’, squeezing you in a nearly suffocating hug, pecking you on both of your foundation-coated cheeks and as if that is not enough, shaking your hand vigorously in more of a slapshake than a handshake, who later in the night lays out all the reasons for your much needed divorce (according to her) to her son, courtesy of the moment you asked for an axe to chop some firewood instead of splitting them using your knee like the ironwoman she’s deluded to assume you are. This you learn, all thanks to your eavesdropping prowess. She comes to check on you as you feign being asleep after fleeing the opposite side of the living room door, something inside so strong burning, threatening to rip your bloody heart open. 

You don’t want to not mention the one who always stuffs you with her delicious cooking any time and every time she’s in your vicinity and is always on the verge of tucking you into bed whenever you go visiting. Many a times, a bubbly divorcee or widow whom the tough blows of life have failed successfully in taking the joy away from her. Her bubbly nature and endless laughter nourish your souls as she narrates to you and your children a series of nostalgic tales, her son blushing heavily when she decides to fish out some of his most embarrassing baby photographs to support the extremely interesting narrations. She’s just the perfect date for the kids as they go out for ice cream (read mahindi choma if you like) or walks or simply playing and running around aimlessly. To mention her warm and comforting cuddles here is almost sinful as they’re close to divine if not divine. 

Well, in such cases, the ‘poison’ gets to pick you (Nobody: Absolutely nobody: ‘Poison’: Niachie huyo) because love, oh love… 


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