I think I Love Because I was loved

Love was offered unreservedly and biasedly when I was a girl. It is the same way I show love and express it, whether in romantic or platonic relationships. I will love you when I don't like you, and I will love you when you show your best. It is impossible to tell you about my girlhood and love without telling you about my mother and her mother, Julia Wamuyu Kibui, the daughter of Margaret Muthoni Kibui. My mother has had an interesting life. She was born when my grandmother was in her early twenties. My grandmother, MMK, as most of her property was labelled, was among the first trained Montessori teachers in Nairobi and doubled as a local tourist the rest of the time. The rest of the time is when she should have been at home raising her offspring, but that is not who she was. From the stories she let slip occasionally, I can now tell she loved life. 

Unfortunately, by the time I was grown up enough to be taken anywhere, she was already born again. The only places she took us were to church or to visit her Christian friends. My grandmother loved us loudly and biasedly. I remember one time we went to a wedding in her local church. Being in the women's group and who she was meant that she had access. When the wedding ceremony ran late, she took us to the back of the church and demanded we be served food. All through the day, she kept a steady supply of sodas we didn't like or need and that we wasted. Since it was Coca-Cola, it was fun to just shake it and let it pour out. I remember judging stares from other kids and adults, but I didn't care because, in that place, I could be privileged and spoilt. After all, that is how my grandmother loved me. As an adult, I struggle with the absolute love I experienced from my grandmother and the neglect and abandonment my mother experienced from the same person.

My mother was raised by her grandparents during her childhood years among her cousins. As you know by now, her mom wasn't around much. There are instances in her life she doesn't like to talk about. I can tell they are fresh wounds. I would like to know all of them, but I understand and hold sacred the moments she opens up and takes me on a trip to her childhood. The instances she shares are never told in a vacuum; they came up in situations that prompted these difficult conversations. 

My sister was born when I was 13 years old. She instantly became my world. I had always wanted a sister, having been born between two brothers, and secondly, I adored babies. I loved holding them and learning everything you needed to know about them. Way before she came along, I had been involved in the first months of several babies, mostly from neighbours. I had this overwhelming love for my sister. I wanted to take her everywhere, carrying her on my back like I was taught. It rained havoc on my chest and small frame, but that did not deter me. One day, I came home and told my mum that some people had asked if my sister was my child. Her demeanour immediately changed. She looked at me, and I saw sadness. I tried to ask, but she dismissed me by sending me to fetch something. In my innocence, I never thought there was anything wrong with the question. 

A few weeks later, my aunt, who lived a bit far from us but somewhere we walked, invited us to a birthday party. I remember I woke up that morning and rushed everything because I wanted to get my sister and me ready. As I was about to start bathing her, my mum said, “I don't know why you are cleaning her, and she is not going anywhere.” I was shocked because these are the type of events I always wish/long for with her. It had been clear since she was born that my mother never wanted me to do anything for my sister beyond what she considered acceptable for a sister. She made it clear she didn't want me to take her to my aunt's place. 

On this day, I was not going to settle for no, and she knew, so she opened up. By the time she got into her teens, my grandmother had another child, and the travelling did not stop, so my mother was left to raise her brother. She told me how she used to go out with her friends carrying her young brother because he was always in her care. She never got to have the youthful experience of a single woman. It was so bad that when she got engaged to my father, rumours started that my uncle was her first child, and the family was lying. As an adult, I finally understood that those people thinking my sister was my child triggered her.

Though without the right language, my mother had endeavoured to break a cycle. She never wanted her daughter to experience anything she did. As young as I was, I carried a level of sadness for my mother. She had let me peep through the curtain for the first time and view an adult relationship with context. Every time they would fight or disagree, I saw the pain eat at my mother. She was never one to talk ill of or show disrespect to other adults, especially when children were involved. She carried on as if such hurt and pain were part of life. 

Despite carrying pain from her relationship with her mother, she never once contemplated severing my connection to my grandmother. She allowed me to experience her. I felt close to my mother, but I was too young to process the depth of love she had shown me. Honestly, I am not sure what the girl I once was believed, but the woman writing this knows that she was loved with intentional love that was there before I was born.

– Joyce Mwangi