Wisdom Shall Die With You

By Daudi Juma

Eduardo Kariuki is conceived and born out of wedlock in Kenya. His German mother leaves the child with a foster mother.

Whether the youngster will merely survive or thrive will depend on his desire to conquer the fears and doubts he faces, as a boy and then as a young man.

Kariuki's search for meaning in life takes him from Nairobi to Frankfurt, then to Freiburg im Breisgau and Habkern, Switzerland. He is back in Kenya in no time at all. But there is something still missing in his life. There is one more hurdle he must assail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sammy Nderitu
• Release date: Jul 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223370741

Book preview

Chapter 1

No doubt you’re very wise, meaning you’ll always be the most successful in life, right? Wrong. Lived experience says your wisdom shall die with you.

—S. Mariakani, Dreams of The Wise.

When Eduardo Kariuki was born, nothing about him indicated anything special. He was born in Kenya, the world-renowned land of marathon runners, at the end of the 20th century. In the faraway land of the stars and the stripes, a young man with a Kenyan father, who would later go on to become the most powerful man in the world, had just won an elective post in the Illinois senate.

Eight thousand miles away, the only remarkable thing about this other mixed-race birth was how plump and well fed the bouncing baby boy was, as a new-born. The union between a Kenyan father and a German mother had produced a perfectly brown Kenyanese with no visible Caucasian features, although he was decidedly much lighter than his coffee-colored father.

The young boy, separated from his mother almost at birth, was by that eventuality deprived of the chance to relate with his blood sister. Or any other sister, for that matter. His Kenyan step-mother would struggle to have children, belatedly bringing forth two boys in her late thirties.

As a result, in much of his earlier years, he was like a cat on hot bricks when relating with the fairer sex. Nothing was so foreign, so alien, so flustering, as these emotion-filled, giggly, sometimes shrill and coquettish specimens of life.

And yet nothing could be more mysteriously alluring, so full of promise, so untouchably exotic. The fact that he had inherited his mother’s aristocratic face, and her perpetually surprised eyes and eyebrows, and was therefore unspeakably handsome to most girls his age, only made things more difficult for him. Girls were secretly fascinated by him, but outwardly determined not to be just another easy catch.

His father, Edinho, had met his mother by chance at the coast, where he usually delivered charcoal from up-country. He had been contracted by a number of small hotels to provide them with the ‘black gold,’ as it was known to the Coasterians. A lot of households also clamored for the cheap fuel alternative.

He did this on his motorcycle, at times carrying up to ten full sacks of charcoal in a single trip. So he hunched forward in his seat, almost spilling over the front of the bike because of the sacks pressed against his back. But he was spurred on by the knowledge that he would receive a tidy sum for each sack.

In between his trips back and forth from his village and Malindi, he would take time to rest his worn back by exploring the meandering streets of the coastal town, which was unerringly mobbed by German and Italian tourists the year round. Elsa was a German girl shopping for curios and mementos in the sprawling backstreets of Malindi. She was fascinated by this knowledgeable young man, who seemed to appear by magic at her side.

Ten hours later, at around 7:30 p.m., the two had already taken their fill of exploring, and had also taken lunch together. Hence, they found themselves alone in the room where she had roughed it with her father for the last two nights.

Her father usually checked in at around midnight, with his latest ‘Amina’ or ‘Fatuma’ draped around his waist. He would be around for just long enough to make sure she was still alive and breathing, before disappearing again until midday of the next day. Therefore, the two young lovers had enough time to passionately consummate their newfound love, before the heavy footsteps at the front door forced Elsa to usher Edinho outside the back door.

Early the next day, Edinho had to travel back to ready his next order. By the time he returned to Malindi, six weeks later, the flighty Elsa and her father were gone. After an appropriate period of grieving, he returned to his normal routine.

But, try as he might, he could not forget Elsa. All other women seemed to pale into insignificance, compared with the exotic beauty who still lived large in his heart, and whose grey-green eyes he could recall to memory at a moment’s notice.

However, the inexorable passage of time, and the decidedly harsh demands of life, eventually forced him to set aside, if not forget, his moment in the sun. Thus, one-and-a-half years later, with the savings from his lucrative charcoal trade, he bought a farm close to his ancestral village and settled down with Wambona. She was the shy daughter of the Mama Mboga at whose kibanda, or business stall, he often had his supper.

And all seemed to be going well for the two, now living as husband and wife, almost two years to the day since he had first set eyes on Elsa. All until the fateful day, when in the late afternoon hours, there was a knock on the front door of their rough wooden cabin.

Yes? Edinho raised his eyes as Wambona stood over him. He was seated on the back porch, fashioning a new handle for his axe. The old handle had outlived its usefulness that morning, with a crack and a snap.

There is a lady at the door asking for you. Something in her manner made him look at her again, as she stood, arms crossed, in front of him. From her dressing and her Swahili, it seems as if she is from the coast.

What lady from the coast?

His question was met by a pregnant silence and dagger eyes. He wondered what he was missing here.

Wambona, as far as I can remember, I know of no lady from the coast, he said, and went back to his carpentry.

Really? Are you sure? Wambona would not be dissuaded. There was more here than met the eye.

Wambo, why don’t you tell me about the lady and what she wants, he said, laying aside his tools once again. And then we will see whether we know her.

You tell me, Edinho! I suppose you also don’t know the two babies she is carrying, do you? This came out in a sound midway between a scream and a shriek. Is that what you are about to tell me, Edinho? Because she says they are yours. Your babies! And us being married for less than six months…

The rest was drowned out by loud sobs as she burst into tears, fleeing in the direction of the bedroom, and slamming the living-room door behind her.

Chapter 2

Edinho stepped out.

Just outside the door was a lady so enshrouded and swaddled with shukas she could have been mistaken for a mitumba seller — an itinerant seller of second-hand clothes. Upon closer inspection, Edinho identified the reason for the multiple cloth wrappings.

The woman was carrying two children, one strapped on her front between her breasts, and another on her back. She seemed to be in her early forties. No wonder Wambona had been so distressed.

What’s this talk about babies? he asked. Who are you, and what right do you have to… to come here and talk—

It’s all perfectly explainable, she cut in. Can I come in?

Edinho opened his mouth and closed it without a word.

By the way, my name is Zawadi, she continued. And just to clarify, it is only one baby that has brought me here, all the way from Lamu. The one on my back. As he continued staring impassively at her, she added, I’m only here because of your beautiful friend, the one whom you met in Malindi.

After that, Edinho had no alternative. He stood aside to let her in. Escorting her into the living room, he wondered whether this could indeed be an emissary of the long-forgotten Elsa. Had their one day together been that productive?

They settled on the wooden two-seater that he himself had crafted out of the mikinduri — croton — trees that he had planted all around his one-acre farm. He listened to her singular story.

I got a job in a wine-and-spirits shop in Lamu, soon after I gave birth to my daughter. She gestured to the toddler now seated on her lap. The other baby, still swathed in a heap of wrappings, was sleeping peacefully on the spare cushion on the settee, by her side.

They came into the shop on the eighth day – the young lady and her father. I remember my boss had just commended me for working for a whole week without any cash discrepancies. Said I looked like a mother — the two visitors, I mean. They said I looked like someone who could take care of a young child. Is it that obvious?

Edinho looked at the swollen breasts, that were even now spotting at the tips under the folds of her many-layered dress.

I have always been an over-supplier. It was made worse because I had left my baby with my sister at home, when I was working. There was no way I was going to bring her to work. My breasts were dripping, and I had to rush to the washroom every now and then.

What did the two visitors want with you? Edinho asked, although he wanted to ask what she had done with the breast-milk, in the washroom. The baby on the settee was stirring a bit. Brown hands flailed above the enormous wrappings, then settled once more in a deep sleep.

"They came with the child, this baby, the next day, but this was only because it was late at night when we first met. I think they were desperate to hand over the baby to someone and leave Kenya as fast as they could. They had been searching for someone appropriate for over two weeks, all over Lamu and Malindi.

From my understanding, those were the two towns they knew most. After doing one week in Lamu and another in Malindi, they came back to Lamu and started their hunt all over again. They were just thinking of heading upcountry when they found me.

What did they give to you?

More money than I had ever seen in my life. And they promised they would be sending more every month, through Western Union. Then, just before they left, the young lady gave me this photograph.

Even before he reached out his hand to take the photo, Edinho knew what he would see. The photo was well-handled and much-worn. It was very unlike the crisp new snapshot that the street photographer had dispatched from his machine. That heady day now seemed so long ago.

But the brightly smiling faces were unmistakably his and Elsa’s. His hand was snaking around her waist as she leaned affectionately on his shoulder. Had her hair really been that long? He could almost feel the shoulder-length, lustrous tresses of dark hair rubbing against his fingers.

Three months ago, the money stopped coming. And that is when I decided to start looking for you. Before she left, she had made me promise that I would one day look for the father of the child. Said he would know what to do.

She said that, did she? Edinho mustered the courage to lift the shawls that were shrouding the baby’s face. He took a peek at the face of the baby that was still slumbering peacefully on the couch. The light-brown complexion of the baby and something about the eyebrows reminded him of Elsa. He looked at the other baby seated on her lap.

What? Zawadi enquired, with characteristic motherly agility.

Edinho could read the full brunt of her challenge from her gaze: What are you looking at my baby for? Where’s the father? he asked.

Oh, don’t worry about him, or our daughter. He’s a drunkard and drug addict, but he has his heart in the right place, Zawadi said peremptorily. And she is a born survivor, like me.

I hope you are sure about that.

Oh yes, I am. There are some people who are just born to conquer.

Really? Tell me, how did you find me?

Zawadi said that a tearful Elsa had told her that the boy’s father was a merchant who delivered charcoal to households and small hotels in Malindi. So Zawadi made the journey to Malindi from Lamu and asked around using the photograph. She finally came across someone who knew him, and that he lived up-country.

After three months of following the trail, she was finally here.

That was how Kariuki began life with his father. He was one year and three months old.

***

Stop it! Wambona slapped away the small hands beating against her legs. This is your last warning!

Kariuki abandoned his attempt at revenge and ran ahead. He knew the way to the bus stop.

She had just punished the young boy for kicking out at another boy, as they walked out the gate of Young Nuggets Nursery School. The boy turned on her with a vengeance.

It was the last day for Kariuki in nursery school, having completed the usual three years until he was six. The declaration in Wambona’s handbag was glowing.

‘He is a strong, well-behaved and intelligent child who has been excellent in all,’ it stated. But it was far from complete. It didn’t say that he loved fighting.

Don’t even think of it! Wambona raised her voice, as the young boy approached the road.

But Mum, I can cross on my own. I do it all the time.

Not when I’m here. When I’m around we cross together. Here, give me your hand.

The toddler delivered to Edinho on the back of Zawadi that day years ago had made impressive headway. It was just him and his father, Edinho, for the first few days. Zawadi and her daughter stayed only long enough to ensure that he was comfortable. Once he was well-fed, and with his backside resting on a fresh, new diaper, they left.

Wambona departed in a huff shortly after Kariuki arrived on Zawadi’s back. But Edinho had visited her home and talked with her and her family, setting things right. Wambona returned, to be the only mum that Kariuki knew for a long time afterwards.

His admittance to Full Complex Educational Institute was soon secured. Here, his development hit a slight snag. To get to school every day, he would have to walk some three kilometers to the bus stop, and back the same way in the evening. The six-odd kilometers daily walk was not the problem, however.

All along the three kilometer stretch there lived boys and girls who had not been privileged or smart enough to attend a city school like Kariuki. They attended the village school, where wearing of socks and shoes was not mandatory. Their uniforms were hand-me-downs from the ancestors of their grandparents.

Trudging past the rag-and-patches clad, sometimes barefoot and sockless children, Kariuki noticed the glances. The glances soon turned into pinches and shoving, and then into kicks and punches. Some of these he was able to quell by himself, but there was a bow-legged boy who lived close to the last corner before the bus stop. This boy was the same size as Kariuki, but seemed to possess superhuman strength and knuckles as hard as flint.

Every time Kariuki neared this penultimate corner, his breath started to rasp in his throat. Cold beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and his teeth chattered as if he were immersed in freezing water. His limbs shook like long grass in a stiff breeze. His tormentor must’ve timed his daily morning jaunt to the second.

There you are! The ruffian emerged, grimacing his gap-toothed smile. I told you never to use this road again! he said, as he descended on Kariuki, rapping him sharply across the head with his knuckles. Day after day, the boy wrestled Kariuki to the ground and kicked him when he was down.

He took gleeful delight in rubbing mud into Kariuki’s face and clothes. By the time the chap was done with Kariuki, he was sniffling and tingling with pain all over. Then the lout sent Kariuki running to the bus stop with kicks to his backside. The whole experience was painful, but even more painful was the boy’s laughter at Kariuki’s tears.

What’s up with you today? Edinho glanced up from his newspaper, that evening. You’ve been very quiet.

Nothing. It’s nothing. Kariuki was staring at the dinner table. The supper dishes had long been cleared, the table wiped.

No, something is bothering you. Otherwise you would be off to bed, or reading your storybooks, or watching TV. Anything except sitting there morosely, as if your dog just died.

Okay, there is something. Kariuki looked up. There is this boy who always beats me up in the morning. When I’m going to school.

What? Edinho laid down his paper. Why don’t you fight back?

He’s bigger and stronger than me.

No one should beat you up for no reason. Next time make sure you give as good as you get.

"I have tried. But he makes me to tetemeka. I shake in my boots every time I see him. He is so big and strong."

You’re stronger and fiercer. Edinho patted Kariuki on the back. I know that. That is, if all those stories I’ve heard from your mother are to be believed.

This one is different. Kariuki looked down at the long crack that ran down the length of the wooden table, from where an emaciated cockroach peered at him.

I see. Your problem is fear. He is just a mere boy, however strong or fierce he may be. The moment you show fear, you’ve already lost the fight.

How don’t I show fear when I’m afraid?

Just face up to the bully and look into his eyes, Kariuki. Then clench your fists and get ready to fight like you’ve never fought before. When he is in front of you, pretend that I’m hiding just around the corner, waiting for you to call my name. Just make-believe that I’m close by, ready to spring out and help you. Then do what you have to do.

Do what I have to do? What’s that?

Kick, punch, wrestle and even bite, if you have to. Never show fear!

Though he did not acknowledge it to himself at the time, these words from his father were liberating. He now had his Dad’s permission to pummel and thrash and make a right royal nuisance of himself. Not only that, but his Dad had promised to back him up, if anything went wrong. If that was not liberating, then Kariuki did not know what liberty was.

This admonition ‘Never show fear!’ played itself over and over in Kariuki’s brain the whole night, and the next morning, as he approached the accursed corner, it was at the fore of his mind. The bow legs appeared as if on cue, and the square body topped off by a square head.

Never show fear!

Hello there. The rapscallion blocked the road, brown teeth scowling below yellowish eyes, on a face filled with scars. Maybe someone had bitten the fellow’s face before. How many times shall I tell you I don’t want to see you on this road?

He reached out his fist for the customary rap on Kariuki’s head, but this time Kariuki knocked aside his hand, and landed a glancing punch on his nose. A flurry of fists later, the two seemed to have come to a stalemate. They separated for a few seconds to catch their breaths, scowling at each other ferociously. Then Kariuki remembered his dad’s words. Do what you have to do!

The boy was wearing some flipflops on his sockless feet. Nothing like the leather, hard-soled sharp-shooters Kariuki was wearing. He stepped forward, kicked out and smashed his shoe’s thick sole into the boy’s shins.

Ouch, that hurt! The boy crouched low, holding his shin. Now I’m going to crush you like an ant. I’m going to finish you!

Kariuki stood his ground, his fists clenched and his nostrils flaring a bit. Then he approached the boy, bristling with intent.

Hey! Keep those shoes away from me! The boy quickly retreated to one side of the road. Go! Get out of here, before I break your bones!

Kariuki paused. Maybe he needed to break the fellow’s leg for him? He stepped forward again, but the boy rose and took to his heels, only turning back to curse from a safe distance. Kariuki resumed his trip to the bus stop, darting glances behind him all the while. But the boy had limped back inside his home compound, presumably to nurse his wounds.

The fellow never bothered Kariuki again.

After this experience, Kariuki felt able to stand up to the renowned junior school bully, an overgrown boy of almost eleven who had terrorized the lower classes for what seemed like eons.

In their school, Tuesdays were prized days. They were the only days when pupils could enjoy a sausage in their lunch. This was in addition to the normal fare of githeri — mixed maize and beans.

See, give him your sausage, Kariuki’s new friend, Philo, whispered. They were seated at a long table in the dining room. The large dining hall could accommodate about two hundred pupils, with each table serving about twenty pupils. No other way.

No way. Kariuki pointed at the two sausages on the plate of the bully. He has two. Let him eat those.

What, loudmouth? The bully turned in Kariuki’s direction. Kariuki had not bothered to keep his voice down. Then the bully’s gaze dropped down to Kariuki’s plate.

One of the clever ones. The bully sneered. Come on, your sausage!

Kariuki impaled his sausage carefully on a fork. Then he lifted the fork to his mouth and took a big bite. He chewed on it ruminatively, as he stared at the bulbous nose of the pudgy boy, who was somehow still in third grade. The other pupils gasped, while some struggled to stifle their laughter.

Oh, you think you’re tough. The bully seemed about to hurl his plate at Kariuki. I’ll learn you better.

But Kariuki knew that he wouldn’t dare. The dining room matron was hovering a few meters away.

Waiting until the matron was looking away, the bully wagged a finger ominously.

Sure enough, after lunch the bully presented himself at a well-chosen spot. They were far away enough from the dining room to escape the attentions of any roaming matrons. They were also screened from the classrooms, and any teachers-on-duty around the corner.

Nothing could have suited Kariuki more.

Kicking the bully sharply in the shins, Kariuki had the pompous crook skipping on one leg while screaming in pain. The enraged boy charged Kariuki, his hands outstretched. Dropping on his two hands, Kariuki used the bloke’s momentum to sweep his legs from under him. The chap hit the ground with a thump that knocked out all the breath from him, as he kissed the dirt with his ugly mug.

Kariuki jumped on his back, and stuck his knee behind his shoulder blades. He twisted the bully’s arm behind his back and rubbed his face repeatedly in the dust.

Leave me! Get off me! Leave me alone! The now vanquished fighter intoned in a low voice, in between gulping mouthfuls of dirt.

But Kariuki continued the arm-twisting and face-rubbing, until his combatant begged for mercy repeatedly in a loud, high-pitched voice.

He finally got the boy to carry him on his back, crawling donkey-like part of the way to the classrooms. He spurred him all the way along, with repeated kicks to his posterior. This he did as he held on to the ample ears of the bully, like a cowboy on a bucking bronco. A handful of pupils, masquerading as a cheering squad, had magically materialized in the vicinity of the commotion. He paid no attention to them.

So, how was your day today? Wambona asked, a few days later, as they got ready to have supper.

It’s good that you ask, Kariuki piped up, although Wambona’s question was meant for Edinho, who had just come in and sat at the table. Today I was almost beaten at school.

Really? Edinho asked with a smile. I thought you were quite capable of beating anybody at school.

You can say that again, Wambona said as she came in with a hotpot from the kitchen. His class teacher tells me he’s the headmaster in their grade.

How so? Edinho asked, as Kariuki squirmed in his seat.

No one can touch him.

Not that again, Mum, Kariuki interjected quickly. The teacher wanted to cane me because I was late.

I thought there was no caning in school. Edinho turned to look at Wambona for an answer. The government abolished it, didn’t they?

What is abolish?

It means school pupils are not supposed to be caned.

Bosh! Kariuki exclaimed. Mercifully, he had not started eating yet. That is just for parents and the governors. Everyone knows there is caning in school.

Kariuki went on.

I was late because matatus don’t stop for me, he said. If no grown-up is at the bus stop, I wait there a long time.

That’s why we wanted you to be taken to school by the school van, Edinho said.

No, never, Kariuki frowned, his elbows on the table. It’s better matatus. Aren’t they cheaper?

Yes, they are, Kariuki, Edinho said, But we don’t want you to be late for school.

I know. Kariuki’s face cleared. I’ll wake up earlier from tomorrow. No way I’m ever going to be late, if I wake up early enough.

So, the next day, Kariuki woke up earlier than usual. There was no way he was going to school using the school van. It was boring, squeezed, inconveniencing and full of stuffy rich kids. Nothing like the independence he was used to.

As he walked briskly to the bus stop, he was hit by a brilliant idea. He knew what he was going to do, to ensure that those darned matatus stopped for him. Today was the day. No matatu was going to leave him behind.

The bus stop was empty when he got there. Perhaps everybody was still asleep. But Kariuki did not mind. As soon as he saw the cloud of dust in the distance signifying an approaching matatu, he was ready. He stepped closer to the road and turned to face the oncoming vehicle.

With as much