I don't want your cash, I just want to see my grandchildren, woman tells her in-law

In the lush green hamlet of Bonsansa in Bobasi, Kisii, 75-year-old Anne Kerubo’s life is barren.

Despite the mix of cheer and the juvenile mischief of grandchildren around her, she spends her evenings bereft of joy, gazing at the stars shining over the undulating hills and musing over her losses in the wake of the El Adde attack in Somalia a year ago that left more than 100 Kenyan soldiers dead on January 15.

Hers is a case of double victim-hood, loss of a beloved son Stephen Torah Mayaka at the prime age of 31 and victim of a widow who yanked off three loving grandchildren from her bosom.

Kerubo, who was widowed at 60, cuts the image of the resilient and timeless African woman—sucking in all life’s sorrows with grace and honour in equal measure. From her demeanour, she’s taken everything in her stride, even the “desertion” of her son’s widow.

“After the burial and compensation she came back for her suitcase and disappeared into Eldoret town. She blocked us off her mobile communication and I have not seen my grandchildren ever since,” she says of her daughter-in-law, Mayaka’s widow, Betty Aveta.

She longs to see her grandchildren.

“I would have loved to see them play here once in a while. I also wish she would come over to see me just like her husband used to. It would comfort me a great deal.”

Not a penny!

Mayaka’s mud-walled house stands forlorn, permanently locked in accordance with Kisii traditions, after its previous inhabitants vanished.

On the door are two stickers bearing a photo of the deceased in military gear in Somalia emblazoned with the message: “You will always remain in our hearts.”

“We peeled these off the customised drinking water bottles that were in use during the burial and pasted them over here for remembrance. This is the only photo we have of him in action in Somalia. He’d send it to his wife via WhatsApp,” Mary Opewa, a sister of the deceased says.

Kerubo continued her narration, rubbing off her wrinkled hands against her red-brick house wall: “Not a penny! I did not get even a penny... But when she came here for the last time after burial, she brought me a sack of maize, ten tins of wimbi and ten tins of beans. I am least bothered about the money anyway. I want my grandchildren to come home to check on me.”

She vanished

Mayaka’s eldest brother John Mayaka, who lives in the US, called his mother when we were in the middle of our interview. She passed over the phone and John painted a picture of a jumbled compensation process.

“I was in Kenya all through the period of search, burial and compensation. I knocked on every door and engaged everyone. The government was resolute on two things, that they recognised only the wife and that the compensation claims would be paid to only one account.”

“I wanted a joint account of probably my mother and his wife to put safeguards for prudent investment, especially for the children but the government would hear none of it. Up to this moment, and despite my involvement, we don’t know what was eventually paid because she vanished on us,” John says.

He said his sister-in-law first informed them she was paid an initial amount of Sh2 million but he believes she got around Sh4.7 million. He says some families got as much as Sh10 million.

The family now says the widow has since left her matrimonial home with firm instructions that her whereabouts should not be disclosed to her husband’s family.

“It pains me as an elder brother because I did everything for this young boy. I paid for his elementary education, his high school and even made arrangements to have him join the military. After the attack, I knocked on every office door first to establish his whereabouts and secondly to bury him.”

Both he, mother and siblings believe Mayaka’s three girls are fine but will not  understand why their mother cut ties with her husband’s family.

We left Kerubo, her daughter Mary and another daughter-in-law Elvin perusing through a beaten family album, as they tried to come to terms with the twin losses.

“But why do you people do this?” We  asked Elvin who is married to Kerubo’s last born son and who has been left to cheer up the ageing matriarch of the home. She retorted: “It’s not all of us. It depends with what sort of person one is and their upbringing.”

The Obwoges journey

Across several ridges over in Bomachoge on the outskirts of Ogembo town is the home of Mayaka’s commander in the infantry that fell in El Adde, Maj Geoffrey Obwoge, who also died.

Like Mayaka’s case, the compensation settlement was paid to his wife who is a nurse in Eldoret.

At the age of 33, Geoffrey had done fairly well for himself having obtained  two academic degrees, risen fast through military ranks and built an impressive home in Eldoret town for his young family.

The Standard on Sunday also caught up with his ageing father Charles Obwoge while leaving his son’s Nyakorokoro village home where he was buried.

The old man had come to check on some construction of a well coming up in the late officer’s homestead. The senior Obwoge shuttles between his own home a few kilometres away from his son’s home. 

“Before he died, I had given this property to him and he was in the process of constructing these houses when he died. We took over and finished it since his family lives in his Eldoret home which he purchased. I have to check on this one from time to time,” he says.

Widow visits often

He too did not get a cent off his son’s tragic death but is not complaining. He admits he does not know much about the compensation other than what he has been told.

“I know she received the compensation due on her. I presume the education pay-out for the children is on course. She also told me that his salary goes into her account and this will run for the five years as was promised. As to other details, I have no idea but I trust she got everything,” he says.

Senior Obwoge says part of the proceeds was used to finish the two houses. He couldn’t stand the embarrassment of housing his heroic son in a tent when his remains were brought home for burial.

“You should have been here. We got 15 fundis and 25 helpers to pull this off in two weeks. We have since used part of the compensation to undertake the inside finishing. And as you can see, we are still on it,” he says.

The two houses are quite impressive, the main one  has a lockable car garage.

Mzee and his wife use the side-house whenever they are in the area: “We couldn’t allow this place to be cemetery so that we just come and dump his body. We must watch over it until it’s a proper home. That’s our only interest,” he says.

Outside, a brick-walled modern cowshed is also coming up.    The rightful owner of home, Maj  Obwoge’s widow visits quite often.

“She was here on leave over December with the children. She left on December 23 to go back to work. We are in good terms with her and we have set her free. We hope she will stay and raise the children here but you never know with women, if she decides to leave that will be her decision,” Senior Obwoge says.

Obwoge  told us he advised the wife to invest in a prime plot in Kisii town and she obliged.

But mzee has one more plea.

“My greatest wish over and above what has happened, was that the government employs his younger brother. This would cushion the family a great deal as he was the most financially stable of his siblings. I am about to retire myself and I would be glad to leave the family in much more stable hands,” he says.

That request is yet to be honoured.

But is he not worried that if another son joins the military he may face the same brutal fate as elder brother?

“How many more people die in our roads and elsewhere? Everyone meets their own unique end. I believe that my son met his end in his unique way and we will all meet ours in our distinct ways. I am not afraid,” he says.

Clearly Obwoge has come to terms with the loss of his dear son.

The contradictions in the Obwoge’s and Mayaka’s tales are part of human nature.

Different strokes, fortunes, paths and ends.

But they also point to the anguish families go through whenever misfortune strike their dear ones.