That’s my girl…

I have racked my mind in search of methods to at least double my mediocre savings—nothing doing. Working the night shift (the only tangible option) is shaky because the factory has slowly been succumbing to issues.

Apparently, two of the company’s previous consignments to a client were faulty because of poor packaging. The entire liquid chemical in the package was damaged and some of it allegedly poured. Apparently, the management is through with the investigations, but the verdict is still within the upper echelon’s confines. However, the grapevine has it that the department in question will pay for negligence. That is my department. This means we are likely to work overtime—without a dime. Inevitably, more thoughts that are unpleasant find their way into my mind, especially considering my girl, who of late hardly wants me out of her sight.

As I walk out of the factory haggard from thinking about the foul probabilities, the only thing that makes sense is trailing with Onyi*, Ngugi*, and Mwash*, my equally bemused colleagues. I head to Onyi’s house for the consoling opportunity to vent, complain and make fun of the management.

Onyi recently bought a Great Wall television set. It is showing the ‘big boys’ of Ghana and Egypt sauntering into the stadium to haggle for the cup. Ha ha! African Cup of Nations final match and the well laid out brown millet ugali and managu by our host’s wife is just a perfect way of ending a hard day!

What was meant to be a 30 minutes catch-up turns into hours of heckling followed by an elongated analysis of the match (don’t bother finding out my team). Then it dawns on me— Bela*! I practically take a 10 am-speed dash home.

‘How dare you!’ she greets looking at the clock when I tumble into the house. ‘Babie…’ I sheepishly mumble my evening’s predicament. She is obviously upset and she seems to be still recovering from the anxiety she felt when she could not reach me—now that my phone has had a network issue for the last two days. ‘Jared*,’ this time quietly, ‘do you still love me?’ ‘Of course,’

I mutter, my words are laden with guilt. ‘You didn’t tell me you’d be late,’ there are tears in her voice, ‘I was worried… and you know my EDD is only four days away,’ she goes on. ‘Love…’ ‘I know you love me. But do you see something wrong with your showing up now?’ Again, she looks at the clock. It is 12.00am.

I welcome myself to sit on the bed and rest my remorse-loaded head on the pillow inclined on the wall. The silence engulfing my head is now disturbing—I wish she would be shouting, but she seems to be through. I don’t want to turn and meet those eyes that keep releasing gentle guilt missiles. Really, what got into my head? Listening to the match on my radio would have been the saner thing to do, considering my girl’s state. Again, my Bela amazes me. ’Jared,’ she says calmly. I look up to find a smile playing on her lips. ’I know this is really hard on you. I am happy that you enjoyed the match. Actually, I don’t know of anyone who would do your part better so far…,’ she says standing and going to warm my food.

Full as I am, I dare not say so. I need to make it up to her in every way—you know. Her culinary skills on the Ugali and Omena plus the kachumbari side plate, give my make-up efforts a walkover because I leave the three plates clean.

Her great attentiveness makes me rant away the factory’s damning scenario. Her gentle nods are a clear confirmation that she understands my woes. At some point, we both lose it—but we retrieve the curses we have heaped on ‘our’ assailants (you know she is in my team) and say, ’So much about that!’

We go on to say how amusing it is that we are expecting two important results by the end of the month; Bela’s final exam grades and the baby. She pulls out two of her latest knits— the prettiest sweaters under the sky.

Bela settles in bed as I do the dishes. This is when I begin to feel how fatigued I really am. Therefore, I don’t give the clean-up my best side, as I usually do, and hop into bed praying morning doesn’t show up soon. Then Bela gasps. ‘Baby kicks?’ I muse. She responds with a little groan. ‘Honey, are you okay,’ I mutter I am very sleepy you know. ‘Jared, I feel something,’ she says. ‘Like what? Like you need to visit the restroom?’ ‘Yes, that and more…’

The fatigue sitting on my body makes her words trail off my ears. Tomorrow is a working day yet my body is hammered senseless. This one night she can do without my escort. ’Jared!’ Her yell slices into my snooze, ‘The baby is here!’ ‘What?’ I ask sitting up. ‘I’m in labor,’ she says with another wince. I bolt up like an arrow. I want to ask more questions but her writhing is a clear indication that the EDD is finally with us.

I call Onyi, who shows up in no time, in a cab. I grab the bag stuffed with the ‘baby layette’—as Bela calls it, and Onyi and I place her into the car’s back seat where I sit with her. Bela’s whimpering gets louder, her writhing more vigorous and the car is not moving fast enough. I feel clamped up between desperation and insufficiency. ‘I can’t take it longer,’

I bawl at Bela, ‘Gal, you try to get a hold of yourself!’ To the driver, ‘Mzee, hatuendi picnic, kanyanga hiyo mafuta! (Old man, we are not going for a picnic. Step up on that gas!)’

‘Easy man,’ Onyi intervenes. However, the sigh he hears from me tells him anything more from him will make it worse. Of course, Bela behaves like she never heard anything from me, but the calm reciprocation from the driver and Onyi tell me I have overstepped. I make a point of containing my anxiety for the rest of the journey. In the meantime, my current alertness tells me there is no trace of weariness in my body, and for a split moment, Bela’s erratic behavior does a smile on my lip. I am going to be a daddy, and that’s my girl making it happen!

* Not their real names.

END: PG30/46-47