I told the Kamba in me that it was temporary, much likethe sweltering January heat. Convinced myself of the need not to personalize it. Cautioned my madly whirling brain against reading too much into it and ruining any prospects of a hasty resolution of the no doubt precarious matter.
* * * *
When he finally told me on Friday night, it came out sideways.
We were sitting on the edge of our unmade king-sized divan bed, socks still on, neither of us quite ready to turn in yet, to call it a night. He stared at the wall as though the words were written there and he just had to read them aloud.
“They’ve set a date,” he said.
I wanted so badly to speak, but I held my tongue. Waited impatiently.
“The twentieth—next Saturday.”
Still, I waited.
“The dowry’s been paid.”
I felt the room tilt.
“Fourmillion—paid in full,” he said, chuckling mirthlessly, “without my say-so,minusthe groom’s consent.”
* * * *
What really ticked me off was the way they’d teamed up, banded together to frustrate him. It wasn’t just his usually impossible mother this time; it was the aunts—three of them, living in the States, armed with the callousness, the arrogance, that dollar possession ultimately precipitated in most of our compatriots.
They were pros, those three women. Bullies who’d long mastered the art of distance: staying far enough to avoid the daily consequences, but hovering close enough to forceobedience, enforce compliance.
They hadn’t asked him if he wanted to marry her. They’d simply conferenced in, informed him that he would. At the hallowed Holy Family Basilica, no less.
Suddenly, there existed a woman. Twenty-six. Pretty. University-educated.
Same tribe, Kikuyu; same county, Kiambu.
Same class. Same neighbourhood. Kitusuru.
A devout Catholic woman selected not for love, but for fit. Picked solely because of the obvious optics, favoured due to the undeniable success aesthetic.
Everything aligned perfectly—except the bitter, honest truth that no-one but us knew.
* * * *
What struck me most was not their cruelty, but their calm. Their composure. No shouting. No threats. Zero drama. Just facts, neatly laid out like an invoice.
This is what was expected of a good son. A God-fearing thirty-four-year-old man.
They didn’t need to say the rest. He knew it already.
If he refused, he would lose everything: the palatial six-bedroom house we lived in, the silver BMW X7 he cruised around in, the six Falcon Bank personal accounts he operated. The safety net that made adult life feel manageable. Doable.Survivable.
* * * *
People talk about choice as though it exists equally for everyone. As though dependency doesn’t warp the ground beneath your feet. As though money isn’t a language of command.
Legally, yes—he could refuse.
But power doesn’t dwell inside the law. Not really. Not when it comes to these ruthless moneyed folks. To them, power is wielded like an axe—and it resides in leverage.
And Marvin—myMarvin—had none.
