Was Nyakeera my Father

Elizabeth Kabui

Description

Eavesdropping on his parents, James Kirika, a fifteen-year-old teenager, hears a conversation that suggests that he is not the biological son of the man he calls �Father�. This realisation sends him into a tortured search for the man who brought him into this world. Things get complicated when the chief source of information, his old and hallucinating grandmother, gives him a fuzzy lead. Does he ever find out the truth?

Sujets

• Young Adult

Informations

• Publié par: Longhorn Publishers
• Date de parution: 29 décembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 4
• EAN13: 9789966316813
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

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W AS N YAKEERU MY FATHER ?
Elizabeth Kabui
Published by
Longhorn Publishers (K) Ltd., Funzi Road, Industrial Area, P.O. Box 18033 — 00500, Nairobi, Kenya.
Longhorn Publishers (U) Ltd., Kanjokya Street, Plot 74, Kamwokya, P.O. Box 24745, Kampala, Uganda.
Longhorn Tanzania Ltd., New Bagamoyo/Garden Road, Mikocheni B, Plot No. MKC/MCB/81, P. O. Box 1237, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania.
© Elizabeth Kabui 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the Copyright owner.
First published 2014
ISBN 978 9966 31 251 X
Printed by Printing Services Ltd., Factory Street off Commercial Street, Industrial Area, P.O. Box 32197-00600, Nairobi, Kenya.
FOREWORD
The National Book Development Council of Kenya (NBDCK) is a Kenyan nongovernment organization made up of stakeholders from the book and education sectors. It promotes the love of reading, the importance of books and the importance of quality education.
The Burt Award for African Literature project involves identification, development and distribution of quality story books targeting the youth, and awarding the authors. It is funded by Bill Burt, a Canadian philanthropist, and implemented by the NBDCK in partnership with the Canadian Organization for Development through Education (CODE).
The purpose of the Burt Award books such as Was Nyakeeru my Father? is to give the reader high quality, engaging and enjoyable books whose content and setting are portrayed in an environment readers can easily identify with. This sharpens their English language and comprehension skills leading to a better understanding of the other subjects.
My profound gratitude goes to Bill Burt for sponsoring the Burt Award for African Literature in Kenya. Special thanks also go to the panel of judges for their dedicated professional input into this project. Finally, this foreword would be incomplete without recognizing the important role played by all NBDCK stakeholders whose continued support and involvement in the running of the organization has ensured the success of this project.
Ruth K. Odondi Chief Executive Officer National Book Development Council of Kenya
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
The Burt Award for African Literature recognizes excellence in young adult fiction from African countries. It supports the writing and publication of high quality, culturally relevant books and ensures their distribution to schools and libraries to help develop young people’s literacy skills and foster their love for reading. The Burt Award is generously sponsored by a Canadian philanthropist, Bill Burt, and is part of the ongoing literacy programs of the National Book Development Council of Kenya, and CODE, a Canadian NGO supporting development through education for over 50 years.
DEDICATION
This story is dedicated to my children, Acacia and Apollo, who are the first editors of my stories. And my husband Lee who always challenges me to write a masterpiece.
Chapter One
“ I forgot the games!” I exclaimed, and rushed out of the car. My whole family was going to Grandma’s for the school holiday. We had done this every August holiday for as long as I could remember. Mother and Father would spend just a day there and leave us children to spend the rest of the holiday at Grandma’s.
We did not mind this arrangement especially because Grandma, in spite of her aging, had decided that her sole purpose in life was to ‘spoil’ her grandchildren. She always went out of her way to give us treats. Roast maize was my favourite, and I wondered where she always got the green maize. Even in the harvest season when all the maize was dry, she still managed to find some green maize to roast for us. Of course we helped out in the daily chores. When I was younger, I often looked after the goats and sheep, but now at fifteen, I had graduated to taking care of the cows. I must have done a pretty good job with the cows the last August holiday, for Grandma had promised to give me a cow of my own the next time I went to visit her. That next time was now. I am not too sure I was excited at becoming the owner of a cow. Indeed, I believed it to be one of Grandma’s magnanimous gestures towards her grandson and so I did not think much of it. While at Grandma’s, my brother and I usually whiled the evening away playing board games. I had forgotten the games in the house and was now rushing to get them before our parents came out and locked up the house.
I am not in the habit of eavesdropping, but as I got into the house, Father said something that caught my attention, and I stopped in my tracks.
“I have taken care of this boy all these years as though he were my son, but he just keeps disappointing me…!” Father said, agitated. Although Father was a stern-faced man, he rarely lost his temper or raised his voice even when annoyed. Whoever Father was referring to must have really disappointed him.
“How many years has it been?” Father went on. “Fifteen! And every year he promises to improve. But you have seen for yourself; there has been no change!”
Whom had Father taken care of for fifteen years? I wondered. Who had been a great disappointment to him? All of a sudden, it dawned on me: I had turned fifteen just a few months earlier. Could Father be referring to me? I wondered. I then recalled Father’s disappointed look when I had handed him my school report form. I recalled too, the numerous times I had promised to put more effort in my studies but somehow I had always managed to score poor grades. Leaning weakly on the wall, I realised that Father must have been talking about me. I had been a great disappointment to him. But then, what had he meant when he said, “…as though he were my son?” I was his son, wasn’t I? I drew closer to listen.
“Though you are not his biological father, he does call you Father. You cannot disown him after all these years,” Mother was arguing. “Do not do anything in a rush,” she went on. “Bear in mind that whatever you do will affect all of us,” Mother said, and I could now hear their footsteps heading towards the door. I instinctively wanted to hide but was too stupefied by their conversation to think or act fast. Mother found me standing in the corridor.
“Jimmy, aren’t you ready yet?” she asked.
“Why don’t we just leave him behind?” Father said as he went out of the house. Ordinarily, I would have taken that as a joke but after the conversation I had just overheard, I could not be too sure he did not mean it.
“I am ready,” I said as I took the bag full of board games. I walked out of the house and into the car still stupefied. We started our three-hour journey to Sheeba and to avoid any conversation, I feigned a headache and shut my eyes. I needed to figure things out. I had no doubt in my mind that I had been the subject of the conversation I had overheard.
So my father, or rather the man I called Father, was not my biological father! How could this be? Why had I not realised this before? Why had no one ever told me? Did the others know? I opened my eyes narrowly and looked at Vic and Penny. Did they know? Could they have known all the while and hidden the truth from me? It did not seem possible. We were not only siblings but great friends too. At eleven, Victor, or Vic as we all called him, looked up to me as his wiser elder brother. He often asked me to help him with schoolwork and he knew he could depend on me to defend him.
Once, when Vic had accidently spoilt a friend’s bicycle, he had called me to help. The friend had insisted that Vic repairs the bicycle. That was fine. The problem was that Vic could not ask our parents for money to repair the bicycle because Mother had perpetually told us not to borrow things we could do without. Bicycles and expensive toys fell into the list of such things. A few years earlier we had all wanted bicycles and had each in turn asked Mother to buy for us. Unwittingly, we had each tried to convince our parents that we so badly needed the bicycle so that we could quickly go on the errands they sent us.