REPLACEABLE

I was nine years old when my parents separated. My older brother, Francis, now Steve had traveled with my father to Kisumu, while my mother stayed behind in Nairobi with my younger sister, Ruth. They were supposed to join us in Kisumu for the Christmas holiday of 2004.

I never understood why we did not travel as a family. Even though I could sense that things were not well between my parents, I was too young to comprehend the weight of their troubles. I had once walked in on my mother crying. My father had battered her. Was this the reason she did not come with us?

When I asked my dad why she hadn’t joined us, he simply said, “She is waiting to receive her shares from the chama.”

Several weeks passed, but Mama did not come. The festive season ended, and we crossed into 2005—still, she was nowhere to be seen. I could tell from my father’s face that he had lost hope. She was not coming.

Steve, however, could not accept this reality. He had a deep connection with our mother, and he struggled to stay without her. One day, he whispered to me that he knew where Mama’s hometown was in Siaya. He promised that if she didn’t come soon, he would leave Kisumu to find her.
And then, one morning, he was gone.

Steve and I had been sharing a bed since we arrived in Kisumu. When I woke up that morning, I thought he had gone outside to do chores. But as the day went on, it became clear, Steve was missing.
We searched the entire neighbourhood, asked around, but no one knew where he was. The day faded into night, and still, no sign of him. The next morning, I woke up hoping to find him back in bed. But it was not a dream, he was gone.

A missing person report was filed at the nearest police station. My mind raced with questions: Where could he have gone? Why did he leave? What if something bad had happened to him?
Days turned into a week, but Steve never returned. My heart ached with fear and confusion. And just as I was trying to understand his disappearance, my two half-brothers, Jack and Elijah, arrived in Kisumu.
January was coming to an end, and it was time to return to Nairobi for school. On January 31, 2005, I boarded a train with Jack and Elijah, leaving my father behind in Kisumu. But he was not alone, his ex-wife had arrived to take my mother’s place.

I had overheard my grandmother, Monica, speaking with my father. “The occasion had to happen. It could not be postponed any longer. If she did not show up, well… she was replaceable.”
What occasion? I wondered. Why couldn’t it be postponed? So many questions filled my young mind, yet I had no answers.

My stepmother had been living in Kisumu after separating from my father. When she arrived at my grandmother’s home, she did not come alone. That was the day I met my half-sister, Monica, for the first time.

She was tall, slender, and two years older than me. People said we resembled each other. She had a unique talent, she could balance things on her head effortlessly. I watched in amazement as she carried a bucket of water or a basket full of supplies from the market all the way home.

The journey back to Nairobi was long. The train rumbled through the countryside, past endless fields and scattered villages. As we approached Nairobi, it snaked through the crowded streets of Kibera before finally stopping at the terminus.

Passengers rushed to alight as my half-brothers, and I struggled to lift our heavy bags. My heart was heavy, too. I was going back to Nairobi, but nothing felt the same. My mother was missing from my life. Steve was gone. And now, I had a new stepmother and half-sister I barely knew.