Bad Nurse


She made tea. We sat in the dining room. I could hear her husband on a Zoom call somewhere in a room down the corridor. He was speaking to white folk, from what I could hear. Everybody sounded so polite on that call. All that “I’m sorry,” and “that’s a fantastic point, but,” and “I agree with you, but if I may also add…”



The first time I had sex, I was 15 and I had on dungarees. Everybody was wearing them then; Brandy, Salt N Pepa, Queen Latifa…everybody. All the bad bitches. I wanted to be a bad bitch. This was back in the 90s when everything felt like a taboo; beer, cigarettes, sitting in a bar, getting a tattoo, being a bad bitch. Actually, just being a girl was a taboo, let alone a bad bitch, because the list of things my mother forbade me to do was longer than my legs. Both of them. One of them was interactions with boys. And there I was, me and a guy I will call Martin (because that’s his first name) struggling to remove my dungaree, failing and then him – as experienced as a one-armed guitarist – saying, f*&k it, and then pulling it down to my knees and having his way with me.

I remember us doing it very fast, very awkwardly, before the maid came back from the market carrying groceries. We did it on the sofa in the TV room (yes, we had one of those then) under a massive framed family picture taken by an ageing Indian man in a small bright photo studio in town on a Saturday afternoon. My dad – a research biologist – stared down at me with a chunky smile. My mom, a nurse, who never smiled, wore a grim look, the only look she had. I was sure even in that photo she disapproved of what I was doing on our sofa. Her sofa. Then there was my younger brother in an awkward suit with sleeves too long. There were only two of us. We still are only two. He met a girl while working in the UN in the Middle East, fell head over heels, converted to Islam and settled there, rarely coming home. My mom has never recovered. I think my mom realises that my brother’s choice of spouse and his refusal to come back to show my mom her grandkids is rebellion.  I suspect she sits glumly at her bedroom window sipping her tea, hoping my brother will press the bell of our gate and say, ‘It didn’t work out with that Muslim girl.”

I remember making a mess on the sofa; blood. Nobody told me that I’d bleed losing my virginity. I didn’t know anybody who had had sex before. In movies I watched women have sex and then stand under the hot shower with a smile. White women. Thankfully, my parents were the kind of parents who thought leather sofas were the height of sophistication so it was pretty easy to wipe off the blood before the maid came. It was horrible. The sex. Martin was a big guy who played rugby and so he weighed more than a Combine Harvester. I also didn’t like him that much. I liked to be associated with him. To be seen with him after a rugby match when his knees were bruised and he still smelled of grass. I also loved that he would head-butt other big boys and send them flying in the air like paper in a gale. That was hot. Quite. He also had big wrists, as thick as the water pipe under our sink.

Then I fell pregnant.

My mom found out before I did. Of course she did. One day, after dinner, as we sat watching TV, she stood up and said, “Laura, come.” That was never a good sign. In her bedroom, she asked me to close the door. Definitely not a good sign. I sat on the only big green velvet couch while she perched on the edge of her bed. “Are you sexually active?” She asked me.

“No!” I squealed, slightly disgusted by the insinuation. She asked like I was shagging boys around. And I wasn’t. I mean I had only done it once with Martin and I didn’t think I’d do it again. The experience had been underwhelming. Plus, he had been too heavy.

She stared at me stonily.

“I’m going to ask you again,” she brushed off something invisible from her lap. “Are you sexually active?”

I repeated that I was not.

She glared at me. I don’t know about your mother but my mother was a scary woman. She was plump like all nurses were in those days. And she was menacing. She was feared by her sisters and my father’s sisters and everybody else she interacted with. There was always a feeling that she was ready to punch you if you stood in her sun. Or her shadow. I think even my dad feared her, that’s why when he was home he always held the newspaper over his face.

“Mom, I’m not sexually active!” I repeated.

“Have you had sex with a boy?” She asked and the room suddenly became very hot. I swallowed hard and wondered whether I should lie or not.

“I haven’t,” I said, locking eyes with her but feeling all my energy drain from me. I felt like I would melt into a puddle and flow out of her bedroom. My mother never threw things away. Hoarding hadn’t become a word then, but she was a hoarder. Her bedroom was like a museum. It was full of furniture and mementos she would send my father for whenever he travelled. And a big wooden box where she kept dozens of magazines, some of them pornography. (Yeah, I checked. Bad nurse). I looked away and stared at a row of shelves that contained different types of pots; mostly small pots from different parts of Africa.

“You are pregnant, Laura,” she announced.

“I am?” I asked, surprised.

“Yes, you are,” she said.

I laughed and she shot me a lethal look and spat, “Don’t you dare laugh at this moment.”

“Mom,” I said evenly, “I’m not pregnant.”

“Okay,” she said standing up, “tomorrow morning, you will come with me to the hospital.”

“What about school?”

“School is not for mothers,” she hissed.

I tried to remember what we learnt about pregnancy and the signs but I couldn’t recall because I never thought I’d get pregnant before I got a job and a husband. I squeezed my stomach to feel the baby but there was nothing. The next morning, we drove silently to the hospital. She drove an old cream Datsun that she made us wash daily. The test came out positive. I remember the room I learnt I was pregnant in; a white sanitised room with a chair and a desk and an examination bed covered in white. She must have kicked the owner out of the office or, knowing her, maybe gagged her, tied her up and locked her in one of the cupboards.

I cried a lot in that office. She was so disappointed. So distraught. She just sat there, breathing gently as I cried. I was afraid to look at her. She then started telling me how I had messed up my life at 15. How it was over for me. How shameful all this was for our family. I cried harder when she asked me if I was a whore. I pleaded that it was only one time, “It happened only one time!” She shook her head, not believing a word of course. She would have believed Judas over me. Anyway, she said she wanted to know the father of that child. I knew she would have tortured me for a name, so I just spat Martin’s name without any struggle. I wasn’t about to die for him. “We are going to his place today,” she announced.

I had never taken a matatu but – for the first time in my life – she gave me fare and told me to get myself home. “You are an adult, now!” She said. That’s how I learnt the ways of the streets. OK, that’s how I started learning the ways of the streets. I jumped into a mat at Aga-Khan and found my way to town. I cried the whole way. Then I got into the wrong one and I found myself in Ngong, after crying the whole way. There were no mobile phones so I used my wits to get home in the early evening to find her cooking in the kitchen, unperturbed. Mom was hardcore. After cooking, she untied her leso and said, “Take me to the boy.”

I had been to the boy’s place just once. We lived in the Gigiri area, they lived in the Kileleshwa area. On our way I forgot the route so we had to get into a phonebooth and call their home. His brother picked and my mother told him that she was their auntie and she wanted to come see the parents. We were received by Martin’s father who was a very burly man wearing a white vest and shorts. Martin’s mother was very petite and smiled a lot, insisting to make tea before she found out what the matter was. Their house, unlike ours, was sparsely furnished and tasteful and very brightly lit. It seemed happy, a place you did whatever you wanted to do. There were so many flowers around. And Martin’s siblings. I counted four. The house was loud with chatter unlike our house that had order. When Martin came down to say hello he looked like he had seen a ghost.  My mom looked like she was ready to wrestle him to the floor, choke him then hit him over the head with a vase. After tea was served, because my mom wouldn’t wait, she launched into the matter before her first sip. Martin’s father thundered out loudly for him and he bundled downstairs from his room. He was told I was pregnant.

“Do you know anything about that?” His father inquired gravely.

“No!” Martin looked bewildered. We avoided looking at each other.

“Have you had sex with my daughter?” My mother asked in a voice so cold the tea before us turned into iced tea.

He looked at his mother and then looked at his father and he finally mumbled, “Once.”

“Well, you are a father of one now!” My mom quipped. When I think of it now it’s funny.

Let’s just say it was a long evening. Martin’s family couldn’t believe their 17-year-old son could father a baby. But they were rational about it. It’s almost like they expected it. My mom told them that she wanted nothing from them but for them to know what their son had done. She lectured him for a good ten minutes right in front of his parents. That’s the kind of cheek my mom had; brazen and confrontational even in people’s homes. When everybody was going gaga over “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F**K,” I was rolling my eyes because I learnt that art during my childhood by watching my mom. There is truly not one person I know who didn’t give a f**k more than my mom. On our ride home she scolded me that I was going to have to give birth to a “Mluhya baby!” “Who is going to marry you with a Mluhya baby?” She asked.

My life changed after.

First, I was banished like Romeo was from Verona for killing Tybalt in Romeo and Juliet. And it felt like the worst punishment for a 15-year-old at that time. I was sent to Umoja to live with one of my mom’s cousins because, God forbid I was about to shame our well-heeled neighbours with my pregnancy. Sure, our relatives in Umoja couldn’t shame her. This also meant that I was pulled out of a very prestigious international school because in my mom’s words, “You don’t appreciate the privilege of education.” In case you are wondering where my father’s voice is in all this my father had little to no say in our home. My mother ruled like a king. She was a woman from Mweiga, Nyeri. My mom broke the news to my father in the bedroom that night, I suppose but my father never said a word to me about it for close to a week. He acted normal around me. One day as we walked to his car, me carrying his leather case (that was always my job if he was leaving during normal hours), he said, “This is not the end of life. Your mother has some remedial ideas.” Remedial. That’s how he spoke. Then he smiled at me sadly, as if to say, this is above my paygrade, take it on the chin, good luck, I can’t help you.

Imagine from Gigiri to Umoja. You can’t. You think you can, but you can’t. From a six-bedroom (three ensuite) mansion with a guest wing, a big compound with a large garden and two groundsmen, a watchman, a maid, to a two-bedroomed house in Umoja. The first thing I recall when I got there was how noisy it seemed. There was lots of activity. Cars honked. Children ran around. Dogs walked the streets. There were many kiosks. People sat outside those kiosks smoking, talking, laughing. Matatus screeched to a halt at stations and young nimble men jumped out. Everybody spoke sheng. This was a different world.

I shared a room with my auntie’s help (gulp!) and her ten-year-old daughter. There was no room for a dining area so we ate from the coffee table in the living room. The house was small and cramped. It felt like prison for a 15-year-old. My mom never spoke to me the whole time I was there. My auntie had no telephone so she would seldomly bring slips of messages from my mom when she came from the office. Very impersonal messages like, “Take milk and bananas for nutrients. Mom.” Or “We are fine at home. Mom” Or “ Philippians 4:13. Mom.” My father “sneaked” in to see me twice a month. I say “sneaked” because I doubt my mother knew he was seeing me. Sometimes he came with my brother. We would sit in the car and I’d break down and cry and he’d just sit there, helpless, gutted, saying, “This will soon end. You will be back home.”

I think when I’m asked when my life took a turn for the better I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy. I don’t know. What I know is that it showed me a side of life I wouldn’t have seen because had I not gotten pregnant I would have finished my high school, I would have shipped to the US or Australia or Canada, then who knows? I wouldn’t have learnt about human struggles, of water shortages, of taking matatus to the clinic, of buying vegetables for 10 bob, of cooking and washing your own clothes and basically talking to people who aren’t in your ecosystem in their language. I don’t regret those nine or so months in Umoja. They were an education. I learnt not to take things for granted. I learnt sheng.

My mother was in the room when I delivered. She held my daughter with the kind of love I hadn’t imagined she was capable of. She was by my side throughout my hospital stay; cleaning me up, feeding me, telling me how to hold the baby, holding me as I lowered myself in warm salty water to help me “down there” as she called my private parts. I thought I’d go back to Umoja, instead she drove me back home. At home there was a cot already set up in my room and a heater. She lowered the baby in there and said, “Now everything you do you remember this baby.”

I went back to school, a different school and everything I did after that was not to disappoint my mother again. And for my daughter. I worked double hard because I didn’t have any more distractions seeing as I had lost all my friends; it was always school and home to my baby. I found other girls and their pursuits trivial and exhausting. I lost interest in boys. Being a mother matured me faster than anything in my school life would have. I excelled. I left my baby with my mom to study in London for six years, only coming back home once to see her. I secured a good job thanks to my father. Six months after graduating as a Doctor of Philosophy my father suddenly developed a rare liver disease and died. I felt like I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t know if he was ever happy or satisfied with his life. My mother always overshadowed him. I feel sad when I think of my dad.

While I still mourned him, one rainy day I met a man when I had gone out to a birthday dinner date I didn’t want to attend because it was wet and I hated meeting new people. He was funny and stuffed silk in his breast pocket. After six months of cat and mouse, he asked me if I was a lesbian and I told him that I had only slept with two men in my life; one of them black. He said, “Let’s make that black an even number.” I’m embarrassed to say that’s the only reason I slept with him. Then I discovered he was married. By this time I was living with my mom in the house I grew up in because my daughter considered it home, besides, my mom was now retired and lonely even though she wouldn’t accept that.

I met another man who my daughter instantly liked before I did. So I married him three years later and we moved into a different home and I fell pregnant again, this time not on a leather sofa. Thank God. I’m a mother of two now. A son and a daughter. It’s a happy story for me. It’s my happy story. I’m afraid that even though I vowed not to raise my children like my mother, my husband tells me that I’m like her. I’m very hard on them, he says. I expect nothing but excellence. And I don’t smile in photos, like mom. It fills me with dread. I don’t want to be like her. I want to be a fun mother. I try to be but sometimes when they do things I want to lock them out of the house so that they can spend the night in the cold. I’m fighting my mom’s influence, who annoyingly has mellowed down so much when I tell my daughter she was a terror I look like I’m the mad one.

I hope one day my daughter will discover this post and realise that this story was about her and me and her grandmother, and perhaps she will understand why I am the way I am. Maybe there is a lesson here for her. Maybe it’s only a story, like thousands of others.


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  1. It’s strange how we at times become the part of our parents that we are not proud of. I hope that you get some healing overtime (before it’s too late) so that you are a better mum and get to enjoy it.

    1. I second. It is one the best written articles I have come across here. And I’ve been around, you know… Melts through your mind like good ice-cream across your tongue on a hot day.

  2. Tiger parenting is not all bad. Some you excelled in school and in life simply because of tiger parenting. It is how you use it that matters. I believe if the mother had taken a softer stance she probably won’t have gone back to school. So yes, be a tiger mom and know how and when to use it.

    1. Nop. You did not excel because of the bad parenting, you excelled INSPITE of it. This here is trauma and now generational trauma going on. Heal please, so that your children do not have to heal from having you as their parent!

  3. This is lovely story, although I would have loved to know how it was being a mom at 16, and precisely how this has shaped your marriage.
    Thank you for sharing it with us.

  4. Oh wow! Such a lovely piece. Mothers have influence over us. We fight it but it almost seems futile.
    I equally hope that her daughter will get some lesson from this piece.

  5. There is no right way or wrong way to parenting,only your way, largely influenced by how you were brought up.In the long run if you end up aping your mum its okay because in the end a mother’s Intention is always pure no matter how harsh it may seem.

  6. I am reading this story standing at the entrance to ICDN and everything seems to melt away. So well knit, it could be a script to one of Tyler Perry’s…

  7. Damn this granny is more of my girl, I dunno how to say it but I see myself in that man. Maybe maybe not i am doomed but to God I love my girl.

  8. Didn’t expect such a good ending….hahaha! But kudos to men(especially) who step in for the deadbeats and also for parents who support their children even after getting children at their homes.

  9. Good read i really enjoyed … It took me back a while when i had a child while still a child myself. It was the most terrifying thing at the time but my mom took over and showed me the ropes of motherhood and took care of my child while I resumed school.
    I always thought that i would never be like my mom but now i see so much of her in me….

  10. It is strange how everyone fights something in their life, you are either fighting poverty or loss that comes with living in excess, psychological torments from care givers or complete neglect….. Appearing to live well never really has anything to do with living well, one simply must battle everyday to try live well

  11. Two words for this story: short and sweet.

    One word for the dad: a passing cloud. Okay, that’s three. And yes, I kinda feel sad for the dad.


    If it were a movie, I feel like he’s playing as a supporting character in his marriage.

    Should I comment about Nyeri women? I don’t think so. They have a reputation for, uhm, well…I’ll leave it to you

  12. 90s mothers were cut from the same cloth. They would beat you for the most trivial thing like wearing ‘Sunday clothes’ on a week day. Then beat you some more for crying. If u kept quiet, woe unto you,’you now want to fight me’….sigh….there was no winning.

    Something changed. Suddenly its like they took a dose of something. They are just so soft & accommodating.

    Happy it turned out well. Biko rarely let’s us have the ending we desire. I think he loves sadness…hahaha

  13. I have laughed so hard…. maybe coz I can relate. I got pregnant at 19, It’s as if I was the one sharing that story. Her parents and their characteristics are just like my parents. Coincidentally my mother is also from Mweiga….
    Anyway it was a good read.

  14. Ati to be seen with him while he still smelled of grass! Hormonal teenagers!!
    Very good stroy for teenagers trying to be bad bitches and parents that don’t give their children the full sex talk. Today is a good day, you didn’t break our hearts Biko.

  15. An apple never falls far away from the tree but must not necessarily stay in the shade…
    Most of the previous generations’ parenting was premised on ‘Tough Love’s but things have really changed…

  16. Wow what a nice ending,that mom was only doing what she thought was right for her child.i was a bit sad for your dad.And that part about mtoto wa mluyia,Ouch!!

  17. This is such a beautiful and well told story. Enjoyed every bit of it. I almost missed my train stop getting carried away.

  18. Such a beautiful piece. It is because of such strict parenting that we are able to make sober decisions in life.

  19. This story leaves me with the same feeling I have drinking a scalding cup of fermented uji. All warm and fuzzy inside.
    Also, we are the sum-total of our experiences, so sometimes when my daughter thinks I’m being too hard on her, I tell her I wasn’t raised in Europe. African mums out here don’t have time to be gentle on kids born out here, their white teachers can be snow-flakey, but we don’t have that in our experience, so our discipline is not lax.
    Yesterday my teen asked me if there was something I didn’t like about the way I was raised, and told myself I wouldn’t do to my kids.
    I told her, I couldn’t talk or have an opinion until I was well in my twenties because my mum was quite harsh. (Also unbelievable to her as her grandma was the sweetest to all her grandkids.)
    She could walk into the kitchen and there was a reverence, a silence that befall everyone. If we had guests, and she communicated with her eyes and you didn’t comprehend, you’d be properly belted when the guests left.
    Though we allow our kids to express themselves freely, we need them to study too and not spend all the freetime on tiktok. We need them to read, and be up to speed with events around the world. If they trespass, we don’t use belts, or sticks or mwikos; we simply confiscate laptops, phones etc.. every communication device. It’s effective.
    They will be adults soon and standing on their feet, so we are simply preparing them for tomorrow’s world.

  20. Yay!! Happy Endings!! My fave!!

    Also, Biko ‘Martin was a big guy who played rugby and so he weighed more than a Combine Harvester’? Biko surely!!!

  21. It’s amazing how on one side, pregnancy seems like a very bad thing yet on another side, there are people yarning to see that swollen stomach and it just aint happening! Life!

  22. Glad she carried the pregnancy to full-term, didn’t expect that especially with the title Bad nurse mmmh…everything turned well.. Nice read

  23. Wow! I loved every sentence of this story – very well narrated and filled with simplified lessons for all age groups.

  24. I also get enraged when teenagers become pregnant and worse still that today’s generation has normalized it and sees no contrition in it.
    Anyway, I’m glad that she made it back to school afterwards.

  25. Quite a nice read, deep and profound lessons herein which could happen to anyone out here, all said and done the ‘Bad Nurse’ takes the crown…. she’s great. I like her style.

  26. this sounds like my life story even the luhya baby the only difference is my dad was the one who was livid, and he is the one who couldn’t believe it, I was having a luhya baby .My mom was the silent one, did nothing spoke nothing hehehe… The other difference is that at the end of it all, there was no Luhya baby hehe…. anyway si ni life. My dad is from Nyeri hehe…

  27. Am I the only one still wondering if she ever had good sex? That underwhelming sex with Martin needed a do-over and I’m quite anal about crossing all my t’s and dotting the i’s.

  28. A family story with loads of emotions, pain, failure, triumph and life realities.
    That brother may never come back because of the mum!

  29. As a father I realise that as much as we have children who we mentor in hope of turning out well, we need to have our own lives and ensure nothing overshadows it, be it a wife from Nyeri or anything else for that matter. I feel no relationship between the Father and the Daughter. Biko’s story today is about a Daughter, Mother & Grandmother.

  30. It has been eye opening reading this story. A journey between two worlds apart. I like the narrator. Best Wishes to you Maam.

    Maybe you should subtly send this link to your mum. Its good for her to read this.


  31. This is one of those ‘happily ever after’ stories that do happen in real life. Now that you learnt life, teach your daughter too…..

  32. All these mothers were cut from the same clothe. Thank you for going back to school. You’ll inspire someone else.

  33. So many lessons to be learnt. I was raised by a tiger mum who was a nurse, and I’m turning out to be a tiger mum….food for thought

  34. I relate to the last part of the story. If I told anyone my mother’s story I’d sound like a liar. The beatings and tongue lashing are no more, even for our last born. Being born among the first is no joke.

  35. I needed to read this. As a man, my dads presence never felt heard at home it was always my mom and after his death i realized i never knew him as a person.
    Sadly I’ve turned out the same with a woman who more than anything is like my mom who i like a lot now. Maybe because she’s changed or i appreciate the remaining parent more.

  36. the sale awareness and reflection you have will definitely lead you to a better place if you do the inner work. See a thereapist because while a posh life may have provided you with the luxuries of life your mom stuntented your emational growth. Hugs

  37. motherhood chronicles… we all always try to not be like our mothers without realizing their influence sank way too deep in us… but we try anyway. great read. Goodbye March. see you next month

  38. Wow.What a story.I believe one day your daughter will read this story and be surprised because you will not be the same person you are today.Family shapes our character and most of it is unconscious.So your mind was programmed from a very young age to acquire your mothers traits because you were around your mum a lot.Good news is now that you have someone who cares and points out that,use that to relearn and reprogram your life.Read books ,let me recommend one-Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to Say No to Take Control of Your Life-download from pdf drive.You’ll understand why you are as you are.Your mum is a good mum,shes is also transferring her “upbringing” but you can break the unhealthy cycle.It will be hard work but worth it.

  39. Happy ending, well written story. Hope it inspires all teenage mothers out there not to give up on finishing school.

  40. Biko!!!

    This is beautiful and encouraging…..yep! Add enlightening too. She appreciates the 9 months in Umoja and that’s a huge milestone. Sometimes our parent’s demeanor affects us in many ways including parenting. She’s a great lady this one!

    Our parents seemed more concerned of what people would say than what was good for their families. I decided long ago not to let other peoples opinions dictate how i run my life or family. I do ME coz nobody’s perfect in this imperfect world!

    Life is a journey and she’s still travelling as we all are…hers is a beautiful journey coz she took it in stride and gave her best shot.

    Cheers to her!

  41. I was brought up by my Dad. In Umoja. From Kawangware… Biko, having read this very heart-warming story, I think you and I need to have a session on a park bench some day.

  42. lovely read, i totally relate…
    also here to say i got both Drunk and Thursdays in Uganda….. Finaaaaaaaaaaaaaally….

  43. Am I the only one who is curious about how she met with Martin,and the events leading to finally giving herself to him at such a age

  44. Beautiful story. Everyone is a story beneath their life.
    Great to read there are good men out there still. They appreciate you despite a traumatic childhood.

  45. Beautiful story. Everyone has a story beneath their life.
    Great to read there are good men out there still. They appreciate you despite a traumatic childhood

  46. Why am I having a feeling that this is an anticlimax. Jackson Biko yes I call you with your full name, where is part two of this essay? I will press on this annoying button till you give us the second part of this story.

  47. Again Biko. Another touching story. This needs to be shared with all girls and my unborn daughter.

  48. Wah . This is me, only I`m 26 with no kids yet. But her mom is my mom…right up to that glare. I also think that I`m turning into her….so much for being the cool mom one day….

  49. …’who will marry you with a mluhya baby?’ Jesus Christ,,what’s wrong with us luhya babies?..haha.
    My mom also got me when she was 16 like you,,,she has never talked about it,,I’m thinking maybe she also posted it somewhere,,le me continue searching,, I’m very very curious,, especially after reading this.
    A very nice story

  50. “After six months of cat and mouse, he asked me if I was a lesbian and I told him that I had only slept with two men in my life; one of them black”

    I don’t get why that has been mentioned. She says the mom is from Nyeri so I assume she’s black too, so why mention the race of the man.

  51. Such a beautiful piece. Your daughter is definitely proud of you. Thank you for giving her a chance to live.
    I wish I could befriend you but I feel that we could be from different ecosystems.

  52. Great story. Choleric mother, Phlegmatic father. It would have been nice to know more about Martin and whether they ever met!? Does daughter ask about him? Is she in touch with the brother?

  53. We grew up in Umoja, a two bedrooms house till I finished primary school. I felt like she was describing my childhood especially when my friends (from a different ecosystem) came for sleep overs ☺️☺️☺️.

  54. It’s beautiful. From Gigiri to Umoja to Gigiri to London to a family. I mean… I was kinda expecting the worst here but Mungu ni nani…?

  55. Since i am a nurse at Aga Khan hospital like her mom, i had to go to my phone gallery and see whether i see in photos.

  56. “…the list of things my mother forbade me to do was longer than my legs.”

    I love how her Dad was supportive, in his own way. It must have been a nice change from the ‘bad nurse’. 🙂

    Thank you for the good ending Niko

  57. I hope you loosen up a little for the sake of your children. Not that u spare the rod, but do it slightly harsher than we got it. Good luck

  58. Very flowing. It’s a shame.its just a story,not a novel. It has a great plot and material for 400 pages … but then again, what do I know

  59. This was so engulfing. I sighed when the father passed away. Girl, you did live a good life if you were going to Aga Khan for a pregnancy test.
    Good read. Really good read. Great read. Ok I’m done.