Jail-time: Not A Way of Solving Neighbors’ Disputes

It was Sabbath. Elder Makori’s sermon was titled, “How often should my brother sin against me, and I forgive him?”

His sermons inspired and animated the congregation. Though aging with grace, his sense of humor wasn’t fading with the years. He belongs to the school that believes, “What is a sermon if not sprinkled with some laughter, at ourselves and problems?”.

Church was full, at 8:30am. Everyone sat in their usual seat, including Moraa. She was renown as the village madwoman, due to her raging outbursts. Albeit her personal and family challenges. She was deeply religious and never missed Sabbath.

She always tagged along to church, her three mentally challenged children.

She almost brought one service to a standstill, when her seat was taken by Mueni, her neighbor with whom they had perennial squabbles. Mueni moved into the Keroka neighborhood in 2003, after her husband bought land and put up a family home.

People don’t choose their siblings, but can they choose their neighbors, at least?

Moraa and Mueni never saw eye to eye from the very get go. Their houses stood next to each other, but for unknown reasons they quarreled, fought and insulted each other in the glare of everyone. If it wasn’t the goats or chicken straying into the other’s shamba, it was a shouting match at the women’s chama meetings, on whose idea carries the day.

The grand row was the boundary mark of their juxtaposed quarter acre parcels of land.

At the chama, one time Mueni opined that they should increase members’ monthly contributions to accommodate the increasing needs of the welfare members. That way, two members could benefit from the table banking arrangement in a month, as opposed to one.

But Moraa opposed it, not on merit, but because it was voiced by her nemesis.

At the chief’s barazas, they openly and oftenly countered each other. Everytime one stood to speak, the other was crossing her arms in front of her chest, muttering unkind things under their breath or letting out an ugly laughter.

At an infamous incident at the community water point, they pushed and shoved. Even when it was only a queue of the two of them. With protruding eyes that were cold, hard and flinty, they rolled up their sleeves flexing their muscles at each other.

A few minutes later, villagers beheld the picture of two disheveled women, whose hair and clothes soaked in dirt and water. Their heated disagreement being whose turn it was to fetch water.

When a sane person fights an insane one, who can tell the difference?

Immediately after this smackdown at the water point, Mueni in her moment of absurdity dumped a dead cat in the water tank, as if to get back at Moraa. Villagers disdained their squabbles. Numerous trips and conciliatory efforts were made through the area chief, church pastor and other community leaders.

Every effort to resolve an emerging issue between them, that stuck out as a sore thumb, bore no success. In front of leaders, they forced enthusiasm, because it was the right to do. But deep inside, they were sworn enemies, cut from different cloaks.

They preferred face masks to handshakes.

Many months and years flew past as they continued their war of words and madness. Between them, the same issues, questions and conflicts kept appearing in different costumes and names. Their children soon caught up with the lunacy. Watching as their mothers dangle with swords, in their dance with the devil.

When there’s unforgiveness nobody is free. Everyone is a prisoner, guarding the other.

Both Mueni and Moraa were imprisoned by hatred. Their insanity erupted like lava spewing from Mt. Nyiragongo in DRC. Throwing up clouds of noxious fumes and filling their families with an ominous fiery glow.

At the height of spitting at each other, Moraa’s second born (and dreadlocked) son fell in love with Mueni’s third born daughter. Love is blind, but this kind was deaf and stubborn. There was no way, Mueni could let her daughter nurture an ‘illicit relationship’, with an undesirable mother-in-law.

Mueni’s warnings to her daughter graduated into shouting and ultimatums.

Her efforts only fueled the passion between the two lovebirds. She believed in witchcraft. She visited a sorcerer. Not once or twice, but many times. Seeking to defang her daughter from whatever venom she had consumed.

She was her own cheerleader in this brigade, mentally encouraging herself to succeed.

One morning, while preparing breakfast, she noticed that her third born daughter was consistently extending her waking up hours. Her instincts didn’t need the evidence of a bulging tummy or morning sickness, to affirm the pregnancy.

She soon discovered, she couldn’t put the toothpaste back in the tube.

The clock was ticking towards the arrival of an unwanted child. This wasn’t a gamble, like the rise, fall and attempted resurrection of Sport Pesa, but a twist and turn of fate. No amount of denial, smirking or wishful thinking could revert the course.

As Elder Makori climaxed his preaching with forgiving seventy times seven, Mueni and Moraa, were helplessly staring at the unwelcome growth and imminent outcome of the intimacy between their children. They were fast becoming prodigal parents.

Mueni’s daughter was 17 years old. That one-year difference into adulthood, gave her the window of opportunity to file for child abuse at the Children’s Department.

Police were alerted and with Kenya’s justice system placing the burden of proof unevenly on the defendant, Moraa’s dreadlocked son was quickly remanded as the child abuse case commenced.

He was guilty and needed to prove his innocence.

That was 2018. Two years later, COVID-19 hit the world, as Kenya got a new Chief Justice.

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It’s been three years and counting in remand, as the wheels justice keep turning. Here stands a young man whose sin was loving his neighbor’s daughter. He joins thousands of the remanded. whose fate dangerously hangs in the balance.

Due to COVID-19, all visits to remand prisons were halted. Moraa used to take him clothe-changes and homemade food. She no longer does that. Neither does she speak about him. She remains restless as her son bears the brunt of neighborly hatred.

No amount of self-talking calms her down to think straight.

Forgiveness and living in harmony is hard. Mueni and Moraa consciously chose the harder path of throwing stones at each other. They are overwhelmingly successful in cementing and passing on their DNA of disagreements to their offspring.

Kenya’s Judiciary is promoting use of Alternative Dispute Resolution (ADR) for management of conflicts. Through awareness raising campaigns and capacity building of interested stakeholders. It might take forever before neighbors appreciate that court processes don’t foster good fences.

With the four available ADR options; negotiation, conciliation, mediation and arbitration, Mueni’s and Moraa’s children’s case is derailed by ethical, procedural and practical issues in ADR application.

Should neighbors fight into old age?

When should they call a truce and end this craziness? How much hate should be inherited? Can children live free of parental baggage? Is forgiveness an alternative?

Elder Makori’s sermon was over. Congregants were quieter and less animated as they stood to sing the hymn ‘Amazing Grace‘. Returning to their normal lives and looking forward to his next sermon.

Moraa and Mueni are still mimicking sumo (an ancient Japanese sport) in attempting to force each other out of a circular ring, which binds them at the hip. Who will blink first?

This is a true story. Names and details have been changed to protect family privacy. Views expressed on this article are my own.

Joseph Ngaara is inspired by people’s life experiences. Do you have an intriguing life story and need to share your triumph or tragedy? Email: j.mungai@hotmail.co.uk