My Other Father…

Mother-in-law has been scripted on TV as the good, the bad and the ugly. Little has been said about Father-in-law. Is he the man in the shadow? A form of mystery… Hard to see, hard to feel, and hard to draw life from.

In this article, I sit down with my father-in-law. The man who gave my wife her beautiful round eyes. His blood and DNA runs through her veins. Most definitely, our children inherited his handsome forehead.

Mr. Kinyanjui, I discover is just a man. He eats ugali with a fork and spoon. He detests chewing gum and eating avocados, in the past, now and in future!

Raised by a single mother. He grew up without a father. Became a father at 26 years and a father-in-law at 57 years. How did his father’s absence influence what he eats or chews or doesn’t, or further afield, his schooling and career choices?

When a child is un-fathered, does nature outshine nurture?

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He is a retired teacher, with a stint of 33 years traversing five primary schools scattered across Kiambu and Nairobi counties. A storyteller, just like I am, though twice my age. #JustSaying. Listening to him peels off layers of wisdom to his younger self in me.

As I glean and share his insights, I will write in first person, so nothing is missed out.

Dad, tell me, where did you grow up and who raised you?

I grew up in Mang’u, on the outskirts of Thika town. My late mum was a single mother. She raised me and my three siblings, together with two step-siblings. I am the firstborn. And that came with a huge responsibility.

My late father, Joseph Njoroge passed away when I was 6 years old. I didn’t get to know him. His memories are only mental images we got from stories our mum told us. Sadly, we didn’t have photos of my father.

How did growing up without a father affect you, if at all?

Not having a father left us without masculine love, teaching and discipline.

Looking back, I now realize we had a void of manhood things. My mum tried her best to fill this gap while raising and fending for the six of us, singlehandedly. She is a precious woman. I will always cherish the sacrifices she made us.

His boyish smile pops out every time he speaks of his late mother. His eyes glitter, his face turns radiant, even without face oil. Maybe he doesn’t chew gum because women don’t chew such stuff, as much as men do.

A father is a model of hope. To sons, a father gives a powerful outline for a successful journey to manhood.

Raising a modern-day knight (robert lewis, 2007)

Like many other people living in Mang’u in 1940s, my mum was a peasant farmer. With her limited income, she only managed to educate us up to primary 7, though some of my siblings dropped out of school, much earlier.

For a moment, I think, during my dad’s time they had ‘primary 1-7’. In my time we had ‘classes 1-8’. My children are taking the precarious CBC experiment, with ‘grades 1-12’.

Three different systems (7-4-2-3, 8-4-4 and 2-6-6-3), producing incongruent graduates.

My late dad’s youngest brother became our father-figure. He impressed on me the mantra of work and study hard. Though nowadays people say work and study smart.

My second father figure was Mr. Gatehi, my English teacher at St. Patrick primary school. He lavished me with the Queen’s language. As a dividend of his great mentorship, I was a top performer in lower primary.

Perhaps he picked up, not just the English language in primary school, but also the Englishmen’s habit of eating with the fork.

At St. Patrick Mr. Ayieko was my third godfather. A Luhya man married to a Kikuyu woman. They settled in Mang’u. While in school, he fondly invited me to his office to peek on my academic progress. He quickly noticed my rise and fall in performance.

I stayed in this school until primary 5, when I was transferred to Mang’u primary school. The latter was renown school for being home to all bright pupils in Thika. Even while at Mang’u primary , Mr. Ayieko still kept tabs with me.

I did my Kenya Primary Education (KPE) certificate in 1961. I didn’t excel. Mr. Ayieko couldn’t hide his bitter smile. Though he remained hopeful on my aptitude.

How was your high school life and how did you end up in the teaching profession?

It’s a paradox. I never went to high school, but I became a primary school teacher.

I get puzzled, thinking all teachers have to go through secondary school. Yes? No?

Let me explain. After KPE, my ambitious mum enrolled me in a private school in Uganda for O Level. The school fee was unaffordable. Paying USh.180,000 per term in 1962 wasn’t peanuts for the peasant farmer. Albeit, I dropped out in the second term.

Credit to my single mum. She dared where others dreaded.

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I went back home, on a somber cloudy day. I had a painful lump in my throat. Shattered dreams. My mum worried for me. She didn’t want me doing farm work, like the school dropouts in our village. She clutched at her social networks for comfort. But no life opportunity came forth at the time.

Upon my return from Uganda I reconnected with Mr. Ayieko, the Luhya man. He found me an Untrained Teacher spot at AIC Kairi primary school, a rural school. This was a convenient work place, not too far from our home in Mang’u.

I taught at AIC Kairi for about five years before I was transferred to my alma mater, St. Patrick primary school. It was here that a Catholic priest helped me secure a two-year prestigious scholarship at St. John’s Teacher Training College, Kilimambogo.

The priest gave very high credentials of me to the school management on my academic prowess. This was nothing short of a miracle, seeing I had just been transferred to St. Patrick and had been there for two weeks, when the scholarship opportunity sprung up.

I fondly remember the priest’s words, “I am going to make a great impression about you to the College Principal.” And that is exactly what he did. I was the the only scholarship awardee from St. Patrick.

Mr. Gatehi, Mr. Ayieko and the Priest were his ride or die godfathers. You become what you behold, right?

How was the academic and career life in 1960s different from what it is nowadays?

Before I answer that, you had asked me about life in high school.

My father-in-law is extremely systematic and methodical. He must have picked it from the Catholic Church, where he was raised or from the Presbyterian Church, where he later joined as an adult. Thankfully, his orderliness was passed on to his daughter, my wife. But, my disorderly tendencies cause us to conflict, every now and then. But I digress.

I did my high school as a private candidate. While at my first teaching job at AIC Kairi, I enrolled for A Level through correspondence. I skipped completing my O Level.

Education and life don’t have to be sequential. Dreamers can skip the queue.

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My sterling academic (and now career) progress had a huge hole. With KPE certificate only, I was basically a primary school dropout, with a teacher training certificate. I had no O- or A-level education.

I focused on closing this gap through correspondence and distance learning. It took six years to earn my O- and A-Levels certificates, by which time I was married and with two children.

What I missed as a private student is the bullying and boarding experiences, typical in high school. In fact, the only bullying I got was by the head teacher at AIC Kairi. He was a P1 teacher, but was snarky and rude because of my P3 teacher status.

Armed with O- and A-Level certificates together with my TTC certificate, I pursued BA. Education and earned the coveted S1 teacher status. This further irked the incorrigible headteacher at AIC Kairi. He was unable to advance his studies, by choice or by chance.

Rivalry and envy got in the way. A plan was hatched, to bundled me out of the school. Stretched between being cautious and the desire to flee, I dug in using the Area Education Officer. I soon learnt of the prejudice and politics in teacher deployment at the TSC and MOE.

Sadly, I lost the fight, this time. A gentleman lives to fight another day.

Mr. Kinjanjui

Rather than let the Area Education Officer find me an alternative school, I got myself one in Juja. I taught there for two terms only, until 1976. It was an inconvenient arrangement, like spreading avocado on bread.

Thanks to teacher rivalry, I was forcefully transferred.

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About life in 1960s, things were superbly distinct from the 1990s and 2000s. Everything was done manually. For example, I once trekked for about 50kms, to the District Education Office, in Kiambu to submit a school transfer request in primary 5.

This was an 8 hour journey. The first night I spent at a stranger’s home, in the sleepy village of Ndumberi . The second night at my aunt’s place in Gatundu.

Compared to now, everything is automated. Even with the CBC, school transfers are managed through online education portals.

Today, all that one needs is a smart device, basic IT skills and internet. After a few clicks, you can submit a school transfer request, which is also processed digitally.

The other difference in the times we are in right now, is the breakdown of trust and security. In the 1960s, one could take long journeys and spend the night at strangers’ and relatives’ homes, without a having to call in advance or worry about safety.

Today, unlike before you can’t trust anyone, anymore

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Is there any primary school experience that you have never forgotten?

Definitely, I can’t forget an experience I had in Mang’u primary, where I met Mr. Gatehi again after he left St. Patrick. My knowing him at my previous and current schools was like a double edged sword that complicated my stay at Mang’u.

A newcomer in a school is always like the hen with a red herring.

My academic brilliance earned me more enemies than friends. In my first exam in primary 6, I became position two. Sadly, this made me a target of scorn by the teachers and pupils. Any flimsy mistake I did at the school resulted in threats of being shipped back to St. Patrick.

One time, I remember we were asked to bring pangas to clear the school playground. I didn’t bring the panga, because I didn’t hear the ask. That was an unacceptable excuse, the following day. The teacher would hear none of it. In sheer overreaction, he pulled out my stamped transfer form and sent me back home, to find another school.

My mum was shocked. Putting a brave face, she asked me to carry the panga to school and apologize to the teacher. She confronted issues head-on. I obliged and earned my entry back into the school, after cutting my share of grass in the playground.

Saved by grace. I learnt to apologize and face consequences at a tender age.

Mr. Kinyanjui

I was twice lucky with the same teacher. Another ‘crosshair’ experience was where I worked out sums on the blackboard and left the answers for all pupils to copy. Our mathematics teacher was a man of rage. He used threats generously, to self-impose.

On this last onslaught, I literally begged Mr. Gatehi to negotiate my stay in the school. Pushed to the wall literally, I vowed never to be caught in further mischief. From then on, I played safe with school authorities.

Playing safe shaped him into being cautious and calculated. Without a father, his mother was his greatest influence. It’s my wild guess that women don’t eat as much avocados as men. Could this be why he has no appetite for these oily fruits?

How did you meet my wife’s mum and relocate to Nairobi?

Educated and in the working class. What else does a man need, other than a good wife? While at AIC Kairi, I found love. I married Elizabeth, your wife’s mum and we started a family immediately.

We named our firstborn son, Joseph, in honor of Mr. Joseph Gatehi, my Class 3 English teacher and godfather-teacher Mr. Joseph Ayieko, both whom I met at St. Patrick.

While I was in Juja during the week, I regularly traveled to Mang’u every weekend to be with my family. We had four children, three boys and a girl. Your wife wasn’t born yet.

At that time, I was hit by the bug of working in Nairobi. I went to the City Education Office asking for a transfer to working in Nairobi.

By fate or destiny, demand for S1 teachers was high. In 1977, I secured a teaching spot at Our Lady of Mercy primary school, a Catholic mission sponsored school.

For seven years, I was the only male teacher in the school.

This endeared me to my female colleagues. But in some instances it felt awkward. In 1984, I left for Makongeni primary school. It would later be renamed Kaloleni primary school, by a headteacher who didn’t like the name Makongeni.

I taught at Kaloleni for 18 years and retired in 2001. At my retirement party I was gifted a radio by colleagues.

Come to think of it, why would a radio be a gift for a retiree at the turn of the century? Was he transitioning from dispensing knowledge and information, to consuming the same?

Is listening to the radio the main pre-occupation in retirement?

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My father-in-law has been retired for 22 years. Should the government have allowed him an extra 15 years to work and retire at 75, and not at 60?

What do you do with 20-30 years of retirement?

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Talking about Mr. Wahogo was incomplete without photos. Dad shot up. Disappeared into his bedroom and emerged with three large size photo albums, of him with Mr. Wahogo.

He was the best man at my wedding, in 1983. He also spoke at my dowry negotiations, and helped me find schools and colleges for my children as they grew up.

Mr. Wahogo always stood by me. He was a poll bearer at my firstborn son’s burial in 2007. Even in retirement we talk frequently. Such kinds of friendships are to be praised.

Not having a father left a void that was filled by God-sent men in his life’s journey.

Whether his children choose to chew gum or eat avocados, he has played his part in the master tapestry. Losing his father at a young age left him dangling mid-air. He gifted his children with the father he never had. Expanding their life options beyond what he had. That is called redemption.

Are you leaving a legacy or passing on past pain? My father-in-law is not the man in the shadows. His sons and daughters (and by extension his in-laws) draw life from him.

Joseph Ngaara is inspired by people’s life experiences. These are true stories. Names and details have been tweaked to protect privacy. Do you have an intriguing life story and need to share your triumph or tragedy? Email: j.mungai@hotmail.co.uk