Who?

The night was cold ,the wind blew as if  angry at the houses in its path,evidence of the season I hear being called ' Mbura ya Njahi'.At a distance ,an owl howled ,frogs croacked all over, crickets punctuated the night ,and once in a while, a stray dog remembered that  was what it was.In the smoky hut, a grandmother and her two granddaughters sat around a fireplace,fueled by shelled maize cobs.

Of course I know a few of you that know smoke is unhealthy for the eyes and could get me facts,but that is a norm here.In fact,a smoky kitchen is a sigh of life in the home and even better,one that's not under threat of starvation .You only know life in the country side if you've lived it .Otherwise, it will be a story that many do not relate to ,a mystery yet to be unravelled and a dream no one desired to get into but some how live it;I mean,the fuel used, the farm routine, handling animals that are wild and out.
They chatted the night away alone, the frost was bitting into their flesh,but non dare say it loud because the events that put them there are worse .

Their old man arrived that evening  drenched in liquor and  incoherence due to the drunken stupor.It was his habit but on that day,he took it a notch higher. The food at the table would not see the light of day.Like he cared about nothing, he singlehandedly strew it on the floor and the furniture found its way to one side of the room.The old lady saw a familiar scene but the children watched in shock and dismay as he destroyed the last hope of peace and love they had.It almost felt like the Angel they knew turned to a devil they hoped  never existed..After the dramatic act he threw them out and  bolted  the door .Whether it was the alcohol that made him confidently walk away to bed as the trio sat in the cold or his inhumane nature that was resurfacing again.Their world crumbled.Their universe,a Christmas gift wrapped in dissappointment.

"There is nothing new under the sun," she told them. That statement is cliché, but it hit home.Those are stories that they hear on the telly and read on blogs like this one.You could feel her pain of a three decade marriage soaked in abuse,drenched in tears and wallowing in agony . Her face coated in dissappointment and emptiness. Exhaustion screaming out of her blood stream.

Hope,she said and love, kept her there. Maybe one day he will come back home sober He won't hit me or the children and our food will be appreciated.Maybe one day he would look at me and remember how it all was before the sun went down. Maybe one day heavens will open up and a miracle will happen...Maybe just maybe. This day clearly  never breaks  for the circle keeps on and on....

Its cockcrow.I can't believe I haven't fallen asleep.I recollected my thoughts and zoned out again with a question in my mind."At what point is submission a suicide mission? "

Living with old folks drills in you that the man is the head of a home.I mean, I hear my preacher say that in emphasis. Actually, I agree,but I have a few things to set straight .The world is changing so fast and postmodernity catching up with us.A man being supreme is a responsibility rather than an opportunity to tread down on your women .The system in place cultivates in them obedience in love, isn't that something worth rewarding? What happened to reciprocated love between partners. What is the essence of your provision if its traded with heaps after heaps of whips?What will prevent your offspring from growing up bitter and mad at the world for you destroyed the only safe place they knew; home?

Who ,tell me,has the right to walk a bride down the isle ,say "I do" in front of the altar, in the name of the father, son and Holy spirit Amen! Just to turn her into a punching bag.
Who?