Letter to my daughter

 Letter to my daughter

By Kondwani Nyondo

Dear Amry,

When I saw your name on Facebook, after twenty years it was like hearing a song I had long forgotten how to hum.

You wrote: "I am looking for my father. If anyone knew Bapapi tell him, I still love him."

This message hit me like thunder. For years, I stayed off Facebook. Not because I didn’t care, but because it became too painful to see what the world was doing without me in it.

And now, there you were. Grown. Searching. And still calling me Bapapi the name your mother NyaNjolwa gave me.

You may not remember much the day your mother walked away with you. But I do.

On this day I remembered the words of NyaSoko your grandmother at Mtende in the village. At every visit she used to warn us “in the village even the way a man coughs can land him in hot soup.”

Judi, young and curvier woman used to come to my butchery almost every day to buy pork. Not that she loved it herself but her father, Gilbert, who would not let two days pass without him buy some.

If they did not come together Judi would show up alone, always with the same order and in a hurry.

Gilbert was the son of Village Head Mtembani, and because of his obsession with pork, people stopped calling it pork altogether. They would just say, “Ndikufuna kilo ya Gilbert.”

And that is how my butchery became known as Pankhumba, the home of Gilbert.

Some women misconstrued Jud’s regular visits as an affair. And I wonder just how the village turned it into a scandal, and your mother, fiercely, left our home before I could explain.

She took you with her. For weeks, I stopped eating. It was a campaign season. Politicians were dancing on stages, lying in bright colors. However, all I heard was the sound of my own ruin.

Do you know that the pain of losing you made me think of ending my life?

I remember one night, I walked to the river, stood near it with a rope. But even the air along the river asked me to hold on. Maybe they knew we would meet again.

Your aunt NyaKkamwagha and your uncle Mwachota begged your mother to reconsider. But she vowed never to return. 

I began to write to you, on meat wrappers, with charcoal drawings. A heart. A goat. A father holding a little girl’s hand. I sent them through who might know someone who knew someone who had seen your mother. I am not sure whether your mother received them or not.

Since that time I have not enjoyed life until your Facebook message yesterday.

Now, here I am, sitting under the Mvumu tree, the same one we used to sit under when you were small. The branche are wider now scraping the rusted iron sheets of my house just like my longing for you.

 As I am writing I have sat on the old woven mat, the one you used to nap on after chasing chickens.

The birds above still sing the same tunes. I sit here writing, and I keep imagining what life would have been like if your mother had never left.

I see you in my mind, going to the village school, plaiting your hair under the guava tree, bringing me water with your tiny hands. You would have grown knowing what real love looks like. You would have been safe.

You said your stepfather, a man the village now calls "a Braz"—wanted to defile you?

I am sorry that the pain you carried in silence became your childhood. I am sorry that the man who should have loved and protected you instead wanted to take everything sacred from you. And I am sorry I was not there to shield you.

I heard he gave your mother seven children. Then left her. As if she was furniture he had borrowed.

That is why I am writing you this letter, Amry. Not just to say I missed you but to give you the wisdom that pain carved into my heart.

Here is my offering to you since i know you are of age and ready for marriage.

Sometimes, when love is still young, people rush out of relationships over things that can be solved by just sitting down and talking.

 I don’t say this to blame your mother. But I say it so you do not repeat the same cycle.

If your husband forgets your birthday, it is not war. If he comes home late once or twice, find the courage to speak before you decide to pack. 

Marriage is not built on perfection. It is built on patience.

Many women in our village believed that comfort was in a full fridge and a fueled car. 

But sometimes, the same man with the fat wallet has a heart made of knives. Respect a man who respects your soul. Choose a man who sees you, not just your body, but your entire being.

You may have grown up away from here, but your roots are still buried in this soil. Greet the elders. Kneel when you speak to your grandmother at Msongolera.

When you cook nsima, serve the oldest first. When you hear the chief has called for a meeting, show up. That is how we keep the fire burning in our huts.

We may not have much in this village, but we have each other. And we have memory. And now that you are back in my life, I want you to know that there is nothing more precious than raising children with love and unity.

Your story has shown me what many girls suffer in silence. Stepfathers who turn into monsters. Mothers who let shame cover their eyes. I pray that one day, you will speak openly about it—not because it defines you, but because it might save another girl.

You are still that intelligent child who giggled at clouds and laughed at chickens. Even if life tried to break you, you are still whole.

My daughter, I want you to come home, to reconnect and laugh again under the Mvumu tree where we once laughed.

Twenty years and my heart was still waiting for you.

Yours Dadi,

Babapi.

The end.....