As Grandma Rosie stepped off the Matatu in her no-nonsense black skirt, a plain beige blouse and a warm brown jacket, her sensible flats taking confident steps on the highway, any passerby would mistake her as one who is up and about her regular duties of the day. Perhaps she is off to the store to get her regular household buys or maybe to the apartment for her eight hour shift of being a nanny to a toddler or maybe just a casual drop in to her daughter’s place to say Hello. Rosie was one in many, in looks and clothes, strides and stead. She melted in the Ngara Market crowd as easily as a worm in a basket of fresh fruits. Head held high, she walked the road in her usual calm quiet confidence.
Round the bend and around a stretch of another kilometer and a half was the single storied house. Tucked behind rows of shops, it was as inconspicuous as the many stacked houses on this road. Grandma Rosie bent and ducked and made her way in and around the throng of people and small stalls on the way, till she reached the now rickety wooden door. She steadied herself, let out a quick long breath and rang the bell. And steeled herself for the next few minutes, in her own quiet way.
A half minute’s wait and the hinges creaked as the door opened slightly. She squinted her eyes to the dark room. The big eyes of the little girl stared up at her. Sleepy still, the little one rubbed her eyes. And then slowly and surely, her tiny face broke into a huge grin. Grandma Rosie was here! Lea Ann took a second to hold Rosie’s hand and almost pulled her in. The door shut.
Grandma Rosie’s next stop was two Matatu stops away. Another house, this time smaller, one could call it a shack. Housing a mother with her 3 toddlers. Again, the hush and quiet, followed by the secretive smile and the thankful eyes.
Five more houses followed. Each one with its occupant a little under 3 feet high, keen bright eyes and a sheer love for this lady with her bag.
And this went on till Grandma Rosie took the last Matatu back home. Around the rich hills and green pastures, past the international school with endless acres of luxury and promises, to the small place named Gashie. As she stepped off the Matatu, by now her tired limbs and a painful backache had slowed her pace. The freshly whitewashed church walls gave her each day a sense of familiar comfort, even though its doors were closed by the time she got home. As she took her lane home, the red sand comforted her feet and the reassuring colours of the neighbourhood houses, the smell of Ugali and beef and baked beans wafting through open windows welcomed her to a world she knew, a world she grew up in.
As she reached the smartly painted clean white of the tiny door, she reached into her now empty bag and took out a single key. This moment, each day, for the past 30 years, has been one of immense struggle and an utmost effort not to let herself go. One step in and she reached for the light switch on her left. The single ten feet by ten feet room showed up dimly. One bed at the corner, a sink, a stove and a makeshift kitchen. Two neatly cushioned chairs and two windows decked up in white curtains with tiny flower motifs in fresh purple. Grandma Rosie set herself down on a chair with a tiny sigh. One so tiny, that the air around her immediately gulped it up at the very moment of its escape.
The night deepened. The clouds overshadowed the dreamy moon. As Grandma Rosie lay on her bed, staring out of the open window, did she imagine the laughter of her grandchild? Little Marie who wanted a candy and had run fast to get one from her Grandma’s hand. Just when the screeching neon blue Matatu lost its break and all on the tiny lane, the church goers, the grocer and chicken shops and all passerby’s heard was one tiny scream. Of astonishment and agony. It was over just as soon as it began. And the little girl who was dancing in glee a moment back lay in a tiny heap on the road, a gush of red to line her tiny head. Grandma Rosie had stood and stared, with her arms still outstretched, holding the candy, wrapped in a pretty blue, the colour of Marie’s eyes.
The world moved on. Friends grew out of mourning and resumed life. The Jacaranda at the corner of her house shed and bloomed her beautiful purple for 30 springs in a row. The open window showed Grandma Rosie the same moon in its hide and seek game each night. She had so much more grey now and a heart heavy with a shock as fresh as now. With a tear to drench a tiny corner of her immaculate while pillow, Grandma Rosie smiled at Marie and whispered “Come child, come to me.”
