Akinyi

A few of my friends now trust me to pen their stories to paper, knowing that somewhere out there in the intricacies of the web, someone might find solace or inspiration in their stories. Ever since A random day in December went out, even more friends have reached out, eager to share their experiences. It’s an honour, really. Talking to people teaches me a lot—but how much more I learn when they lay bare their stories and experiences firsthand! Of course, these aren’t the take-to-the-grave kind of secrets; they’re shareable, sprinkled with lessons. What’s that saying again? A fool learns from his own mistakes? Or is it the other way around? Either way, if the fool isn’t learning, that’s a bigger problem altogether.

I met Akinyi at a climax sabbath during a camp meeting at one of my home churches. If you know SDAs, you know we don’t play around when it comes to food and music. She was walking towards me balancing two plates like a professional caterer. In Adwen, the second plate is typically assumed to be for a husband, a companion, or some soul too lazy (or too embarrassed) to stand in line for food. And it’s often the ladies doing the serving—SDA women are just that thoughtful and dutiful. You serve for yourself and your man.

But Akinyi’s second plate wasn’t for any man, or not any that I’d seen her with at least. They were both for her. She defended herself vigorously, “The service today was way too long, and I need the energy for the afternoon singing session.” 

Turns out she already knew me through a friend from Ringa; a friend of a friend. I wasn’t too concerned about the details—I was more focused on the fact that I had just met a stunning SDA girl with a voice like an angel and a laugh that could light up a room. That afternoon, she skipped her choir duties as we sat at a stone-throw distance from the crowd, at a quiet spot talking about stuff that SDAs generally talk about—choirs, the undercooked rice, the grumpy women in the kitchen, life in Ringa versus Muhoroni, the weather, and her life after school. She’d just cleared Form Four; I was in Form Two.

Then came the pandemic. Everybody has a story for the pandemic period. For Akinyi, her dreams at college were put on hold, and she had to return to Ringa to live with her overbearing aunt. We lost touch for a while, but she always checked in just enough to let me know she was still pushing forward. And now, years later, she’s in Nairobi too.

Akinyi was one of my first subscribers to this newsletter. She is one of those people who genuinely enjoyed reading my earlier musings. She encouraged me, even though I had no clue about the battles she was fighting. Then, after reading A Random Day in December, she thought, Why not share my own story?

Akinyi—a bright (well, dark-skinned, but you know what I mean) and zealous young lady—grew up in Ringa, near Oyugis. Her childhood was nothing short of a battlefield. She lost both parents in a tragic accident—one so severe that it robbed her of not just family but the very idea of normalcy. She had no siblings; it was just her, alone, at the mercy of her pretentious aunt. At six years old, she hadn’t fully grasped the permanence of death. She only knew her father and mother weren’t coming back, and it made her heart bleed. She counts herself lucky for one thing though—she never had to see the deformed bodies of her parents after the tragedy. The trauma of that would have stayed with her for life.

But her aunt made sure her suffering was a daily affair ever since. The woman immediately took her in after the funeral, but that’s about as far as the kindness went. Akinyi was just another child in the house, lost among five cousins. “Her kids were good to me at first,” she recalls. “They actually took care of me coz they were all older than me. They took me in as their youngest sister, and I appreciated that initially. But auntie was an alcoholic who changed men like radio stations on a road trip.”

Every weekend, a new man. And every time she came with someone new, it was the same routine—lock the kids in one room while she occupied the rest of the four-bedroom house with her latest conquest. “She didn’t care about anything except her booze, her parties, and the men from those parties.”

Akinyi’s uncle (auntie’s husband) had died years earlier—from alcohol too, ironically—but auntie hadn’t taken the hint. Education also wasn’t her priority. As long as school fees were paid, what happened in class was none of her business. Half of Akinyi’s cousins took full advantage of that lack of supervision. By the time they were old enough, they were dunderheads who had wasted away their lives in Nairobi clubs, never to return home.

But Akinyi? She had a different plan. She threw herself into her studies. She saw education as her escape route, her way out of that house and away from that woman. Yet, her aunt always found new ways to make her life unbearable. Regular beatings, sometimes even just because she wasn’t one of her own. Her clothing were hand-me-downs from the cousins, if she was lucky. She was blamed for everything! If her male cousins misbehaved around her, she was accused of “corrupting them” and she would be beaten instead. If the house was messy, she had to clean it. Even the disgusting aftermath of her aunt’s drunken parties were hers to handle. At 13, she was once accused of “seducing” her male cousins in the house while auntie was away.

“Seducing?!” she exclaims, still in disbelief. “I didn’t even know what that word meant! I was thirteen! For Christ’s sake!”

And she hated auntie for that. But she had nowhere else to go. Auntie was the closest relative she had, and anyuola (extended family) believed she was doing just fine. At family gatherings, Auntie was always the most cheerful, showering Akinyi with exaggerated praises—claiming she was the daughter she had always wanted (never mind that she had two daughters of her own). Everyone believed her. They assumed Akinyi was in good hands, especially after the misfortune of losing her parents.

But Akinyi never spoke up. She never told anyone in the family what really happened in Auntie’s house. She didn’t trust her other uncles and aunts, convinced that moving in with any of them would be just as bad, if not worse. So she endured it all in silence. She suffered through the praises.

Her cousins knew. They saw her being beaten and mistreated, but they didn’t care. To them, she was just the house help, the one stuck with all the chores. To the boys, she was an easy target for teasing—someone who wouldn’t dare complain. None of them said a word. Instead, they sided with their mother.

By the time she finished high school at Ringa Girls Secondary, she knew two things: she was not going to spend another year under that roof, and she would do whatever it took to stand on her own two feet. She knew the only way out was through a job or marriage, and she refused to be married off so early. So she immediately started working wherever she could—hotels, M-Pesa shops, supermarkets. She cooked and sold food to boda boda riders and watu wa mjengo, saving every shilling she could. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was hers.

By then, all the other cousins had either moved to Nairobi or gotten married, leaving just the two of them in the house. Oh, and the men.

She had to find something to keep her occupied during the long holiday—anything to avoid being stuck at home, enduring degrading insults and slaps all day long.

“My body had started blossoming at this point. By the time I was 19, my body had fully taken shape, and she hated me for it. Her insults were always directed at my chest, my hips, my face—every part of me that reminded her I was becoming a woman while she was aging. Maybe that’s why she was so bitter. But whatever the reason, her words chipped away at me every day, making me feel less and less like a girl. It didn’t help that I used to fight boys in primary school, and she never let me forget it. Whenever she beat me, she’d sneer, ‘If you want to be a boy so bad, then fight me!’ She was crazy.”

“After form four, I worked at a small hotel in Ringa to pass the days and earn a little money. I was paid 200 bob a day, but I’d tell Aunt I only made 150. She would take 100 and leave me with 50—at least that’s what she thought. In reality, I always kept 100 for myself. The hotel was a small kibandaski-style joint where boda boda riders and local workers came to eat. Working there was exhausting, not just because of the long hours but because of the constant harassment. Men were always trying to get my number, proposing marriage as if I was some prize to be claimed. I’m convinced auntie had a hand in it. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she had encouraged them, hoping one of them would take me off her hands. Some even hurled insults at me when I ignored their advances, but I endured.”

“I worked at the hotel for around a month before my uncle from Muhoroni stepped in. Apparently, the extended family had held discussions, and auntie had made it clear she had done enough—she had educated me through primary and high school, and someone else needed to ‘handle me’. That’s when Uncle offered to take me in and cater for my college.”

And that’s how we met at the camp meeting.

“That’s why you found me at camp with two plates. I was starving that day!” she reminisces over text.

Living with her uncle was a complete contrast to her time with Aunt. He genuinely cared for her, ensuring she was comfortable in his home. He gave her the freedom to go out, join church choirs, and even have her own phone. His family welcomed her with open arms—so much so that they cleaned and prepared her room before she arrived. For the first time in her life, she felt like part of a real family. And the feeling overwhelmed her. She had cried so much under Aunt’s tyranny that tears came naturally when she stepped into her own room.

"Baba Samantha alidhani amenikosea akaanza kuniuliza kama niko sawa ama anipeleke hosi!" we laugh over text. (Baba Samantha was the uncle.)

That day, when she felt true family love for the first time, something in her shifted. She became even more ambitious. She wanted to work hard and repay Uncle as soon as possible. Baba Samantha treated her like a daughter, and she looked up to him like a father. He, in turn, wasted no time—he immediately enrolled her in a college in Kisumu to begin her diploma courses and gain new skills.

"Mbona si Uni?" I ask.

"Uni would have been expensive since he was already paying for his other kids’ university education. I was perfectly okay with college. I just wanted to go to school, then start working."

She started college in early 2019, just a few months before we met in August. But in 2020, when COVID hit, her education came to a sudden halt. Financial struggles hit Uncle hard, and she had to leave school. With no other choice, she was sent back to Aunt’s house—but Uncle promised that if she ever wanted to resume her studies, he would find a way to support her.

Back at Aunt’s, she was no longer the timid girl she had once been. Wiser and more resilient, she learned to stand up for herself. She found ways to survive, taking up random jobs around Ringa—working as a supermarket attendant, an M-Pesa agent, a waitress, and even volunteering at orphanages with the local church. She also started making and selling smoothies, fruit juices, uji, mandazi, and chapati to boda boda riders and watu wa mjengo.

Her side hustle grew from a walking vendor business to an actual small hotel that catered exclusively to workers who needed hearty, energy-packed meals like githeri and uji. Despite the endless flirtations and advances from the men, she kept things strictly professional, focused on her goal. In fact, some customers weren’t even buying food out of hunger—they just wanted to impress her. But to her, it was just more money from her business.

More money meant expansion. Soon, she hired a young girl also fresh out of high school to help with cooking. Then, a boy with a boda boda to handle deliveries. Business was booming. She was a lioness who had tasted blood, and all she wanted now was more.

"I tell you, spirit ya bizna ikikuingia, ata hujali ni nini unafanya. Unataka tu kugrow and make money," she says. "Ilikuwa tough, yes—kupika, kuamka mapema, na kuishi na Aunt ambaye hakuni support hata kidogo. Na hao maworkers walikuwa wananikatia kila saa! But I kept my head high, na nikafanya hio stuff for more than a year."

But even with her growing business, she still longed to finish her education. She wanted more than just survival—she wanted a career. A diploma or degree would give her a sense of fulfillment that only she understood.

In between running her business, she took online courses on the laptop Uncle had bought her. Uncle checked in with her weekly, making sure she was doing okay—helping her out whenever he could.

In early 2022, as the country continued reopening after the pandemic, she returned to college to complete her diploma in hospitality. She graduated the following year, with Uncle supporting her all the way. But being the ambitious girl from Ringa, she didn’t stop there. Concurrent with her diploma, she completed numerous online courses and certifications, packing her CV with credentials. Days were spent studying, sharpening her skills. Nights were spent on her laptop; she applied for every job she could find—not just in hospitality, but in any field that would take her. Weekends were for church and rest. Time seems to pass like fleeting clouds when you’re locked in.

Some companies responded. Others never did. Some rejected her outright. Some required experience she didn’t have. Others were located too far, offering poor working conditions. Some days were discouraging, others better. Some weeks felt impossible to get through. The Kisumu sun is unforgiving when you’re tired and worn down by rejection. Some nights rejection weighed heavy on her shoulders. But there were also good moments with friends she’d met in college, little victories that kept her going. Some companies, as far as Mombasa, invited her for interviews—only for her to realize they were scams. She once wasted money traveling all the way from Kisumu to Mombasa for a job that didn’t even exist. It felt like the universe was mocking her and her efforts. I mean, she had done nothing wrong, yet life kept throwing obstacles her way. But she knew that is how it goes. So she refused to give up. She kept pushing.

Until she received the green light. In the second quarter of 2024, she received an offer for a hospitality job at PrideInn Beach Resort in Mombasa. She took it with open arms. This was it—proof that her efforts were finally bearing fruit. Yet, as she packed her bags, a lingering fear remained: What if this is another scam? She prayed all the way to Mombasa. But this time, it wasn’t a scam. 

Before she knew it, she was in the hotel’s uniform, serving guests with the brightest smile on her face. The job paid just enough for her new life, and she was grateful beyond words.

Then, suddenly, the offers started rolling in. Companies that had once seemed to ignore her applications now reached out. Receptionist positions in Nairobi. Data entry jobs. Call center roles. Hotel industry jobs. But by now, she had fallen in love with Mombasa—the beaches, the people, the little tokens tourists gave her in appreciation. And it was one of those tourists who changed her life.

Impressed by her warm personality, work ethic and radiating beauty, a tourist at the hotel recommended her for a secretarial position at his law firm in Upper Hill. She took the job. And that is where she writes to me from now. After what felt like an eternity of sending out job applications, braving rejections, answering calls that led nowhere, and hopping from one odd job to another in Ringa market, she had finally landed a real job in Nairobi.

Now there’s a touch of normalcy in her life, and most importantly, freedom! She now works for herself, and visits uncle in Muhoroni once in a while as a sign of gratitude. So long from the shackles of aunt’s oppressive house.

I told her I have a few obligations at an office in Upper Hill next month. She replied: "Oh, that’s where I work now! You should come for lunch one day."

And who am I to say no to lunch?

✍🏽Reagan.