He stared me down and added, “Dad, I never went to university.” It took my wife’s screams and subsequent collapse to get me to my feet. Soup splattered all over the table as the spoon slipped from my grasp. That night, the information our son revealed broke our world apart.
A tranquil Sunday evening unfolded. A fragrant aroma of fried fish and groundnut stew made in the kienyeji manner wafted through the air. We were planning his forthcoming graduation, including who to invite, what to wear, and what to get him as a present. He hardly spoke and hardly ate. His exhaustion from homework was all I could think of.
He proceeded to say it. I thought they were making a joke at first.
I found it funny at first. “Kibe, that’s not funny.”
However, he refrained from laughing. As he sat still, his shoulders slumped and tears welled up in his eyes. Cold sweat beaded on my wife’s brow. She let go of the spoon, and it clanged against the bowl.
“What were you saying?” she asked in a low voice.
Sorry, Mom, I never attended to class. “Not even for a single day,” he whispered.
A knot formed in my chest.
He had received funds from us for four years to cover expenses including rent, food, textbooks, and school fees. We had rejoiced over his phony test scores and hoped for his “graduation.” Images of classrooms and other campus structures were among the things he supplied. He possessed photographs of himself donning a T-shirt from his alma mater. All the stories, images, and words were false, and I was shocked.
Smiling, my wife spoke. “So where were you all this time?”
Scanning his hands, he bowed his head. “Working.”
“Working?” I said it again. “What kind of work?”
He gasped for air. “Dad, please, let me explain.”
I felt an indescribable surge of wrath. In my ears, I could detect my heartbeat. In order to cover his tuition, I worked two jobs. It turned out that my wife had taken out debts. Now he was claiming it had been in vain.
My wife sobbed herself to sleep that night. Attempting to make sense of everything, I sat outside till the wee hours of the morning, gazing at the stars. Even though the night air was chilly, the stillness within our home was even chillier.
I found him still seated at the dinner table, hands clasped over his head, at about three in the morning. Like a lost child, he appeared diminutive once more. I wished I could console him, but alas, I was unable. He had broken my trust too badly.
He gently tapped on our bedroom door first thing in the morning. “Dad, Mum,” he uttered. “Please read this.”
I received a folded letter from him.
Our perception of him and of ourselves were both profoundly altered by that letter.
Kibe, our youngest son, was the source of constant mirth and mayhem in our household. The type of child that every parent looks up to, Michael, was quiet, diligent, and submissive. In contrast, Kibe stood out. He had aspirations.
His ability to transform any sound into melody began when he was a little boy. The neighbors finally had enough and yelled at him to stop singing while he beat sticks together to create rhythm and played buckets as drums. My wife used to make fun of him and say things like, “Maybe he’ll be a musician one day.” “Over my dead body” was my go-to response. He should get a job.
We thought loving our children meant helping them get good professions.
Kibe had a successful high school career. A prestigious university accepted him because of his impressive performance. My wife did a happy dance in the kitchen when his acceptance letter came. Pilau and fried chicken were on the menu, so we had friends and relatives around. I assured everyone that my son would pursue a career in computer science, a field that would open doors to many opportunities.
Even though I now know it wasn’t pride, Kibe kept smiling the whole time. That was terror.
He was sent off with hugs and words of wisdom after we leased a tiny room for him close to college and made sure he had all he needed. Work hard, my son, I admonished. “Don’t waste this opportunity.”
“I won’t, Dad,” he whispered back.
Over the following four years, he persuaded us that he was indeed fulfilling his commitment.
Each Sunday, he would contact us via phone to inform us of upcoming classes and homework. Some “friends” he mentioned who we’d never met even existed. Images of classrooms and computers would occasionally make it into his messages. We took it at face value. We went and got him a new laptop the moment he mentioned it had broken. He wanted the money for “practical lab fees,” so we paid right away.
Payments were always sent on time by my wife. “Education is everything,” she would declare with a sense of accomplishment.
With his headphones removed and his mind elsewhere, a young man sits silently in the corridor. It is merely for the purpose of illustration. Image credit: Getty Images/FG Trade
With his headphones removed and his mind elsewhere, a young man sits silently in the corridor. It is merely for the purpose of illustration. Image credit: Getty Images/FG Trade
Whenever the holidays rolled around, he found a way to avoid paying a visit. “I have a group project,” “I got a part-time job,” “I’m helping a lecturer.” At the time, it all seemed sensible.
We believed we were witnessing our son’s future coming together. The fact, though, is that we were actually paying for his underground existence.
My wife began making preparations for his graduation by the time he was four years old. She contacted our pastor to set up a Thanksgiving service, ordered a cake, and purchased fabric for matching family T-shirts. We were prepared to rejoice.
It was anything but a party when we faced what was ahead of us. A epiphany that was.
It all started when my wife wanted to know when we were graduating.
The announcement has not been made yet, according to Kibe.
We repeated the same response two weeks later. “They are sorting out the final results.”
A month went by after that. “There’s a strike,” Kibe claimed.
Unease began to creep in even to me. There was a discrepancy.
I gave him a call late one night. “Please, Kibe, forward your transcript to me. Someone I know who works at the university would love to see it.
No one spoke. “Dad, I’ll send it tomorrow.”
There was no tomorrow.
On that fateful Saturday, he unexpectedly showed up at our home. To my wife’s delight, she was taken aback. “Ah, you didn’t even tell us you were coming!”
He bit his lip slightly. “I needed to talk to you.”
We took a seat following our meal. A low hum escaped from the television. After clearing his throat, he confessed, “Mum, Dad, I’ve been lying to you.”
We both knew my wife was furrowing her brow. “Lying about what?”
He examined his knuckles. Concerning the academic context. I didn’t even go.
“What are you saying?” Slowly, I inquired.
“I was never a university student. I purchased DJ gear with the money.
A gasp escaped my wife’s lips as she covered hers. “You did what?”
He began to weep. “I was unsure of how to convey it to you. Even though you claimed it was pointless, I still wanted to pursue music. I made it all up because I didn’t want to let you down.
I was speechless. I felt dizzy. “Do you know what you’ve done to us?” Shh, I whispered it. “Do you know how many sacrifices we made?”
Weeping uncontrollably, he gave a nod. “Dad, I know. My heart raced. My apologies.
My wife got to her feet and silently exited the room. All over the house, the sound of the door slamming resounded.
I just stared at him as I sat there. There are no truths in any of the accounts, conversations, or transfers. My twenty years of trust quickly vanished.
I remained in my car till the sun came up that night. Even though I refrained from crying, a part of me snapped.
The house was silent for weeks. He was invisible to my wife. I was reclusive and did my best to avoid eye contact. The majority of Kibe’s time was devoted to eating alone in his room. I couldn’t force myself to care that he appeared to be losing weight daily.
The next thing I knew, I awoke one morning to discover a letter lying on the floor outside our room.
Careful blue ink was used to write the lengthy letter.
He began by repeatedly apologizing. Writing, “I know I broke your trust,” he confessed. I despised you, so I refrained from doing it. I acted in this way because the thought of you being let down by me worried me.
He detailed his entire life, from never enrolling in school to living near campus while posing as a student to going months without food and sleeping in tiny rooms after concerts. Doing what he loved for a living, he mastered the art of music production and sound system management.
“I was able to purchase my first DJ set with the money you sent me,” he explained. Weddings and birthday celebrations became my first gigs. After that, gigs at nightclubs started trickling in. Things have been going well for me financially. I am able to repay you.
“I didn’t squander the money, Dad,” he wrote and left me with that memorable last sentence of the letter. I simply invested money in an idea in which you had little faith.
After finishing the book, I felt a tightness in my throat. Quietly, my wife sobbed at my side.
Later that night, we summoned him to the living room. As he waited for the verdict, he stood motionless. As a young man attempting to piece together his own truth, I beheld the young man who had been my son.
The words “you should have told us” from my lips as I spoke softly.
His head cocked to one side. “I was hoping to. The moment I laid eyes on your faces, though, I was unable to succeed.
“We don’t hate you,” my wife said as she clutched his hand. We really hope you would have trusted us.
For hours, we just sat there. Kibe opened up to us about his hardships, including the times he went hungry due to cancellations and the evenings he played for free to gain experience. Every time he called home, he used to cry, he said.
Everything in the house had fallen into a hushed stillness by the time he had finished.
I finally embraced him after all these years that night.
Forgiveness was a gradual process that required time.
In order to conserve money, Kibe returned to his house. Bringing his DJ gear, he transformed his spare room into a makeshift recording studio. At first, my wife still had a hard time accepting it. “Being a musician isn’t a sustainable career path,” she would warn. After witnessing his dedication, though, she began to soften.
On occasion, we would awaken in the middle of the night to the sound of his room’s steady beats. It first irritated me, but eventually it brought me peace. The once-hushed mansion seemed to come alive once more.
Weddings, business gatherings, and even a couple festivals were among the many venues he began to book. Eventually, he extended an invitation to see him perform.
I was hesitant to go at first. My wife, nevertheless, said, “He needs to see us there.”
We observed him conduct the music from our vantage point in the far corner of the packed hall. He seemed at ease, beaming with self-assurance. His name was chanted by the crowd. An overwhelming sense of pride returned to me, one that had been absent for quite some time.
We were accosted by strangers after the show. Something like, “Your son is gifted,” was mentioned by someone. “He’s one of the best DJs in Nairobi.”
I felt my wife’s hand pressing down on mine. “That’s our son,” she murmured, her eyes shining beneath her lips.
Even though you don’t have a degree, you’ve created something genuine, I told him that night. Confess to me that you will be honest at all times.
For some reason, he grinned. “I promise, Dad.”
Now he’s putting money aside to start his own studio. Rather of seeing it as a kind of punishment, we decided he would pay back some of the money we sent him.
We are no longer the same. Even while I no longer hold Kibe in high esteem, I do wish he had been more forthright earlier. What I see is a young man who, despite his fears, built a life worth living and making art.
Being a parent teaches you that loving someone is more than just thinking about their best interests; it also means learning to listen.
My world came crashing down when my son ruined my hard work by lying about going to college. However, I now see that he only exposed the gaps that we had disregarded. Our home had become a place where the fear of being let down had taken precedence over love.
Kibe’s backstabbing wasn’t revolt. “Survival” was key.
Education, we assured him, was the sole path to prosperity. Additionally, he demonstrated that joy is a door that is worth opening.
As of now, he’s still DJing. He has restless nights and peaceful mornings. Although that isn’t the life I had envisioned for him, it is truthful. From my vantage point behind his turntables, I perceive a man who persevered until he reached the truth and then found serenity.
Even from the opposite room, I can sometimes make out a smile as I listen to his music. Reason being, what was once an earache is now accompanied by a sense of release.
I can’t help but wonder, whenever I consider his confession, if I would be better off with a son who deceives to satisfy me or one who tells it like it is, no matter the cost?
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