Wives NOT Knives

 

Wives NOT Knives 

In our village, people often say, “kwa machoni ya watu, ndoa ni harusi, lakini kwa milango iliyofungwa, ni vita.” (To the public, marriage is a wedding, but behind closed doors, it is a battle).

It begs the ultimate question for many Kenyan wives today: 

What kind of woman are you when the family ship hits a storm? 

Do you pack your bags the moment the financial taps run dry, or do you stay because of the status, the Blue Triangle cement house in the shags, and the Friday supermarket trolleys filled to the brim?

Let’s talk about Justin.

Justin was a senior credit officer at a top tier bank in Nairobi. For years, he was the pride of his family in the city and back in Ushago. He drove a sleek Suburu SUV,  Ascent to be precise .  He paid good school fees for his kids at a prestigious academy in Naivasha, and every month, his wife’s salon appointments and Chama contributions were settled without a whisper of complaint. 

But corporate Kenya can be a pressure cooker. Between impossible targets set by ruthless managers and late-night audits, Justin’s mental health began to fracture. After months of deep depression and frustration, he did the unthinkable for a family man: he resigned without prior notice or a backup plan.

The first eight months, things seemed manageable. They survived on his savings and his SACCO dividends. But savings in Nairobi melt like ice under the hot sun in Malindi.

Soon, the Wifi was disconnected. The family moved from fresh butcher meat to sukuma wiki  matumbo, and omena. The sleek car sat in the yard, dry of petrol. That is when the warmth in his home turned into a cold war.

One chilly Tuesday evening, Justin came back from an exhausting day of pounding the tarmac in Industrial Area looking for connections or anything to do in the form of work. 

He found the house completely ransacked. His wife of nineteen years had packed her bags, emptied the wardrobe, the safe, and left, even with her house help. She didn't leave a note. She just left him with a cold house and their four sobbing children.

For thrity-seven long months, Justin’s life became a living nightmare. In Kenya, a broke man often walks alone unlike the Liverpool slogan "You'll Never Walk Alone"; his phone calls to old banking friends went unanswered, his WhatsApp chats were left on read or blue-ticked as we like to say. The wife blocked him, his friends stopped visiting. "How do you visit a poor man," they would say.

His support system wasn't just low on charge—the battery was completely dead. He became father, mother and "mama fua". He would wake up at 4:00 AM to light the charcoal jiko, prepare brown porridge, wash the school uniforms, and trek with the kids to the local public school because the school van was now a luxury.

Seeking a job in Kenya with a gap on your CV and no "connection" is a spirit-crushing journey. But Justin kept praying and sending out CVs.

Two years into the desert, the heavens finally opened. Justin landed a regional director role at an international NGO based in Gigiri. It wasn't just a job; it was restoration. The salary was in foreign currency and not KES. 

The package came with super comprehensive medical cover, a heavy fuel allowance, and an upgraded lifestyle. Suddenly, the very in-laws who had called him a "useless, jobless man" in family WhatsApp groups began calling him “Shemeji” (brother-in-law) with deep respect.

Word travels fast in Nairobi. His ex-wife heard about the new Gigiri gig and the lifestyle change, Wifey, took the next matatu straight to his new residence, a gated community in Kerarapon drive Estate.

She arrived at the heavy black gates, ready to claim her spot as the boss lady of the house. But Justin had anticipated this LOOOOOONG time ago. The private security guard at the gate glanced at a laminated photo on his desk, looked up at her, and calmly said, "Mama, hauna ruhusa ya kuingia hapa." (Ma'am, you are not allowed inside). 

No amount of shouting or throwing tantrums could break the guard's stance.

As she stood there shouting and arguing with the firm but ever-smiling guard, a sleek, zero-mileage 2025 Tesla Cybertruck rolled up to the gate. The automatic gates began to slide open. 

The back window rolled down slightly, and a handsome 15-year-old boy in an international school uniform popped his head out. He looked at her with distant, sad eyes and said, "Mom, kwani umerudi?" (Mom, so you've come back?)

The words pierced her heart like a spear. The Cybertruck slid slooooowly into the lush compound. The gates clicked shut. 

Standing outside in the cold, frozen, hungry on the dusty pavement, with dirty feet and tired from the loong trek from the main road, a memory flashed back to her from 17 years ago during their wedding preparation.

She remembered Justin’s grandmother whispering a traditional blessing. Justin had turned part of the mumblings into a daily prayer:

"Mungu utubariki na wake, sio visu." (Lord, bless us with WIVES, not KNIVES)