Too Much Freedom for a Kid

The other day I talked of having freedom by circumstances, but not the kind to be allowed to any child. I had too much of such freedom and it led me to trouble. When they got together, Mom had to quit her job because that was her dream. It is the same for any young single mother who has to work for many hours to feed, dress, shelter, and even educate her kids. My elder brother had paused schooling to take care of us. Luckily this lasted for a few months since when Mzee moved in with us, he got the chance to go back to school. My older brother joined nursery school and I had all the time to enjoy mom’s care and protection. It lasted until I joined Std. 1 (class 1).

My age mate step brother visited us permanently in the two-roomed house we lined in town. I did not realize he was being switched with my elder brothers. That same year, they started a new school in the village. Mom accompanied them. After all, I had another brother to play and spend time with. His elder brother was living with us too. He was already working. I’m not sure he had achieved the working age but it was necessary because learning had taken a toll on his mental capability at the time. Mzee had handed him to a shoe repair professional to mentor him in his career. He still does this job to date, it’s quite sustainable.

I don’t remember when he too joined us but it was like they exchanged my two brothers for two step-brothers. I had no problem with that.

Knowing that the elder and Mzee were at work, we spent most of the off-school hours loitering. I had all the time to develop my creativity. When we were not making toy cars, we were ‘driving them.’

We lived by the road, so we made it our playground. I preferred tying a string so I could pull the tiny tin car. Those days, there weren’t many cars on the road. I remember the two of us sitting by the roadside when we got tired of moving around and counting cars. Each of us chose a direction to see who would count the most cars. The type also mattered a lot. We never accounted for the time of day and that brought problems, sometimes.

We had fallen out over the same. I lagged as we headed home. I was passionate about every toy I made and my new toy, needed some close attention from its No.1 fan. I loved every bit of it. I needed it realistic. Maybe not by design, but by how it moved, how it had to slow down to cross a mall bump or a tiny hole in the ground. I needed it in such a way that it would topple over a small cliff or roll when it went over a small pebble at my walking speed. But this time, I wasn't careful about all these.

I was listening to the sound of its plastic tires on the course black road. I was barefoot, but I had forgotten about the sharp feel from the tar-covered pebbles forming the road's carpet. This road stayed there for decades because they're too few vehicles to tear it off. But the edges had been eroded. The sides had curved gradually into a naturally formed valley and my toy needed a flat surface I I was to catch up with my brother.

I did not bother how far he had gone through.

I walked along the edge of the right side of the road. Keenly watching as the car maneuvered around the caved sides. I made my legs walk forward but all that time, my head refused to look ahead because my eyes were admiring what was smoothly following my steps. I did not want to miss the beauty of each distance traveled by the tiny creation, as I pulled it. I usually tied a thin string at its front and then pulled it. So the only way to watch it in action was to walk while facing backward.

As I tried to gaze ahead to see how smooth the road was for me to keep walking in my backward posture, a bicycle hit me hard. It knocked me unconscious.

It was a customized black mamba with additional steel rectangular seats, mostly used to curry items, especially the one at the front. It was far more projected than the front wheel. When I came back, hysterically trying to recollect what had happened, the rider varnished. I was thrown into a ditch, about five meters off the road.

Luckily, I had landed on a hip of fine sand, which had formed the previous night by flash floods following a heavy downpour. I lied that I had fallen and broke my jaw. I was also lucky the sharp edge of the bike’s carrier missed its target. It was an ahead-on collision and only the flat frontmost part of it touched my right jaw.

Yes, I was that little, shorter than the bicycle handles. Perhaps this is why I've never felt like trying a bicycle. No parent would allow such a child to play by the road, not alone on it.

We knew that well. But we did it anyway. And that’s why my lie was crucial. Saving me from additional problems.

Mzee always wore a tough face and he kept a record of our wrongdoings. It was also safe for my stepbrother to keep the little secret. So he said to Mzee that I had told him that I had fallen. This way, we would both be safe. He wouldn’t know that we were playing by the road. It would have been chaos. It never crossed my mind that the situation could worsen due to possible internal injuries.

By the time he returned from work, the right side of my head was badly swollen. I was in pain but I brushed it off afraid of being questioned and facing the music. I remember that even getting near him was a frightening thought.

The scent of his sweat alone instilled fear. We only could be close to him when answering cases for causing trouble. He could hang you for a few seconds before cutting the rope. Just to frighten you.

He had done it on several occasions. I only remember two though.

I was lucky to have never faced his wrath, unlike my elder brothers including my step-brothers. Maybe he thought I was a good child or perhaps I was silently cunning in covering my tracks. I was always at the top of my class and I think he always found a reason to pardon me for that. My siblings were not as lucky. My older brother. I won't say he deserved it but he was notorious. Money used to disappear from the house. I still remember my first day to watch the rope in action.

Whenever he wanted to punish any of us, it was never serious until he took off his watch. It was a heavy analog mechanical watch. It did not require power to operate. I felt privileged and entrusted whenever he handed it to me to keep it safely on a small table beside his bed, in the other room - his bedroom.’ This was the second room of the two-roomed house. I would then return for his court. He demanded that the court be held by the collar, strategically resting on a stretched hand. As heavy as it was, I would grab and hold it with my second hand supporting the hand on which it rested. That hand had to remain above my head to ensure that the coat did not touch the ground. This blocked my view ahead, so I had to carefully watch my small steps underneath to see the way.

Usually when I came back to the living room, either the “fight” would have ended or the case would be ongoing. That day, I heard him murmuring that "the gost that takes money from this house has not yet left because I just placed fifty shillings on the table less than a minute ago."

He then handed me the watch.    

Freedom by Circumstances

I started taking care of myself at a very young age!

It’s common knowledge that children can start learning self-care habits early, but in most families, these routines come under the watchful eye of loving parents or caregivers. That wasn’t exactly my story. Sure, I learned to brush my teeth, wash my hands, and do the basic things like any other kid. But the circumstances that shaped my early years were far from ordinary, and freedom came not by choice but by circumstances.

When my dad passed away, my world changed overnight. I was barely two years old, the youngest of three. My elder brothers were just old enough to realize that life was no longer the same, but I had no idea. Dad had left enough property behind to secure our future, but my mother, still reeling from the loss and with limited education, never fought for what was rightfully ours. I think she wanted her freedom more than anything else. She told me later that, for her, walking away from everything gave her peace.

So we left with nothing. No family business to lean on. No inheritance. Just the clothes on our backs and whatever strength my mom could muster as a single parent. She found work in a local restaurant, slaving away for hours to bring home whatever she could. Her shifts stretched from dawn until well after sunset, and while she was out trying to keep us afloat, we were left to our own devices.

My elder brother, barely old enough to be in school, was suddenly thrust into the role of caretaker. While most kids his age were focused on recess and playtime, he was responsible for keeping us alive, entertained, and out of trouble—though, in reality, the trouble was where we found our fun.

We lived near a large hospital, and one of our favorite pastimes was scavenging the nearby landfill for “treasures.” My brothers, with their insatiable curiosity, would lead the way, and I would follow closely behind, eager to see what they’d find. Our prize discoveries? Used syringes. Yes, the same ones you’d see in a doctor’s office, discarded and buried in the dirt. We’d use them as water guns, completely unaware of the danger they carried. In our young, unfiltered minds, they were just another part of the adventure.

The days blurred together in a whirlwind of risky explorations. There were no rules, no boundaries—just the thrill of being free to roam the world around us, even if that world was filled with hazards. My big brother was the mastermind, always pushing the limits. Each day was a new chance to dive headfirst into whatever caught our eye. We’d climb onto rooftops, dig through piles of debris, and fashion toys out of whatever we could get our hands on.

Mom would come home late, weary and worn, a bag of takeout in hand. She was too tired to ask how our day had been or if we were safe. For her, it was enough that we were still standing, still smiling. The next day, the cycle would begin again—more mischief, more freedom, more dangerous adventures with no one to stop us.

The Long Journeys

Sometimes I think the long trips after school were instrumental to our wellbeing. It seemed normal to the both of us, but it was technically a tough experience for kids aged between 8 and 10 to make important decisions by themselves. Mzee ensured we had enough food during supper—not dinnar—and sometimes something to eat after school. He was also very solemn, hardly socializing with us unless it concerned critical matters such as correcting mistakes. He hardly knew anything about our individual characters, and that was his weakness. I will never blame him. He is the best dad anyone can have. This man has not only grown old trying to manage and instill understanding between families but has also raised many people. Those who knew him then have never lost respect for him.

On the weekends, he used to leave for the rural village. My two elder blood brothers had relocated after transferring schools, as earlier mentioned. This only happened after he separated from his first wife. I never followed the issues well due to cultural norms. I have grown to respect traditions, but I keep away from those I don't adore. The reason for their separation and how my mom came to be part of this family is a story for another day.

So we had mastered the fact that Mzee would always go to the village every Friday evening and show up back in our two-roomed house in town. Unlike many families within our poverty-stricken social class in this small town, Mzee could at least afford a bigger house. There was only one other unit in the compound, consisting of two rooms: a living room and a sitting room. It belonged to a Muslim family. My stepbrother and I admired this family because they often had us covered on the weekends when it came to snacks and sometimes lunch, which we never had. They consisted of three siblings raised by a single mother. I never saw the man of the house, so that was my conclusion. Their mother was always busy, often returning home at night. Her only son and lastborn was in high school, and he never spoke to little guys like us, perhaps because he was a teen. He always looked very neat. We called the secondborn Dadah, which I now realize was a nickname. Fatuma, the oldest and very tall lady, was our best friend.

Fatuma used to feed us delicacies of all sorts. In return, we made sure she would not fetch water that day. We could only manage to carry a 5-liter jerrican, but we filled several 20-liter containers in their house. Although she hardly promised any compensation before we embarked on our many return trips to the water source, about 200 meters away, we were certain that our physical efforts would be compensated. She never failed us. We really worked for our lives, despite our little stature and age, but neither Mzee nor my big stepbrother knew about it. They were always committed to their work. They were also absent and showed little concern about our well-being.

Since Mzee had the entire bedroom to himself as we squeezed ourselves into the living room, he seemed to find solitude in the room most of the time he was in town. His absence in our lives grew worse when his sister came to live with us. We soon became five people with completely different mindsets living under one roof. We were completely knocked off our feet after our aunt took more than half of this small room, which we had considered our home for almost two years. She was an adult and a lady, and she needed ultimate privacy. We had to obey the new order.

Reed Chapter 1 of this story