MY DEAR CHILDREN.

By Brian Nzomo.

To my loving children,

None of you know me. None of you have ever met me before. By the time this letter gets to you, both of you would be wondering; from whom does this letter originate from, and what purpose does he have in writing this letter to us?

I understand that clearly, and I am ashamed to even write this letter. For I am your biological father. The father you never knew. My name is Kelly Wambua. Very ironic that a father should introduce himself to his children when they are fully bloomed. And very shameful too.

My revelation has probably sparked a melange of long wrought bitterness and pain, and anger in your minds right now. The first question bloated on your mind right now, is why has this man who has caused us so much a grief due to his cowardly absence, write us a stupid letter? Is he so craven that he cannot face us and speak his heart to our faces marred by grim but justifiable rancor?

I have to confess my children. I am scared of you. Scared of how shuddering the guilt of facing you shall be. My two wonderful children whom I abdicated without thought. I am scared of you Ian. Seeing your photos, I see a well-built brawny man with a bushy beard and stone cold face. A man whom I am chagrined to realise I never built or moulded. Even when it was my responsibility to provide you with the best diet a father could ever churn out, it was your mother who had to take up that mantle. And that is why I am scared. Because you will beat me up, strangle me and kill me without much a guilt pervading you. And even more afraid that I would be helpless as you clobber me, for I would have no authority over you. Never had any.

I am scared of you Lilian. When I took up the dead beat status more than two decades ago, you were still unborn. Probably, unlike Ian who has vague memories of me, you have none whatsoever about this man. You came into the world and met a dejected mother and brother trying to adjust to survive the burdens of my irresponsible act.

Seeing your photos, I see a pretty face beaming in pulchritude and determination. One that reminds me of my own strong willed grandmother. There you are in a graduation gown, that signifies the splendid brain that does not match mine at all. I am afraid of that unyielding brilliance that knows no emotional sway. Afraid that my jaded emotion would do little to sway the determination of those hard questions you will bombard me with. Even more afraid that I would die at the efficacy of this demand of accountability.

My revelation has probably sparked a melange of long wrought bitterness and pain, and anger in your minds right now. The first question bloated on your mind right now, is why has this man who has caused us so much a grief due to his cowardly absence, write us a stupid letter? Is he so craven that he cannot face us and speak his heart to our faces marred by grim but justifiable rancor?

But I can barely move. Barely eat. Barely talk. I am a vegetable. A man consigned to a hospital bed. Dying out and shouldered by a stroke and by guilt. No life around me. Just the grim faces of dutiful doctors and nurses with no gleam of genuine affection on me. I don’t know what I would have done if I was a poor man. I would probably have died a lonely death in a foul shack in some miserable shanty or void village.

I observe some fellow patients here. Old men like me but loved dearly. Grandchildren and even great grandchildren prawling around them. Bliss even at the face of despair. And a lump of envy lodges my throat. Even more painful is when they ask why I seldom have any visitors. And the memory of me abandoning every one I ought to love, tears me apart and renders me dead inside.

I wish I was there when you both needed me. Ian, I wish I was there when you needed a man to help you ride your first bike. There to see you proud that you had finalised ten press-ups. There to see you score a brazen goal for your school team. I wish I was there to show you how to repair a bicycle puncture. There to push you to be as fit as a fiddle. There to disinfect your grazed elbow as you practised for the next game.

Lilian, I wish I had seen you at your most bantam physique, vulnerable and adorably innocent. I wish I had seen your soft breathing and clenched fists. Seen you crawl and finally make your first steps. Seen your funny paintings and fraying writings on the page. I wish was there to empower you to work hard at school, be there for you at your lowest spirits. Be the only sense of security you ought to trust and cling onto.

But I was not there. I ran even before my job had started. I planted two healthy seeds. But when they needed care and nourishment, from none other than me; I ran. I chickened out and pretended that I was not ready. That I would suffer immensely if I plunged myself into parental devotion.

Never did I think I would regret my abominable actions. I considered myself galvanised against the guilt spelt by my dereliction. What didn’t I have? Or so I thought. ‘Money, wealth, power, more Money, more wealth and more power than I ever imagined.’

I thought I was invincible. I was clouded by superficial entities of life. And never did I consider returning back to my children. If I needed ten or twenty. Thirty. I would get them. Money rules the world. With money, nothing can stop you from getting whatever you want.

I remarried. A beautiful woman. At my optical analysis, one fertile enough to yield as much healthy babies as I would wish for. We counted the years. One. Two. Three. Four and five. Nothing. Not a single sign. Not a single cloud with a silver lining. And it all ended in a messy divorce.

I remarried. A third wife. One who had a baby from her initial relationship. Sure enough, she must be full of babies. Healthy ones like the one she sired. Or so I thought. Then the trajectory of hopelessness dawned on me that probably I was the one who fired blank shots. Probably my seed was empty as my virtue. And indeed it was. I was devastated.

It was then that my soul was gnawed by grief day by day. Years of misery and loneliness wafted away. I thought of both of you. But I could not wrap my mind around how to ever make it up to you. It was all over, I told myself. Neither would any of you ever forgive me for my despicable act. Your mother would not even allow me near you. I resigned my fate to dying alone.

But now. I lay on this bed of morbid mire. And gather the last of my null courage to call upon you. I don’t expect your forgiveness. Neither do I expect or beg you for sympathy. I remain dead to you. The only aim of this letter was to hear me out. So that both of you would know, that I expressed my feelings of deep seated regret before I died. My remorseful letter only aims to unweave me from my tight despair. And get a hue of peace. I shall never be at peace even at death. But beneath the flint of concrete and mound of earth above my shell, I would be at peace to know I expressed my guilt.

Never be like me son. Be a man. Circumvent your grief and make it a compelling reason for you to treat your children differently. What I failed to endear, endear it scorefold. Be an iron mast where your son and daughter shall cling onto as they ascend the morrow. Embrace the strength, mastery and honour of a true man.

Your disgraceful father

Kelly Wambua.

Brian Nzomo is a communication and media student at the Kenyatta university. Contact him via email: bryonzoms505@gmail.com