This archive report was first published on 12 May 2020.
It's been months since the lockdown began, and my life in Ushago has been a rollercoaster of emotions. My mother, who works as a 'turn boy' in my grandfather's mirror business, has been away for what feels like an eternity.
As I sit here with my kijiko of uji ya wimbi, I often wonder when I'll see my mother again. The lockdown, imposed by President Kenyatta and Minister Kagwe, has made it difficult for her to come home.
But my mother's job is not just any ordinary job. She's part of a convoy that takes mirrors to Somalia, where they're in high demand. The Somalis love to look at themselves in the mirrors, but they also have a habit of breaking them, which is why my mother's job is so crucial.
Every morning, my mother leaves with a convoy of pick-ups, taking two and a half hours to reach the airport. She unloads the mirrors and then flies back to Ushago, where she's always welcomed with open arms.
But until she arrives, I'm filled with fear and anxiety. My father and sister Milan are the only ones left in Nairobi, and I miss my mother dearly.
One day, my sister Milan called me, and I sang a song I'd made up for my cousin Laila. 'Nani ananyamba? Ni Laila, ni Lailaaa! Anataka ku-ha-ra, ha ha ha ha ha!' I sang with all my might.
My father laughed and clapped his hands, saying, 'My boy, you're a rhyme genius.' But my mother, who had just walked into the room, was not amused. 'Baba Drago, how can you encourage him to sing bad songs?' she asked, taking the phone from me by force.
She paused, then said, 'That's not poetry, unless you want him to end up in a gangsta-tone group like Ethics.'
As I look back on these difficult times, I realize that my mother's job is not just about mirrors, but about keeping our family together. And I'm grateful for that.
