KAMAU WA JORAM MUST MARRY, AUNTIES PASS MOTION

 

Through the lace curtains of Mom's old house, I watch the drama unfold like a daytime soap opera. Two of my aunties, Immerculate—the self-appointed family moral police—and Beth Njoki, the unrivalled queen of sarcasm, are huddled together on the veranda. Their voices waft inside with the late-afternoon breeze, animated and sharp. I can’t really hear every word, but their gestures and the occasional explosive laugh make it obvious: Kamau’s failure to bring home a wife for the sixth consecutive holiday is at the centre of this ad hoc summit.

Njoki chuckles, shaking her head in mock despair. Immerculate fans herself with a faded magazine, as if Kamau’s stubborn bachelorhood has raised the ambient temperature by several degrees.  “Njoki, unasema Kamau wa ndugu yetu Joram, hata baada ya kununua Subaru , hajapea msichana yeyote lift? Kwani alinunua gari kubeba loud music tu? Akipita unaeza dhani ni matatu za Umoja!”

(Njoki, are you saying Joram’s son Kamau, even after buying a new Subaru, hasn’t given any girl a lift? Did he buy that car just to blast loud music? When he passes, you’d think it’s a matatu from Umoja!)

Since the start of the holidays, I have avoided Kamau like the plague—not out of malice, but self-preservation. The last thing I want is for our relatives to assume I’m the one steering him away from marital bliss. In truth, I’ve played the role of family cupid with more effort than anyone should be expected to—dragging him to city weddings, introducing him to every eligible lady I know, even making marriage sound like a ticket to heaven every time we talk. Yet, Kamau remains unmoved, focused on his law career, his role as a men’s rights activist, and unnecessary attention to his barbershop he runs at Tropikana in Kitengela.

Uncle Joram, Kamau’s father, is thoroughly bewildered by his son’s choices. He doesn’t see the sense in a young man needing three incomes, especially when there isn’t a single family responsibility in sight. Joram loves to recount how he married while still in Form 5 in Uganda, but laments that even then, he was late compared to his younger brother, Uncle Karis, who married in Form 2 at St. Marks Cherangany—way back in 1976. Karis now boasts six grandchildren, while Uncle Joram still harbours the secret wish that, by some fluke, even a false accusation of Kamau impregnating a girl would at least give him hope.
 
Yet, I can’t blame Kamau. His romantic history reads like a cautionary tale. Seven years ago, Philis, his then-girlfriend of four years, turned up pregnant—with someone else’s child. The heartbreak hit Kamau so hard, he didn’t eat properly for two weeks (though, to be fair, his definition of “not eating properly” was skipping seconds at dinner). He later dated Filister, who wasted no time before flying to Qatar to work as a domestic house manager. The city girls who came after—two from the School of Law—never made it home. Damaris, for instance, had never left Nairobi, had no idea how to hand-wash clothes, and considered cooking an activity exclusively reserved for house helps. Kamau wisely concluded that introducing her to his mother would be an act of war.
 
The signs are all there: the low murmurs, the phone calls bouncing between aunties, the sudden appearance of more tea and mandazis in the kitchen. This evening, the Joram family’s unofficial Senate Committee will convene, with Kamau as the principal agenda item—again. They’ll ask searching questions, speculate wildly, and propose hilariously impractical solutions.

I imagine Kamau sitting quietly in the living room, fielding questions like an accused fraud under cross-examination, sipping his tea with that serene patience only he possesses. Aunt Immerculate will probably threaten to bring a girl straight from her chama group, and Uncle Karis will offer to give him tips—never mind that his own marriage is the stuff of cautionary tales.
 
As the sun begins to set, painting the sky in orange and lavender streaks, I sense that beneath the laughter, the teasing, and the endless family meetings lies a genuine desire for Kamau’s happiness. For now, we’ll sit through another evening of jokes and unsolicited advice, secretly hoping that one day, maybe next holiday, Kamau will surprise us all—and give the aunties a new topic to debate.
But until then, the saga continues, and through the curtains of Mom’s old house, family love—messy, loud, relentless—goes on.

"Should we get him a matchmaker from church?"

"Maybe he just needs deliverance prayers from Pastor Wekesa."

"Could it be the music he plays in that Subaru? He should listen to gospel, not reggae!"