One Sunday morning, about fifty years ago, my sister said a derogatory word, and I reacted with intense anger. I felt lonely and had no shoulder to lean on, and my husband was far from home. Instead of going to church, I decided to visit my husband in Naivasha. He was a minister in the Presbyterian Church of East Africa, serving in Nyandarua parish, which had forty-two worship centers. Some of the centers were temporary buildings, others worshipped in school classrooms, and others had prayers in the homes of other parishioners. Nyandarua parish had set up in a new settlement scheme, and the pastor only had Mondays off. My husband would always visit us in Thogoto where I worked on Mondays. The pastor’s house was located in the parish’s headquarters in Naivasha.
I packed my toddler’s belongings and set off on my journey to Naivasha. I walked almost two miles from Alliance Girls High School to Gītarũ intersection on the Nakuru-Nairobi highway to take the bus to Naivasha. I was eight months pregnant at the time, and I made my way to the bus station carrying the toddler on my back, the packed bag in one hand, and my handbag across my front. I arrived in Naivasha at around noon, hungry, thirsty, tired, and angry. I had never visited my husband in Naivasha before, so I had no clue where his house was. I asked a shoe shiner at the bus stop for directions to the Presbyterian pastor’s home. My hope that the shoe shiner knew where my husband’s house was located was dashed, but he gave me a solid lead.
I was given directions to another pastor’s house, who had been in the area for a long time, and was likely to know the new pastors in the area. When I got to the house, I was fortunate enough to find the pastor at home. I asked him for directions to the Presbyterian minister’s house. He stared at me for a few moments before asking whether I was the minister’s wife. I said, yes. He then asked me, “Where are you going to sleep, and your husband has no house?” The question made me furious, and I responded, “The tree the pastor sleeps under is where we will sleep.” I had not had anything to eat or drink that day, and I was also tired and hungry. The pastor, undeterred by my response, told me, “The pastor is not here. He left yesterday and has not yet come back.” It was then that I remembered he usually traveled to Thogoto on Sundays after the last service. I was unsure whether to turn back and head home or stay around in Naivasha and wait for my husband.
When the pastor invited me to stay in his big house and rest as I waited to see if my husband would come back. When he arrived, he was alerted to my presence, and he came over and took us to his house. The house was too small to fit us – three feet wide and six feet long. He had to sit on a safari bed as he cooked and kept his suitcase underneath the bed. I was so relieved to see him, my anger dissipated. He cooked the piece of meat he had brought, and we ate. He appeared exhausted, and I completely forgot to tell him about the anger I’d been harboring. My surprise visit brought us so much joy as we spent time together, ate together, and spent the night in each other’s company.
I shared the safari bed with my husband, the bed was so small that my gigantic belly hung off of it. Our toddler slept inside my husband’s suitcase, with his clothes used as a mattress. We used his briefcase, which usually had his church gown and Bible inside, to keep the cover of the suitcase open. I was so scared that our child was somehow going to move, and the briefcase would close, and the child would suffocate, I barely slept that night. On Monday, we traveled back to Thogoto as a family, with me leaning on my husband’s shoulder on the way. Our second baby was born a month later. Twenty years after my surprise visit to Naivasha, I remembered how I had replied to the pastor, who was trying to be helpful. I repented profusely and was grateful for the relief I felt.