SONS OF PHARAOH

“See, I grew up a church boy,” he started. “I was actually an altar boy at some point. I first served as an altar boy in class seven. I was fascinated by the lifestyle and dedication of priests, at least the ones I got to serve under.” He took a tentative bite from the apple he was holding, the crisp sound barely masking the steady beeping of the monitors surrounding us. I was seated beside him in a hospital ward, the sterile white walls dotted with IV stands and blinking screens. The background hum of medical equipment created a rhythmic soundtrack - each beep a reminder of the fragile balance his body was fighting to maintain.

His condition was a chronic kidney issue, a persistent battle that had kept him in and out of hospitals for some years, but more frequently in the past few months. Despite the ongoing struggle, he managed to talk and eat small bites like the apple - evidence that his spirit refused to surrender entirely. It was as if his body was hanging on, fighting for stability, even if the road to recovery remained uncertain.

“I believed Catholic is the true church. I still do. And the church honored priests for their sacrifice and dedication. Priests are the walking angels in the communities. Sometimes we would go with the fathers to places they visited, and you could see how much hope their arrival and presence would infuse into the faithful who awaited their immaculate aura. How they were entrusted with so much, and yet they lacked nothing good.

The best part for me was the holy mass. By the time I was eight, I had memorized the priest’s lines and responses. I could hold an entire mass in my head. I got to high school and joined the Young Catholic Students (YCS), as I cemented my feet on the altar of the Catholic chapel just outside our school. ‘Good boy’ was the label you’d give me then - a smart young man who never got into trouble. I met my grades; I wasn’t on the wall of shame but not at the top of the academic hall of fame either. Just there. The kind of boy who brimmed with wit and talent, and you could tell by how teachers treated me that they thought I was a good boy. “Festus, you will go far,” they said.

I believed it too. The priests I served under, especially my favorite, Father Henry in high school—he was such an inspiration.”

He paused for another bite. He chewed it a little longer than necessary, as if he was also chewing on what he had just said so far.

Gulp.

“It’s especially during my interaction with him that I was convinced, or convicted, that I wanted to become a priest.

“Festus, to become a priest is to become a servant. And a servant denies himself pleasure for the sake of service. Servants, in a way, border on being slaves; even what is basic or normal is a luxury they cannot afford. That’s the path we chose.” I remember him telling me. I knew what that meant—if I wanted to be a priest, at such a young age, I had to distance my heart from love, and by extension, my loins from enjoying the pleasures of the valleys that hide the secret handiwork of God.

So even in high school, I paid little attention to girls. I had friends, yes, but you could tell I wasn’t in hot pursuit of skirts, even during interschool functions. After high school, it was the long-awaited time because I could finally enroll in the seminary.

He paused to reflect. The dented apple still in his hand, and that’s when it occurred to me, maybe that’s why when people visit patients, they buy apples to keep the doctor away. Not because eating them makes you healthier, but as a handy thing to throw at the doctors when they come bearing bad news.

“Did you know people undergo a thorough medical exam before joining the seminary?”

“Is that so?”

“Yea, that’s how I discovered I had this underlying problem that keeps bringing me here.”

“I don’t get it. Are you saying you didn’t join the seminary because you were potentially sick?”

“You actually got it, yes,” he chuckled. “The church picks the best in mind and health. They don’t want to spend money giving you degrees, then you die early. By the time you’re labeled a priest, you have a BA in Theology, a BA in Philosophy, a diploma in Human Spirituality, and a diploma in Scripture. That’s a lot of investment.”

I was bemused.

“So I joined campus, still holding on to the faith that I would be okay and that I’d eventually end up on the altar. That meant I wasn’t going to change anything; my ambitions or my faith. It also meant I didn’t look for love. I had never found it, and I wasn’t pursuing it. In fact, I avoided it. Girls always found me hard to please.”

Now, given how this story is going, I have a thought: Boys who are harder to please usually have a knack when it comes to the ladies. That aspect often makes them magnetic. I guess that’s why the guy wanted me to entitle this story ‘Sons of Pharaoh’. That hard-hearted ruler who enslaved God’s people must be the ancestor of all men who are hard to please. They enslave girls just as much. And funny enough, some of these girls, even after such ordeals, still drive themselves back - just like the Israelites who said they would rather go back to Egypt, where they were happy eating cucumbers. So maybe it’s really the cucumbers. What ever did cucumbers do to girls, though?

You couldn’t move the obstinate Pharaoh, and therefore, you will have to do much more than move your waist to move these sons of his. Maybe it will take some plagues - and well, according to this mjango, maybe this is the blood in the river that’s giving him a wake-up call. He is yet to see the Red Sea part before his eyes in God’s mighty show of deliverance from his obstinacy and plague. But in the meantime, the Son of Pharaoh has been busy parting legs.

“One day, some doctor told me, ‘Hii tutamanage, but it will take some time.’ That’s when it started dawning on me that I may not be a priest. It was saddening. But I couldn’t stop my life just because. So I did what I had been avoiding all my teenage life; I opened myself to love.”

At this point, I knew I had to buckle up, because where love is, there is always a tea-worthy story.

“In about six months, since I dug a path in preparation for the river of love, me, the destined priest - found an angel. But not really of the Lord. She didn’t have wings, but she had long hair and nyash. That combination is like pharaoh's chariot."

'Giddy-up! Giddy-up baby!' Went my mind.

"She wasn’t glowing in glory, but her skin tone was light - and thus, the light of my life. She wasn’t clothed in white raiment, but you should see her without any and you’d understand why a guy just had to fall in love.

Her name is Melody, like the muse and rhythm she brought to my life. Man, I was in love like no man’s business. She was beautiful - as it was God’s business to make her so. She is what you call the prettiest in the room. So I had to fall face first. This angelic encounter didn’t last three months, though.”

And the plot thickens, I told myself.

“There’s this Friday night I wanted us to hang out. So I called her and said, ‘Babes, what do you say we go out today and have a good time?’ She was like, ‘Wueh! My sister says the only way I will be outside is when the sun is up.’ I was like, ‘No worries, you have your beauty sleep.’ I was also about to sleep, but my boys were like, ‘Yoh, let’s head out. Bro, there are so many girls out there. Bale ilifunguliwa mpya ndio hio wanaitana, “Camera! Camera!”’ I was like, ‘Ah, instead of sleeping, let me go and breeze a bit.’ Mjango, so there I was in the club when I saw a familiar face.”

“Let me guess, Melody?”

“The one and only! I stayed chill, just called her, and I saw her excusing herself to rush to the washrooms. She picked up, and I said, ‘I’m just calling to say goodnight. But what’s with all the noise?’ She was like, ‘Ah, siz ameamua tu kujibamba hapa kwa nyumba. She’s the one playing loud music.’ I was like, ‘Cool.’ Shortly after, she was back. I went over to say hi so she'd know I was around. No drama, but the message had arrived. So we ended up breaking up because of her lies. You know, those kinds of lies that are unnecessary?”

I was heartbroken, no lie.”

It was the depth in his eyes as he said that. By this time, the apple had been set aside. Poor apple, dejected and gouged. Probably, his heart at the time looked like that apple.

“You once wrote about rebounds, yes?”

“Damn, that was years ago.”

“Yea, I still remember.” He sniggered. “So it’s safe to say that the next girl I got was a rebound, Nicky. I had decided to give myself a break, but you know that rarely stays that way. She was a very nice girl. Really. She knew about Melody, by the way, so she decided to be my comforter. She really took care of me. She used to tell our friends, ‘Endeni mkaambie Melody, huku alishindwa. Sasa huku acha niwaonyeshe jinsi ya kutunza mpenzi.’

It kicked off as a beautiful relationship. I felt like I just jumped from trouble to paradise. Melody tried to push back. Oh, she did! And as the stupid man I am, bado nilikuwa naenda marevision huko.”

I gently slapped my face in amusement. It was the choice of words that got me. It had me thinking of past papers.

“From time to time, when Nicky was not keen on schedules, I was going to classes that weren’t even there. Campus life, I tell you. That freedom is the devil. Those ‘classes’ were actually Melody’s place. We hung out, Netflix and chill, na tunasoma constitution articles mbili, tatu. Then I’d go back home.

Two months later, Melody went for her attachment. And, as you know, out of sight, out of mind. Since I was in another relationship, I never heard or actively thought about her until one day, her sister called me. She was like, ‘Tunashangaa mbona hutokei nyumbani,’ I asked what was up, and she said Melody was pregnant, and we know it is yours.

Mjango, my blood pressure spiked! I mean, how was I just getting to hear that and why was I hearing it through the sister! And the news was being broken in such an awkward way.”

“Ati tokea nyumbani.” I was in stitches.

“Mahn! And you know by the way, the father is in the military.”

“Oh shoot! Sorry, pun unintended?”

“That’s where my problems began. That guy made my life difficult! So here I was - Melody hadn’t told me she was pregnant, and now I was dealing with a three-month pregnancy I was just learning about the previous day.”

“Nicky?”

“Oh, she cried a river! She was mad. She was like, ‘Ni mtoto unataka? Kuja nikupatie sahi!’”

I did my best not to over-imagine the postures that accompanied the last statement.

“But of course, I held back. I just asked her to remain calm. She was very understanding, the real definition of an understanding girlfriend. When I think about it, I don’t know what made me cheat with my ex, but either way, Nicky didn’t leave me.

So Melody kept the pregnancy, but the father was always on my case. He was a high-ranking officer. Sometimes he’d pick me up on the streets and throw me in the cell. I’ve spent nights in there a few times. He really messed me up health-wise because, for someone with my condition, you shouldn’t stay too long without taking meds. That ordeal sent me to the hospital for two months. Karibu niende kwa baba.

Anyway, I recovered, and Melody gave birth. So now I had a baby mama and a girlfriend. From time to time, she almost crucified me, though. After some time, the child started getting sick. We went from hospital to hospital, and two weeks later, the baby passed away.

Melody was devastated. Terribly. She wanted to come stay with me, and her mother also agreed because her being with me would help soothe her. Well, what could I do,” he chuckled, “because I couldn’t tell her no. She didn’t know I had a girlfriend, so a no would have worked against me. Melody came, stayed with me, and she healed. While you may never fully recover from losing a child, at least she was now better. Honestly, I had reservations about how I was going to relate with her. I genuinely wanted to be a good young man, but you can’t be all that good.

But that girl was giving me trouble! I had a job with night shifts. And you know I am an IT guy, so I had ways of tracking some patterns. I noticed there was zero internet traffic on the WiFi, yet she was online on WhatsApp and TikTok. And I mean, she can’t be switching to data when there’s WiFi. Turns out, mjango, this girl was sneaking out to visit some guy’s house and sneaking back before 5 am when my shift ended. Nikaona hii ni upuzi!

I didn’t even confront her about it. I took her back to school! That girl, mjango, as we speak nimekula macuzo wake watatu, sister yake mmoja - huyo mwenye alikuwa anaishi na yeye, na marafiki zake ka tano. Because she cheated on me with my friend.”

“Hold up! That’s what you meant by taking her back to school?”

“Kidato!”

I knew I wasn’t supposed to be laughing, but I couldn’t help myself. I tried not to let my boisterous laughter reach the hospital morgue, lest this story turns into the news headlines. After I was done laughing, I recoiled to offer a moment of silence for the ludicrous confession I had just heard.

And just so conveniently, the stylus in my mind’s vinyl record player touched the groove, and it started playing: “Sisi ni macousin. Cousins wapendane wasipendane? Cousins waongee wasiongee? Cousins wakae pamoja wasikae pamoja.?

“Well, not my proudest moment, really. I was telling myself, napiga hit and run, alafu nirudi nikuwe kijana mzuri. Sikurudi. I struggled with that habit for close to a year. Nilikuwa ninawachanganya.”

“Does Melody know?”

“She found out, and she asked for forgiveness, well, ideally because she thought all she had done to me triggered a way to take out her frustrations. But I said I was the one who needed more forgiveness. I was on a roll, mjango. In two years, my body count went from two to forty-six! I’m not proud to say I have a list, which includes but is not limited to four lecturers, a CU chairlady, a friend’s mom, my attachment supervisor, and my next-door neighbor.”

Silence.

Silence.

More silence.

It would have been pin-drop silence if it weren’t for the machines, but considering how thrown back I was, my world went deaf.

So, deaf-enforced silence.

So silent, maybe he could hear my disbelief.

I wanted to speak, but I still felt the atmosphere wasn’t ready yet. Like it had just given birth to a silent baby.

It’s in silence that you start to notice some things your other senses might miss because they can’t compete with noise or much talk. I noticed how hospitals have distinct smells. Sure, there’s chlorine, but there’s a more non-chemical smell - the smell of unspoken worries and muted tensions.

When I remembered the CU chairlady, I got stuck there, and that pressed for more silence.

I am not sure what this guy was thinking, but something along the lines of, “Let him take his time. Even I am astonished at myself.”

“So, out of curiosity, if you don’t mind, how did all this even happen? Where do you start? With a lecturer, for instance. Declutter if you will.”

After a brief laugh, “The lecturers started out with interactions based on ‘popular student.’ And most of them are married, I just didn’t care.”

“And here we thought Sauti Sol singing ‘Bibi ya wenyewe’ was a no-go zone would save the nation.”

“These things we know. But ever heard of forbidden fruits?”

“Haven’t we all? We are suffering from sin because of the first forbidden fruit ever to exist.”

“There you go. So two of them taught me. I once told them I install WiFi and I’m a photographer, so for those reasons, I got to their residences. And frequent visits for ‘maintenance’ led to familiarity. Funny story. One day, one of my boys came to my house and found a lecturer cooking,” he said, followed by bouts of laughter.

It may sound like bragging, but these are the kinds of things we mean when we say men are all about conquest. Though most men won’t admit it, they would envy such a conquest. Oh, the trophy of unspoken fantasies.

“So, where would these affairs take place, oh ye trophy holder?”

“Their houses. I was going there to ‘install things,’ you know. Most of those who aren’t students - other people’s wives - were taken there. I couldn’t risk having those characters in my house.”

And he proceeded to put faces to the tales. They were punctuated with exclamations like, ‘Kiangai!’ ‘Haaaki!’ ‘Ewueh!’ ‘Eeeish!’ and comments like, ‘Si huyu anakaa mama ya mtu?’

‘Eeh! The daughter is in campus.’

Yea, some of you, your mothers.

‘Damn! Who dis?’

‘That one is the only one who comes to my place. She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, so I was partly enjoying the money.’

“Haaki ya Mungu! Na si ni mrembo.”

“Exactly. I call her my love even in school, and she responds. She has some clothes at my place,” he said with in a humorous tone.

“She’s a lec? She looks young.”

“Yea, she did her master’s while still pretty young.”

Then I remembered the attachment supervisor.

“Ah, that one! I saw her recently on TikTok,” he said, scrolling through his phone.

“Eiy! Isn’t she something? And how are y’all getting these youthful lecturers? I was supervised by Mr. Ouko - dude should be older than my dad, mahn!”

(Much respect to the man, by the way. He was too strict for life during his classes that were not few by the way across the four years. But he was the coolest when it mattered most. I wouldn’t have graduated on time if it wasn’t for him.)

“Now, my friend’s mom is an interesting one. And full disclosure, the friend and I used to help each other, if you know what I mean. There are those friends you both know you can’t date, and you’re both cool. So, the stepmother’s workplace needed a photographer, and my friend recommended me. I did an impressive job, and she was like, ‘Give me your number; I think I will need a photoshoot as well.’ We talked, and she said she wanted some personal shots, so I’d have to go to her house. The terms were: I carry all my gear so I can edit from there, send the photos, and delete them while she watches. Brother, never trust your woman with a photographer while unaccompanied.”

I said yes, noted!

“Those shots were indeed personal. Mark you, she’s just in her mid-30s.”

I assumed he said that to justify why it was still a sight to behold.

"Wah! Si People have kinks bana!"

“I still don't know why she wanted those pics. After we finished, she caught me looking at her her some type of way, and she asked, ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Nah, just thinking.’

‘Don’t think. If you think about it, you won’t do it. Come here! Wueh!’”

I had run out of reactions.

“After a few visits, one day we were somewhere and I met her and her husband. I saw how he looked at me, and I felt like he knew. From then, I cut ties.”

I sighed.

“I think the climax for me would be the CU chairlady. Brother, how? Don't you fear the Lord?” I joked.

“Well, I am not proud to say that before me, she was a saint - at least beneath the skirts. Her mind? Maybe not so much, considering how quickly she caught fire like a dry branch when I was introducing her to how we go about the dance. A few weeks later,” he said, giggling, “I brought that soul to its knees like it used to do frequently but for different reasons and uncouth positions this time. To say she was excited by the ordeal would be an understatement.”

I sighed in absolute bemusement.

It had me thinking about how that is a classic showcase of how imperfect we all are inside. We’re all trying to hide our demons, even put them on a leash - lest they break loose and wreck havoc on our reputation, or worse, reign terror and trauma on those around us. It’s not justification, but an acknowledgment of our frail human nature, down to the last gene.

Anyway, asifiwe sana?

“Is she still the chairlady?”

“Yes. She’s about done with university, though. I still tell her to pray for me.”

After my laughter mixed with disbelief, he said, “But, mjango, you can imagine that damage emotionally and spiritually. I moved from being the altar boy to a young man who doesn’t go to church at all, no longer prays. I became lost. I moved from being the YCS chair to not even knowing what they’re doing. It may seem desirable, but tell young men - such behavior drains the spirit. You wake up one day and feel unworthy even to ask for God’s mercy. I lay in a hospital bed one time with a failing kidney and lacked the courage to ask God for life.”

And now, brethren, what do we say then unto these things?

The freedom we once dreamed of finding in adulting is actually a fowler’s snare we entice ourselves into. The age of promise is now the edge of struggle and survival. These are the scenes from adulting, or should I say – sins from adulting? And we all have them, don’t we now?