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As told by Onyango Otieno
My father kicked my mum out of our family business. He wanted to control the money—even though it was my mum’s idea to start the school, which he initially opposed. At the time, he wanted to buy a car. But Mum insisted we should buy land where our home would be built, with a vision to start a school someday.
And so it was.
The business picked up pretty quickly. He was still working then—got sacked twice in the span of three years. Eventually, he resigned from his last job without even talking to Mum about it, saying he was going to join her at the business office as a fellow administrator. Mum begged him to look for another job to support the family, as the school business couldn't sufficiently cater to all our needs. I had just joined Daystar University, and my brother was in high school.
He refused.
They fought every day. Every. Single. Day. Nasty fights. Bloody, bruising fights. He’d take money from the office every evening for drinking—until Mum insisted on opening a business bank account. He barred me from being a signatory to that account, claiming Mum and I “would steal money from him.” We couldn’t understand why family money had suddenly become his money.
I was 23. I had to drop out of campus to fend for myself. I thought my life was over. But I had to pick myself up and do something with what I had left—words.
I began performing poetry in dingy clubs around town. Slowly, I started to be recognized for my gift, and in 2013, I co-founded Fatuma’s Voice—a movement that helped shape the course of poetry performance in Kenya at the time.
In 2015, I advised Mum to look for something else to do and leave the school to Dad. He would strangle her at 5 a.m. She didn’t want to let go of the school. I told her, “This man will kill you like we see in the news, and maybe finish us all after you.” She listened.
She waited for her book royalties—as they’re both authors—and leased land in Kitengela. She started a new school from scratch. He was furious when he found out. He ordered Mum to close the school down. All along, he only wanted Mum to depend on him. Her independence triggered him. He got angrier that we sided with her—because nobody liked him.
In the midst of all that madness, he slept with an employee at the school. She got pregnant. They have a child he denies to this day. But you can only hide so much in a town where people know you. Mum slowly left him to manage the original school.
It only took five years of his mismanagement for the whole thing to fall apart. Eventually—and this is the short version—he claimed to leave the business so Mum could run it again. He had come to his wit’s end, as parents pulled their kids out of the school, unhappy with how he operated. They blatantly told him things were better when Mum was around. But the man’s pride wouldn’t let him step down with grace.
As we speak, Mum is rebuilding the school from its ruins—like the hard worker she is. Her other school is doing incredibly well, and she’s thinking of taking a loan to buy a school van now. I still argue with her about staying with that man despite his violence—but I am in awe of her resilience.
The man is now selling sukuma wiki in Ugenya. He still calls, asking for money. None of us picks up anymore—except his wife. The home is barely a shell of what it used to be. That’s what violence does to a family.
I am wary of men who only feel manly when a woman is beneath them. Wary of men who believe women exist only as second fiddle to them. They are merchants of poverty—and we have the whole world to show for it.
Toni Morrison said,
"If you can only be tall because somebody’s on their knees, then you have a serious problem."
Source: Fatuma's Voice
