emotions she’d felt, there was one that broke free from the maelstrom to reign above the others, one that scared her so much she’d hated herself for it: relief.
Beatrice felt a wave of heat creep up and engulf her in her wedding dress. Mrs. Mutiso had insisted she buy a proper wedding dress, ‘second chances are precious,’ she’d reminded her.
~
Mrs. Karanja navigated the Mathai sisters towards a table that was neither too far from the gathering nor too near. She offered them refreshments and ensured they were comfortable and at ease (as far as these women could relax), before moving on.
‘For a pastor, she’s really nice,’ Mrs. Mutiso observed. She was once again at Beatrice’s side, the caterer next to her.
‘She’s always been like that.’
‘I don’t know, I always got the sense she didn’t like me,’ Mrs. Mutiso tilted her head. The caterer tried to interrupt their conversation with a question but Mrs. Mutiso waved him away. ‘There’s no point hiring all these service providers when they keep asking you questions, you end up doing all the work and they get paid for it. I’m not going to use them for the next wedding.’
‘You got another customer?’ Beatrice turned around in surprise and joy.
‘Yes. One, though I am waiting for them to confirm. They will, but people like to keep you on your toes,’ Mrs. Mutiso said in a firm voice.
‘When is that wedding for?’
‘I don’t know yet, we are still talking but I’ve given them a good offer. It will probably be a Christmas wedding. Those are beautiful. They’re very wealthy as well.’ Mrs. Mutiso nodded vigorously as she spoke, her eyes widening with each word. This unsettled Beatrice who prodded further:
‘Oh? Do I know them?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, maybe. Nairobi is small.’ Mrs. Mutiso appeared to be losing interest in the conversation, her eyes were on Mrs. Karanja who was now speaking with Steven and his parents who laughed generously at whatever she was saying. ‘When did you stop going to church?’ Mrs. Mutiso asked. Beatrice was surprised by the question.
‘I didn’t, I still go, when I’m not busy.’ Beatrice steered the conversation back to Mrs. Mutiso’s business. ‘So the wedding you’re planning…’
‘Hmm…I don’t go anymore.’ Mrs. Mutiso continued to watch Mrs. Karanja. Beatrice watched Mrs. Mutiso.
‘Why?’
‘I think God has seasons.’ Mrs. Mutiso finally turned and gave her attention to Beatrice. She kicked up her mouth into a half-smile. ‘I’m waiting for my season to begin, again.’
Beatrice opened her mouth. She closed it.
‘Sometimes, I think He likes these games He plays,’ Mrs. Mutiso continued.
‘What games?’ Beatrice couldn’t shake off a feeling––she knew this feeling––she couldn’t name it either but she knew this shadowy thing.
‘So now you’re going into the wedding planning business full time?’ Beatrice asked again.
‘Full time?’ Mrs. Mutiso repeated. ‘Full time––yes full time. Business is good. Lots of customers. People like my work. You know Mr. Mutiso always said I had an eye for design.’ Mrs. Mutiso spotted the beleaguered caterer packing up the buffet table and stalked off to stop him.
Beatrice wanted to follow after her friend, to ask her, ‘But I thought you said you don’t have customers yet?’ but then, as it happens in these things, she was, once more, accosted by a guest, eager to congratulate the second-time-around bride.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bible Study, April, 1991
The Karanjas settled into their new life in Malaba quickly. So quickly in fact that within a month, they’d confirmed what they’d suspected was their primary mission in Malaba Estate: to start a Bible Study group as the estate did not have one.
It hadn’t taken long to establish this fact. Mr. Mutiso seemed distracted when Mr. Karanja bumped into him the first morning after they’d moved in, but not too distracted to reply, ‘No, I don’t think so,’ when asked about the status of a Bible Study group in the estate. Janet from house forty-four assured Mrs. Karanja that whilst there was one it was only attended by herself as the rest of the residents in the estate were either new to the estate or actively backsliding.
On the first Bible Study, three rules were set:
1 Bible study would take place on the first Wednesday of the month from seven p.m. to nine p.m. (so that people could get back home in time for the news).
2 The regular Bible Study goers would alternate hosting duties.
3 The hosts were only expected to offer tea and perhaps one or two snacks. Dinner was not expected.
~
At that first Bible Study hosted by the Karanjas, their living room overflowed with their neighbours. In total, forty-nine of the fifty-seven households in Malaba had at least one representative in attendance that night. The age limit Mrs. Karanja suggested was twenty-one because kids would be too much of a distraction. This did not stop a few of the residents from dragging along their children who snored on their laps or played outside in the backyard with the Karanja children. Never again would there be so many households represented at Bible Study.
‘Where are the Mulis?’ someone asked.
‘Oh, I saw Justus earlier, he said they can’t come because their pastor hasn’t sanctioned it. They are worried about the doctrine that will be taught,’ someone else volunteered.
‘Ah, Mrs Mutiso! I was just talking about you today.’ Baba Sally of house number three flagged Mrs. Mutiso down as she walked into the house. ‘You remember Angela Maina––the one who married that lawyer from Narok?’
Mrs. Mutiso was surprised that her neighbour was speaking to her. The Mutisos kept to themselves and their neighbours (who revered them for their wealth but also mistrusted them for it), made it easy to do so as they too avoided the Mutisos. Mrs. Mutiso’s reasons for avoiding her neighbours were motivated by self preservation. At least when they thought she was the luckiest woman in the world to have married into a wealthy family, it was with envy that they spoke about her. That was better than the alternative if they were to find out the truth.
Mr. Mutiso had pursued her relentlessly after their first meeting. He appeared in her life one day dressed in khakis and cowboy boots unironically. At first, she’d refused to recognize his advances. What good could possibly come from a wealthy man dating a poor girl like her? And anyway, her friends warned her, ‘Men like that only want one thing from girls like you––and it’s not marriage.’
Girls like her. Girls who had to send part of their university boom back home to their parents who were still living in a mud hut. Girls who didn’t wear a pair of shoes for the first thirteen years of their lives. Girls whose English was so heavily accented it sounded like a lumbering train whose engine was about to fail. Girls like her.
‘You remember Angela?’
