Women pass through a lot.
Today, when I think about the women I used to wrestle with over my late husband's affection, I honestly feel sorry for myself.
Looking back now, I keep asking myself, "Deborah, what exactly were you doing?" It feels like I was competing for a trophy that nobody had even polished.
There are many mistakes I can forgive myself for, but fighting fellow women because of my late husband is not one of them.
What exactly was I defending Nyar Rajoro? Was I under a spell, or was love busy wearing a blindfold over both my eyes?
Sometimes I feel like dragging myself to court, acting as the prosecutor, and asking the judge to sentence me to ten years behind bars with ten strokes of the whip every morning before breakfast.
My crime is failing to love myself and disturbing innocent women who had done nothing to me.
In Kasawino, Manyatta, Jericho and all those Nairobi estates where we lived, I fought women whom I could have happily gifted my late husband to with a ribbon on top.
In fact, many of them deserved him more than I did because he wasn't helping me much anyway.
This was a man who was being pushed to pay rent in the house he slept in,
He was being pushed to be intimate with the wife he married,
He was being persuaded to buy food for his own family, while his manhood was busy roaming across the city like a freelance consultant.
Today, I would like to apologize to the women I confronted after discovering they were involved with my late husband.
My dear sisters, I denied you the opportunity to enjoy him in peace. For that, I sincerely ask for forgiveness.
First is Norah. If your name is Norah and you lived at Japolo's home in Kasawino around 1998, yes, the same Norah who helped Mama Freddy sell water in that home where they reared pigs, please receive my apology, darling.
I am sorry for catching you and my late husband making joyful noise on our bed and then reacting like a police officer on a surprise inspection.
Age has taught me wisdom. I now realize I interrupted what was probably a very important meeting.
Leah, yes, you Leah, the lady I spent years believing was related to Baba Biko in Manyatta.
Nyar Nyahera, I am sorry for losing my temper when I discovered you were not a relative after all and that there was a different kind of family connection going on.
Please forgive me for threatening to pour hot water on you. Forgive me for reporting you to the village elder and for the award winning drama I staged at Peace Market on the day we fought.
Forgive me for saying bad things about you; calling you dirty and making fellow market women to hate you. Forgive me for shaming you when you infected my late husband with syphilis.
Maturity has finally arrived, and it says I was completely wrong.
To the slim lady who sold githeri and uji near Kicomi in Kisumu, the one who loved wearing caps and lived in Obunga, I have forgotten your name, darling, but not my behavior.
If you are still alive, please forgive me for the countless times I came to investigate your happiness. You were doing nothing wrong sleeping with him sweetheart.
After all, I did not manufacture Athanas in a factory. It was unfair to make you feel guilty simply because he preferred sleeping at your house in Obunga.
You were also a human being with every right to pursue happiness. Forgive me, my sister.
Mama Moraa of Kariobangi, the lady who had a salon next to Pastor's shop, I am sorry for interfering with your romance with my late husband.
I later learned you even had a child who sadly passed away. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.
You were such a sweet woman with scenic buttocks. Maturity now tells me that you deserved the service of my late husband.
Susan Nyar Mkamba, I learned of your death shortly after our shared lover passed away. I believe the two of you are somewhere together now, catching up on lost time.
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