Of love, loss, and Namutiru

Many of you were part of my colorful wedding day a decade ago when Namutiru and I tied the knot in a beautiful public ceremony, surrounded by family, friends, and loved ones from all walks of life. It was a day of joy, laughter, and celebration, a culmination of years of love, separation, and reunion. But the road to that moment was anything but conventional.

Our journey to marriage had been a rollercoaster ride filled with both euphoric highs and devastating lows. We had dated for a decade, during which we experienced breakups, reconciliations, and even ill fated marriages to other people. Yet, despite the detours, destiny always found a way to bring us back together.

I first met Namutiru when she was in Form Three. At the time, I was a fresh high school graduate, eager to teach despite my lack of experience. I had been among the first students in Kenya to sit for computer studies in KCSE, which helped me secure a job teaching the subject. She was a student at the school where I taught, and our first encounter was on a Monday morning. She was leading the parade in song, her voice powerful yet melodic, like a morning songbird. From that moment, I was captivated.

Since computer studies was a new subject, the principal instructed me to start with the Form Ones, while other interested students could attend part time sessions in the computer lab. One day, Namutiru, a bright and determined girl, approached me with two of her friends. Though nervous, she was eager to learn.

“Hey, Teacher Weche, my friends and I really want to learn basic computer skills. Would you guide us?” she asked.

“Sure!” I responded hesitantly.

“Tunaweza kuanza lini, Ticha?” one of her friends asked.

“Kesho, bora tu nisikue busy. Nitawafunza,” I replied.

They nodded excitedly and walked away.

That evening, as I rode my bike home, I saw Namutiru again. She glanced back, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Ticha, tembea poa. Tukutane kesho,” she said cheerfully.

Her friends, surprised by her confidence, whispered, “Wewe huwa mpole na good girl, imekuaje umepata courage ya kuongelesha ticha?”

“Kwani shida iko wapi? He’s our teacher, we are his students,” she answered matter of factly.

Not wanting to get caught in their conversation, I pedaled away.

Over time, Namutiru became one of my best students. She excelled not only in academics but also in co curricular activities. Her passion for poetry was unmatched. She had represented the school at various levels of Music and Cultural Festivals. Her talent warmed my heart.

As our teacher student bond grew stronger, it attracted unwanted attention. My fellow young male teachers and even the school head weren’t pleased with how often she consulted me. Rumors started circulating, and soon, I realized that my career and her education could be at risk. Fearing the worst, I made the painful decision to resign.

I moved to Nairobi in search of greener pastures but ended up working in construction, sewerages, odd jobs, anything to make a living. Yet, my heart remained tethered to that young girl I had silently promised myself I would marry once she finished school. Years passed without a word from her, but I remained hopeful.

Eventually, I moved back to Kakamega, and fate reunited us. I bumped into Namutiru on the streets. She had joined Masinde Muliro University to study Business Management. She was ecstatic to see me. From that day, we reconnected, meeting regularly, which soon turned into dating.

She became my best friend, my partner, my everything. And after a decade of twists and turns, we finally walked down the aisle.

Marriage, however, proved to be another journey filled with trials. The realities of life, financial struggles, unmet expectations, and personal growth tested our bond in ways we hadn’t anticipated. What had once seemed like an unbreakable connection started to crack under the weight of responsibility and change.

I remember the nights we lay in bed, backs turned to each other, the silence between us louder than any argument we had ever had. The warmth that once filled our home was replaced by a cold distance, an unspoken pain neither of us could put into words. We had fought for our love for years, yet now, we were slowly letting go, piece by piece, without realizing it.

But there was another battle I hadn’t fully seen, one Namutiru was fighting alone. Her parents had never approved of me. They would remind her over and over again that she had married a poor man, that love alone could not feed a family, that she was wasting her life. They planted doubt in her heart, whispering fears that slowly took root. I could see it in her eyes, the way she started questioning our future, the way she hesitated before speaking, the way she avoided conversations about the long term.

One evening, she finally exploded. “Weche, I am tired! Tired of struggling, tired of defending this marriage, tired of being told every day that I made the wrong choice!”

“Lakini Namutiru, tulichagua kupendana! Unataka kuniambia yote haya hayana maana?” I argued, my voice breaking.

She wiped her tears. “Labda walikuwa sahihi. Pesa ni muhimu, na mapenzi pekee hayawezi kulisha familia. Nataka maisha yenye utulivu, sio ndoto zisizo na uhakika.”

And just like that, she was gone. She left me with two kids, Shimwekha and Shimuli, both girls. Shimwekha was barely two years old, whereas Shimuli was just six months. With nowhere to turn, I was forced to take my children to work with me. I can’t count the number of nights we went without food, the days I held them as they cried from hunger, feeling helpless and broken. Eventually, overwhelmed and exhausted, I packed our few belongings and returned to my home village, Bumamu. There, I worked on people’s farms, toiling under the sun, earning just enough to feed my daughters.

I played Diamond Platnumz’s song Utanipenda, the lyrics speaking directly to my shattered heart:

Ooh nayosema yana maana

Sababu hakuna anaejua kesho

Anaepanga ni Rabana

Ila ameificha ni confidential

Ukisali omba sanaa

Mumeo nisije kuwa kichekesho

Maana rafiki wa jana

Aaah

Ndio adui mkubwa wa kesho

La la la la la la

Au je utanipenda gaa?

Aa La la la la la

Au nawe utanimwagaa?

Aa La la la la la

Ati utanipenda gaa ooh

Sometimes, love isn’t enough. And sometimes, no matter how much you fight, the person you love will walk away. But love teaches us joy, and it teaches us loss. It shows us the beauty of connection and the pain of goodbye. And in the end, it shapes us into who we are meant to become.

To those who were part of our wedding day, thank you for witnessing our love story. It may not have ended the way we envisioned, but it remains a story worth telling, a story of love, resilience, and the undeniable power of fate.