Stevo walks free and comes home, ending his mother's 15-year vigil

Dorothy Kweyu, mother to Stephen Munyakho, who was released from Saudi Arabia and is expected to return to Kenya soon. [David Gichuru, Standard] For 15 years, Dorothy Kweyu, a veteran journalist, has measured time not in months or years, but in the quiet aches of absences. Absence at birthdays and burials. Absence at the dinner table. Absence in family photos: There is always one empty chair-reserved in spirit for her son, Stephen Munyakho, also known as Stevo. Stevo left Kenya in 1996, full of hope and dreams, and boarded a plane to Saudi Arabia where a job as a warehouse manager awaited. But his journey took a dark turn in 2011. For nearly a decade and a half, Stevo was locked away in a foreign prison, facing a death sentence after a fatal workplace altercation. And yet, through every ticking second on the clock in her beautifully arranged living room, through births and deaths, Kweyu clung to one constant hope: And that hope is about to materialize. Stevo is scheduled to leave Saudi Arabia on Monday, and by midnight Tuesday, he will set foot on Kenyan soil, a free man. At home, a quiet, emotional celebration has already begun. It is a celebration tempered by tears, reflection, and memories of those who are no longer here to witness the long-awaited homecoming. In the years Stevo has been away, 11 children-nieces, nephews, cousins-have been born. Most have never heard his voice. Those babies are now teenagers, ready to meet their uncle for the first time outside the stories whispered at family gatherings. But the passage of time has also taken its toll. At least five loved ones have passed since Stevo's incarceration-including his stepfather and his grandmother, the family matriarch who, Kweyu says, "loved him most fiercely." "Every time we spoke on phone with Stevo, I would make sure he talks to the grandmother," Kweyu narrates. "She always told Steve, 'When you come back, I will dance with three legs-my two, and my walking stick,'" Kweyu says, as she catches a breath. But the grandmother died before she could keep that promise. Now, in her place, Stevo will fulfill it. He has asked the family to bring his grandmother's walking stick from her home in western Kenya to Nairobi. "He said, 'I'll be the one to dance with three legs now.'" Kweyu adds. The walk back through memory lane is long and heavy. "I still remember the day he left Kenya. We even had a send-off dinner. We had cooked pilau and a lot of counseling was done to him," she recalls. Then in 2011, a phone call shattered their world. It came on a Thursday morning. "My first cousin told me the news we are getting is that Stevo fought with a workmate and he is dead. I lost it and we were all wailing," she recalled. At first, Kweyu thought her son was the one who had died. "My mind could not even have gone to Stevo having the capacity to kill anybody or inflict injury on anybody. He would never kill a fly and I am not saying that because he is my son," she explains. But even once the confusion cleared, what lay ahead was no easier. "I knew I had lost my son at that time," she says. A portrait photo of the Stephen Bertrand Munyakho aka Stevo who was jailed in Saudi Arabia. [Boniface Okendo, Standard] Stevo was sentenced to death in 2014. His fate hung in limbo for years. Initially, he was sentenced to five years in jail for manslaughter. However, the aggrieved family appealed, and a Sharia court enhanced the sentence to execution. At first, the deceased's widow refused the offer of blood money. "She wanted life for life. Her initial stand was for his execution," Kweyu says. After years of negotiations, stretching from 2014 to 2018, the widow finally accepted blood money. The family had demanded Sh400 million. It was finally settled at Sh150 million. "The bereaved has total freedom to choose what she wants-either forgiveness, blood money or execution," Kweyu explains. Even now, Kweyu still dreams of meeting the widow. "My mission to go Saudi has always been dual-to meet my son and seek forgiveness from the widow. It has never happened because I was always told she is not ready to meet up," she says. "I don't think she ever wants to see me though I wanted to genuinely seek forgiveness on behalf of my son. It is regrettable that she is not ready to receive me." Fortunately, the bereaved family agreed to spare Stevo's life in exchange for Sh150 million (3.5 million Saudi Riyals) compensation. For the longest, Kweyu carried the weight of Stevo's predicament alone and in private. She did not want to come out until a friend and former colleagues pushed her: "If if you don't go public and to the media abbot this story, forgot about Stevo" It was that wake-up call that led to formation of the "Bring Back Stevo" strategy committee chaired by veteran journalist Joe Odindo that led to fundraising of about Sh20 million before the Muslim World League paid the remaining amount of Sh129 million. "We knocked at every door. We were not going to give up until Stevo was out of the fee," she added. The intervention that saved his life came earlier this month. The Supreme Council of Kenya Muslims (SUPKEM) and the Muslim World League raised over Sh129 million in blood money to compensate the victim's family. Only then was he finally freed. But the last four moths has been a roller-coaster of emotions. Kweyu says even after the payment of the blood money, it took four months for the announcement to finally come out. "I was wondering if they had decided to review his case. I wondered if they were going to execute my son. I have never stopped praying," she recalled. But the cost of freedom has not only been financial, it has been spiritual, emotional, and deeply personal. "I kept telling God, 'God save my child and spare me the pain and the ignominy of receiving my beheaded son.'" "The beheading thought still haunts me and it haunted me for four solid years until the decision by the family to take the blood money came about," Kweyu says as she breaks down. "My son would tell me, 'Mum, today we woke up to darkness'. I did not know what that meant until he explained that it meant one of them has been executed." "I used to think, one day it would be a darkness because my son would have been executed. That was the most traumatic moment for me." Kweyu's children, (Stevo's siblings) were not spared the pain either. "When a life is lost in your hands, you carry the stigma... One of them was casually told by a colleague that Stevo would be executed. That was quite insensitive and my children have equally gone through pain." "I learnt from one of his best friends that their boss regretted the incident because he was also giving private English tuition to his children." Even in prison, Stevo left an impression. "The ambassador told me, 'Those inmates are going to miss him. He was so good to them and he would read his Quran,' Kweyu recalled. Stevo returns to a life transformed: The family has moved from Nairobi West to Katani, Machakos county. Stevo's children are now grown. The youngest, Evans, was 10 years when Stevo left. Evans just finished studying automotive technology. Ian graduated from Moi University and is employed. Collin, too, has carved her own path. When Stevo's frequent tours home stopped after his incarceration his children were too young to comprehend. Kweyu recalled one instance when the youngest son once longed for their father to return and told his mother; 'Next time my father comes, I will not let him go. I will hold onto his jacket so we could go together.' "That was very painful... especially because there was no light at the end of the tunnel," Kweyu explains. Stevo's wife eventually left. She was only 37 at the time. "I couldn't hold onto her because she was young, the prime of life. You couldn't hold on her to wait for my son's return. My son who would have probably returned in a coffin. I let her go. I did not chase her," she says. For Kweyu, even basic routines like eating became difficult. "I have not been eating well. Every time I serve food, and the thought of my son agonizing in jail, a lump would form in my throat and swallowing food becomes a problem," she explains. "One of my friends told me, 'If you don't eat, Stevo will come back and you'll be long gone." Through it all, Kweyu also carries a mother's regret. She wishes she had nurtured Stevo's gift for writing. "He is such a good writer," she says. "I antagonize so many times why I did not nurture that talent in him... Maybe we wouldn't be sitting here and talking about this. He would have been a good journalist," she adds. Every, prayer, every petition went a long way to secure his sin's release from the death row. Kweyu recalled when she went to Lang'ata Cemetery to mark the 10th anniversary of two grandchildren twins who died two after birth. She prayed, "I know you wet to heaven , please tell God that I am still waiting for my son." Now, preparations for Stevo's return are in full swing. There's food to be cooked, stories to be told, and a walking stick waiting in the corner, ready for one final dance. When asked what she'll do when she sees her son, Kweyu pauses: "I don't know what I will do when he arrives. I just want to see my son again. I will hold him and the body will say what will happen." The kitchen will be warmer now. Not just with steam from pots, but with laughter, memories, and anticipation. The reunion may not erase the scars, but it will remind everyone what hope looks like when it finally comes home.

Stevo walks free and comes home, ending his mother's 15-year vigil

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Stevo walks free and comes home, ending his mother's 15-year vigil

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