My man in Somalia: Cry of woman who was to wed fallen soldier tomorrow

I had been counting down days. My man Bwasa, a KDF sergeant said he would soon be back from Somalia this February. He said, this would be the mother of all Valentines, when he walked me down the aisle. I had anticipated this day for years, but we were unable to settle on a date because Bwasa’s combat mission dates were unpredictable.

We had been together for six long years and it is crazy how quick time flew by. I remember the first time, I met Bwasa. It was through Achieng, my best friend and a maverick in every sense of the word. She had hooked up with this rough neck called Omosh, an army guy and their team were playing the Nairobi university side, Mean Machine. That afternoon on the pitch off Waiyaki way, Achieng and I broke the protocol and cheered Ulinzi, the army side.

The army guys were not much to look at, a bit too sinewy and crass for my tastes except this one guy playing on the wing. His kit was spotlessly clean and looked like he had just wandered onto the rugby pitch after a shower. His posture was impeccable. Tall, lean, dark with statuesque shoulders that tapered off his long neck like a coat hanger.

First real date

For him, I stayed through an uneventful game. After the game, we joined the army side for drinks at the barracks, in Hurlingham. Achieng and I were treated like celebrities. All through the evening into the night, Bwasa, had my back and not a single guy dared to get fresh. I think it was the first time, besides my father that I had felt truly protected.

I saw him a week later, when he appeared in campus, in full uniform, looking so hot and manly, to plead for my number. Achieng said it was the uniform that flipped my switch but in hindsight, it was actually his good manners and then later, his old school hip hop collection. He was a closet poet.

We had our first real date after three months and he cut straight to the chase over lunch. Would I consider marriage? I remember laughing it off. I kept him on ice for a year, tried to dump him twice because I had greater ambition than settling into marriage with a soldier and living in a barracks straight out of campus. My dad would be so disappointed.

He came to my graduation ceremony in uniform, turned our Commerce class stark green with envy when he got his mates in the military band to play a tune in my honour. It was ridiculously romantic. One year later, he brought the cows home and we got the elders blessings to live together as husband and wife. I was stupidly in love.

I was smart in class, but naive and sheltered, living in my middle class bubble before I met Bwasa. He taught me not to take my privilege for granted, to pay attention to simple folk and to be down to earth. He was a good father to our little girl, Hope. Everything changed after the war began in 2011, when the minister for Internal Security, the late George Saitoti invoked UN article 51 proclaiming a country’s right to self defense and Kenya invaded Somalia in pursuit of a rogue militia.

We were happy when he got selected. Missions abroad paid well. He assured me that there was no real fighting going on. There were more like peace keepers hanging out in a boring camp. Besides, Al Shabaab could not match the Kenyan military’s firepower.

The first time he was gone for 3 months and when he returned he had actually put on some weight.

Detached public

KDF exploits were all over the news. But the media hype died down as the conflict escalated. I did not complain when the first causalities were announced. Bwasa was getting paid and money was no longer tight. We had a down payment for a house, a car and our daughter did not lack.

Six months ago, he came home for a month and proposed. He kept his promise of a white wedding, on Valentines day as compensation for the all the Valentines days missed while on duty. He would be back in February, he promised. It has been tough. Psychologically, I started to prepare for tragedy like the cliché army wife, living one day at a time, keeping a brave face but scared to death inside.

I prayed harder and joined a prayer group. I watched the news with uneasiness, amazed at how ignorant the journalists were, how detached the public was and how the politicians brazenly made capital off tragedies. Today, is the 13th of February, one day before my wedding and I am reading his eulogy, remembering his face, his words and every special moment that I spent with my man in Somalia.

I am reading poetry from his favourite rapper Guru in his memory, on behalf of all those wives like me, who must carry on for the sake of our children. “To those who passed out there, in the deserts and the jungles. With pain on their shoulders, and heavy bundles. I pray each one will, ascend to new heights and new enlightenment. And this is why I’m writing it. Yeah... this is in memory of” my man in Somalia.