My Bicycle My Wife

 By Anthony Muchoki , originally published 2005.

Frenchi’s muscles were aching. But this was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. He was riding his old bicycle very fast heading home to take his expectant wife to hospital. This was early in the morning.  He was a night watchman. His body was haggard, with blood-shot eyes.  He appeared so weak, only his strong heart must have kept him going. In the last five days he had hardly closed his eyes.

He pedalled harder and harder.  He wished his bicycle were an aeroplane. Normally it took him three hours ride to or from work to his house in Kibera. He had covered three quarters of the journey when an impatient Daladala driver, hit him from the back. His bicycle was reduced to scrap. This was along Mugo Kibiru Road.

He lay sprawled in the middle of the road blood oozing from all over his body. He felt no pain.

“My wife, my bicycle” he was thinking aloud. A long time ago, his father had put a curse on him. “I tie this bicycle to your life; its all that I give you to cherish. Never leave it, never have it destroyed.” He was hearing his father’s voice and seeing the face of Grace.  Terrible agony for losing his bicycle and the prospect of losing his wife transcended the physical pain he was feeling in his body. 

Grace his wife was at home suffering pain beyond worse than death. Her pregnancy had complications from day one. Frenchi was being paid 1,000/- per month. It was never enough. The rent on his house was 600/- per month.  Two months ago a bulb at the gate of the house he was guarding was stolen.

His Asian employer whom he had faithfully served for a period of ten years and seen to it that nothing had been lost from his compound took him to a police station. He was detained from morning to evening. He was released to go back to work at night.

The Asian decided that he would work for two months without pay as a punishment. These were really difficult months for him and his beautiful wife, Grace. They would go for days without meals.

Sometimes his bicycle saved the day for him. Apart from taking him to and from work, he got errands to ferry small commodities with it once in a while. The little cash earned, kept them going.  He loved Grace. He would even die for her. He believed his life belonged to her. After all Grace was the daughter of a Cabinet Minister. In loving Frenchi she had earned her father’s wrath and had been denounced.

She chose to move in with Frenchi in his shack-like house. She decided she would never again speak with the members of her family who had labelled her mad for loving Frenchi. They had been living together for the last year. She became pregnant. It was a difficult pregnancy but they wanted a child so much and could not terminate it.

She had already passed the date she should have given birth by more than two months. They did not have a single cent to go to hospital. She had been waiting for Frenchi to get money from the employer. The last one month she was bed-ridden. When Frenchi was at work no one would dare come and help her.  She had earned her father’s enmity.  The Minister wanted her to learn a lesson and go back home.

Her husband used to come from work and bathe and clean her. She did not want to think about her father’s riches. She belonged to Frenchi. Frenchi was her life and she believed this with all her heart. My Frenchi, My Frenchi, she would call out when the pain was extreme crying in agony.

Frenchi, one hour after the accident, was still lying in a pool of blood. Onlookers thought he was dead. But he was not. The Daladala crew were there too waiting for traffic cops. He was fully conscious in his brain. He could hear people say he was dead. But he could not even lift up a finger. He was totally unable to move any part of his body.

Coincidentally, Grace’s father passed along. At the accident scene he slowed down. He saw the mangled body in the middle of the road. Next to it was a wrecked bicycle. He recognized it instantly.  He almost shouted hallelujah. He stopped his car, a Pajero.

“If this man is dead I can have my daughter back,” he thought.

He walked towards the body, felt its pulse and said, to his driver, “He is dead.”  Using his cellphone he called an ambulance, and called the police commissioner. Within less than ten minutes the place was alive with a dozen policemen.

Frenchi was being taken to the mortuary, as the minister who was a medical doctor, had indicated that he was dead.

“No it cannot be,” Frenchi said inwardly.  He was trying to summon his energy to make even the feeblest of movements to alert the nurses in the ambulance that he was not dead. He could never leave Grace behind. She was his life. Only if Grace was dead would he also succumb to death.

When they reached the mortuary, as the attendants were removing him from the car, one of them felt his pulse. He said he was not dead. Frenchi was so happy but could not express his joy. His whole body was numb.

He was taken to hospital. The minister told his driver to pick the wrecked bicycle and put it in the boot of his car. A policeman tried to stop him and he was told off.  Then he told his driver to take him to Kibera. By the time he opened Frenchi’s door, Grace his only daughter was on the verge of death.

He broke down in tears seeing her, yellowish in colour and emaciated almost to the bones. She was unconscious. She looked ghostly – all her beauty and radiance gone.

He took her to Moon Private Hospital.

“You must heal my daughter! You must save her life,” he told the doctor in charge, whom he knew personally.

Frenchi had been in hospital for three days. To save his life doctors had to amputate his two legs at the knees and one hand from the elbow. There was no next of kin to authorize his operation. So the lead doctor spoke with him politely and he signed the document himself. He was taken to the operation room and anaesthised.  Could it be that after feeling so much pain in his heart most of his life, he had become immune to pain. Even after injection with the necessary medicine, he did not become anesthetized and the surgeons were dumbfounded.

“If we don’t operate on him today, we might lose him,” he heard one doctor saying. No, he was not going to die and leave Grace and his bicycle. He heard his voice talking to them. “Operate on me. Don’t worry about the pain. I will persevere.” The team of about 5 surgeons and 5 assistants looked at each other in awe. There was no way out. The operation would be too painful and the pain might even lead to death. They started the grueling task. He did not flinch whatsoever as the surgeons’ knives dug into his body, removing some parts and stitching others causing him excruciating pain.

To Frenchi the pain of losing Grace and his bicycle was much more than the pain of losing the body parts they were removing. At some point in the operation he stopped feeling any more physical pain. He was in a trance. The doctors could as well have been operating someone else. Grace was looking at him.

 “Frenchi you are alive. I am alive. We have weathered this storm. We will live,” he heared her say.

Such a dulcet girl, he thought. His face was beaming with untold joy. Grace was the miracle of his life. He would live on to see her. Tears were streaming down his face. He would not leave her. Never. Grace was the miracle of his life. But what of his bicycle, he wondered. He would have to collect it and repair it. He must not annoy his father in the grave. Akamaindo, his father, had hated him so much. He was his punch bag. He used to beat him up at the slightest excuse. There was nothing in his life that was ever good in his father’s eyes. He was born in the prestigious Upanga estate, where his mother and father owned a bungalow. His mother never raised an eyebrow when his father mistreated him everyday. 

One day when he was 15 years old, he had broken a cup accidentally. This enraged his father. He thrashed him and broke his leg. He was hospitalized for one month. When he went back home with his leg in plaster afterwards, his father menacingly dogged at him, “I should have killed you!”  Son and father looked at each other.

“Why did you bring me into this world, kill me now!” The father was infuriated like a wounded bull.

“I will kill you now. I never sired you. You are not my son. Your mother was raped and gave birth to you. I loved her too much but she refused to abort you. I will kill you today.” He was frothing and frantically searching for a weapon. He got a Somali sword. He was going to slaughter him. Only the abrupt appearance of his elder brother brought sanity to him. He stopped his murderous action. But his eternal anger and hatred towards the man who raped his wife could never end, as long as he was seeing the product of that act everyday, which had come to be known as his son.

The face of his son was the face of the rapist. And he could never forgive him for that. He was ever planning to kill the boy. Before he could execute the plan the bitterness in his heart made him have a heart attack.  On his deathbed he called his wife and son.

 “I curse this son of yours. He has caused me so much pain in my life. I don’t want him ever to see you after I am dead. He shall only inherit my old bicycle and his personal belongings. The bicycle is his course and curse, I tie his life to it.” A few minutes later he was dead. 

Once he defied his father’s directive, and went to see his mother. The moment she saw him, she tore her clothes off. She screamed her head off running away from him. He hurriedly left ridding on his bicycle. From that day he never tried to reach his mother ever again.

He was still on the operation table. Thank heaven there were no hitches and the whole affair was smooth. By the time he was moved from the theatre, he was a man at peace with the lost parts of his body. Hospital doctors were encouraged by his extraordinary courage and promised to give him a lot of extra support for a speedy recovery.

In his mind he was seeing Grace. He was calling out to her. She was in great pain. But they would live. Yes! They would live. He was going to collect the parts of his bicycle and repair it meticulously and all would be well. Without his legs he would need a wheel chair. What of their son or daughter, the one Grace was going to give birth to? His employer had not come to see him. He wished his mother would come and just hold him even for a second. A thousand random thoughts passed through his mind. His head burned under the weight of his life’s cross. All that he wanted was Grace. And his bicycle.

“Grace! Grace!” he called with all the strength he could muster. The doctor on duty came to check on him.

“I want Grace. I want my bicycle to take Grace to hospital.” He tried to get out of bed and the doctor was horrified.

“You cannot walk please…” he told him. 

“Why?” he asked in bewilderment. He wanted to stand up. He couldn’t.

“I must get my bicycle, I must go to Grace. She needs me. I can hear her voice calling for my help.” The doctor thought he was suffering from delayed shock.

“If I don’t get my bicycle and Grace, I cannot live,” he told the doctor. Then his father was there now, looking at him with devilish red eyes, mouth foaming in hideous laughter.

“If you don’t get my bicycle back I will kill you,” he told him. Grace urged him to run away. He couldn’t. He tried to run away but realized with horror he did not have legs.  His father was holding a Somali sword ready to strike him.

“I will be back, see to it that you have your curse back or I will take away your remaining hand,” he told him with his definite coarse, husky voice that he always dreaded. Then his father disappeared in a flash just as he had appeared.

Frenchi’s body was shaking and sweating. He wanted to die. No. No. He could not die and leave Grace alone. He wanted his bicycle back.

“My wife, my bicycle” he cried like a small baby. Tears were streaming down his cheeks uncontrollably. He was frantically searching for his lost legs and arm. The doctor’s heart went out to him. She was one Miss Muriu,

At Moon Private Hospital, Grace’s father was crying uncontrollably. This was the seventh day since he brought his daughter to hospital. He had not attended to any of his ministerial duties since the admission of the girl. He blamed himself for what had befallen Grace.

He was a good friend to the president who had gone twice now to console him in the hospital.

“You must rise up and stop whining, your tears and remorse will not heal your daughter. Take her to a specialized hospital abroad,” he had advised him. But her condition was so bad she was on a life support machine and could not be moved.

Grace has been in a coma from the day she was taken to hospital. Through a cesarean, the doctors had managed to assist her to give birth to a booming baby girl.  The infant was doing well but the mother was getting worse and worse.

The minister felt so helpless. With all his money and power, there he was at the mercy of unknown powers. Then he got the news that sent him mad.

Miss Muriu, one of the doctors who had come to love Frenchi and who was assisting him in his amputation recovery therapy, was a long time friend of the minister. When she heard the plight of her friend she went to Moon Private Hospital, which had now become his second home.

To encourage him, she told him the story of her patient Frenchi and how he was progressing well. They were sitting in the hospital room where Grace was lying in the bed on a “life support machine.” The minister’s rage burned like methane gas on fire.

“That dog that has destroyed her life is alive! If my daughter dies he will also die.”

 Miss Muriu was flabbergasted. She had not known there was any connection between the two patients. The minister was so angry he could not even breathe well.

“Calm down, calm down. You are a doctor and you know you have a problem with your heart. Such fury as this does you harm and no good,” the lady told him. But it was already too late. The minister fell to the ground and had a massive heart attack. Muriu revived him as an ambulance was called. He was rushed to a nearby specialist heart hospital. He had to be operated on. He survived the ordeal.

The following day Muriu went to see Frenchi. She told him about the Minister and his daughter. Frenchi wanted to jump and clap. Only that he had no legs and one hand.

“Grace is alive and she has a baby for me!” he shouted. He was so happy. Now he was sure he would not die. Grace was alive. She would never die. He would live with Grace and they would even overcome his own father’s bicycle curse. With Grace he would even grow his hand and legs again.

“Please, I know you have told me Grace is unconscious. I beg you to go and whisper to her that Frenchi is alive. Tell her I will go and see her tomorrow, after my discharge. Do me that favour and I will never forget,” Frenchi told the doctor. She thought this was absurd but against all her training she decided to pass on the message. She even promised to drive him to Moon Private Hospital to see Grace the next day.

When Muriu, went to see the girl that evening, she whispered to her Frenchi’s message. The girl blinked as if she had heard the message. She called a doctor who examined her and exclaimed that it was a miracle she has started to come out of the coma.

The following day she drove Frenchi to the hospital. She pushed him into the hospital in a wheelchair the doctors in the Moon Private Hospital had donated for him. He was taken to see his daughter in the hospital nursery first. He saw the baby was a complete replication of her mother. He was so happy and excited. He longed so much to see Grace.

When they were allowed in her room, he called her name softly. About three doctors were present. Grace smiled. Her eyes were open but she could not see. Yes, but she could hear her lovers voice.

She loved him dearly. With the power of love she came out of the coma completely. The doctors were amazed.

“My Frenchi, My Frenchi,” she said weakly as she removed the oxygen gadget from her nostrils. Frenchi wanted to embrace her. He couldn’t. Grace with the power of the possessed rose up and went to him. Her eyes now could see. She saw her Frenchi didn’t have legs and one hand.

“My father did this to you!” she said crying. He tried to explain what happened. She refused to listen. She was hysterical. She was looking for the door to run away.

“He will kill us. He will kill us,” she told Frenchi.  

Everyone in the room was bewildered.  Frenchi tried to reach her with his one hand.  He wanted to jump and hold Grace in his arms, assure her that all would be well. Without his legs he felt so powerless as he could not reach her.

Suddenly, a figure appeared like a ghost from the door in the room. It was the minister. He had left his hospital room by force to come and see his daughter. He saw Frenchi first, and then his frightened daughter crying. When Grace saw him, colour went out of her face.

Grace shot out of the door and shouted, “He has come to kill you run!”

The minister took out his gun. He shot Frenchi in the head. Frenchi lay down writhing in pain for a few seconds. He called Grace his wife as his spirit departed from his body.