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Bottomline: The thought of my sons always linger across my mind with a sharp piercing pain in my stomach

Childhood is filled with frightening innocence, honesty all the good values that cross your mind when you look into the eyes of a child, mine was no different.

Jenga is a game of placing blocks on top of each other, it is a game of all ages and genders which is similar to my life because the more I live, the more unstable I tend to become.

Writing from my penetralium bed at the Lang’ata Womens’ Prison, isolated as am left to think about my life. I see it as a dream, only that it is real, surrounded by thick concrete walls that barely open or at least listen to my silent whispers. I have written severally, I have consulted my inner soul before deciding to write something different, something that is not suicidal.

The blood in my veins is too red and my heart….. my heart races each time that ray of light from a little opening on the roof hits the floor of my cell, vividly reflecting guilt. I spent nights climbing walls, hearing his voice press sharply against my ears, trying to reach for his life, which snatched from him, selfishly. I was not a murderer, no, I am not a murderer!

At just 31 am serving a lifetime jail sentence, a mother of two, two lovely sons. Their father always wanted a daughter nonetheless he was present, the man I had always had in my dreams. He worked as a medic in a referral hospital until he started overindulging in substance abuse which forced him into rehabilitation.

However, his parents were always there to help me as I had to take up two jobs so as to make ends meet. I was a good mother! I still am! The thought of my sons always linger across my mind with a sharp piercing pain in my stomach. How I gave up on them, how life suddenly changed,their stars ceased shining. I cannot retract. I cannot bring him back. I cannot revive the dead or can I?

Tim, my husband, was from a well off family. His father a long serving politician while the  mum an educated, polished , down to earth lady who was very beautiful for her age. She loved to be addressed by her second name, “Mukami, jîtai Mukami” she would say (call me Mukami).

A lady to be emulated. I hear my heart break slowly when I remember how close I was to my mother-in-law yet now, I disgust her, she spat on my face the last time she came to visit me here. I could feel her voice shaking with her watery eyes manifesting her disappointment.

I disappointed her like a two year old learning to ride a bicycle falling over several times with knee scars showing off the disappointment, too loud to spell failure, she just fell once breaking all the trust that held us together. She despises me to the extent of not allowing my sons anywhere close to me since she has the full custody now.

I don’t have a lot on my family hailing from a little insignificant town in Central Kenya. I was nice and always thought life could be nice too…

Working my way through thick and thin from sales marketing jobs and commercial modelling after my husband came out of rehabilitation. I am a beauty, even in my stripped uniform. I did not have any criminal records, unless if being too nice was a crime yet now am locked in a solitary room because I am too dangerous to fellow inmates.

I have mothered! How can I be dangerous? I feel guilt pushing into my skin but I want to clear my conscience. And today, today I shall tell the story of how I pulled the wrong block in a game of jenga.