I am doing all I can to keep my daughter safe

Pudd’ng knows what side of the road she walks on, and what happens when we’re boarding or alighting from a matatu. Still, she seeks the whys and wherefores …ILLUSTRATION| JOSEPH NGARI

What you need to know:

  • “If anything’s lurking out there, they’ll have to square it out with your bodyguard.”

  • “You’re my bodyguard?”

  • “Among seven-fourty-two other things.”

“Fear is a bad seed,” that’s what they say, adding that, “If you sow it, you’ll reap it.” But fear and fatherhood are distant cousins. That’s what I think.

If there are outcomes I fear, especially at night, it is Pudd’ng getting ill or having an accident. I keep an assortment of medicine in the house, but the worrywart in me sometimes replays ‘what if’ scenarios, until the mental tape gets scratches. 

My occupational hazards are headaches and writer’s cramps, but they are nothing that rest, tea, painkillers or a pack of ice can’t take care of.

Three Sundays ago, for the first time this year, Pudd’ng and I didn’t go to church. I woke up with a splitting headache. I barely managed to whip up breakfast and get baby girl’s bath water ready. When I tried to wake up the sleeping beauty, she turned her face to the wall and pulled the covers over her head. I took that as a cue from God to rest.

Never out of reach

Accidents don’t just happen: they’re caused. I’ve had close calls with baby girl, so I’m always vigilant. Can’t drop my guard. Can’t afford to be sprung ugly surprises.

“Don’t touch the toilet bowl detergent,” I told Pudd’ng not so long ago after I found telltale signs of tampering. I asked her to read the warning on the bottle’s side …

“Keep closed and out of reach of children.”

Out of reach? Really? Kids can reach Mars. Because I knew there was nowhere to hide the bottle, I gave Pudd’ng the whole rap: “This thing’s poisonous baby; and I don’t want anything to happen to you”. 

Intruder alert

The drill is, Tenderoni picks up Pudd’ng after school, drops her near the gate, and returns to her business. When I hear rapping on the gate, I know baby girl’s home.

Yesterday, it was the “gate alarm” that made me leave my work. It wasn’t Pudd’ng. I found a boy of about 11 years old stuck at the gate. When I questioned him, he confessed that he had accessed our apartment block through the roof of the neighbouring building. Fortunately, our gate is always under lock and key. I felt for the little man when he said he was hungry, but a woman neighbour, with Madea old school disciplining tendencies, gave him several lashes, saying this would eject him from Baddie Boulevard.

“If he would have found anything valuable lying around,” Madea announced, “he would have taken it.”

After this incident, I gave my daughter safety-first tips …

“Don’t ever open the door for anyone except mom and dad,” I told Pudd’ng, as I padlocked the door and fastened the bottom latch, knowing that it only takes a split second’s lapse for an intruder to get in. 

“If anybody tries telling you they’ve been sent by mom or dad, don’t buy it.”

“If they still don’t go away, scream your small lungs out.”

Baby’s bodyguard 

We leave for school around 10 minutes to 6am. Most mornings, it’s still dark. Early birds may, but for God’s grace, encounter danger from men or mongrels. Pudd’ng has noticed some actions that have become second nature…

“Dah-dee? Why do you always say you’re the one who must get out of the house and gate first?”

“If anything’s lurking out there, they’ll have to square it out with your bodyguard.”

“You’re my bodyguard?”

“Among seven-fourty-two other things.”

Pudd’ng knows what side of the road she walks on, and what happens when we’re boarding or alighting from a matatu. Still, she seeks the whys and wherefores …

“Baby, because you shouldn’t ever be in harm’s way.”

Night of deposits

Last week, Pudd’ng and I were hit by bouts of diarrhea. Pudd’ng’s bouts persisted into the night. By the time I was closing shop, way past midnight, Pudd’ng was gridlocked in the toilet. That’s what diarrhea can do. When you are perched on the toilet seat, after depositing, you feel like just seating there and waiting for the next installment. 

“Hey, what’s up?” I whispered, thinking that perhaps she had dozed off.

“Now it’s not coming out,” Pudd’ng groaned.

I had to leave the bathroom lights on, plus the doors to our bedrooms wide open, so I would hear whenever my client went to deposit her installments. It did not take a minute before I heard her rushing to the bathroom.

That night I slept like a night nurse.

 

 

I keep an assortment of medicine in the house, but the worrywart in me sometimes replays ‘what if’ scenarios, until the mental tape gets scratches.”