Tabby stayed with us for two weeks. At first, I was optimistic that her presence would ease the transition. She was young and energetic, someone I thought would bring a fresh dynamic to the house. And while she did help define some aspects of how I would manage my new life, it quickly became clear that Tabby wasn’t the self-driven type.
Hakujituma. She needed constant direction. If I didn’t explicitly tell her what to prepare for lunch or supper, nothing would get done. There were times I’d return home expecting to smell something cooking, only to find silence from the kitchen and Tabby scrolling through her phone. It was as though she functioned on autopilot, waiting for instructions like a robot programmed to respond only to specific commands.
Sundays were no different. While the rest of us dressed for church, Tabby stayed behind, her excuse vague but firm. “I’ll stay and make sure the house is okay,” she’d say, though I knew it was just an opportunity to watch her beloved bongo music videos uninterrupted. During the day, she rarely spent time with the kids. Instead, she retreated to her room, where she’d stay for hours. At first, I chalked it up to her being a Gen Z, immersed in her digital world and uninterested in cartoons or kids’ games. But eventually, I began to wonder what exactly she was doing behind that closed door.
One afternoon, as I walked past her room, I heard the inaudible sound of her voice. She was on the phone, chatting animatedly. It dawned on me that this was her routine, texting, chatting, and making endless calls to people I didn’t know. Her connection to the house felt superficial, like she was present but never truly here.
Then came the evening escapades. Around 5 p.m., just when the house started to settle into its evening rhythm, Tabby would tell me, “Uncle, I’m going out kidogo. I’ll be back in 10 minutes.” Her tone was casual, almost dismissive. But 10 minutes would stretch into an hour, then two, leaving me staring at the clock and wondering where she was. Later, she would return looking like a drunkard, red eyes, heading to her room, but totally mute.
Not one to pry too much, I held back my questions at first. But as the pattern repeated, I couldn’t ignore the growing unease. What if something happened to her? What if she didn’t come back? How would I even begin to explain her disappearance to her parents? The thought of it kept me on edge every time she left, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
The relief when Tabby finally announced her departure after two weeks was immense. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate her help, it was just that her presence had become another source of stress. With her gone, the house felt quieter, more manageable, even if I was left alone with the children and the weight of balancing work.
I sighed as I stood in the kitchen that evening, stirring a pot of ugali while the kids played noisily in the living room. For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe. The chaos of the past two weeks had settled, and though the challenges remained, I was ready to face them alone.
In her own way, Tabby had taught me something important: that this new role wasn’t just about juggling tasks but about finding my own rhythm, learning to lead without waiting for someone else to step up. And as I served dinner to the kids that night, their laughter filling the room, I realized that perhaps I didn’t need anyone else to define this journey for me. I could do it on my own, one day, one step at a time.
Hakujituma. She needed constant direction. If I didn’t explicitly tell her what to prepare for lunch or supper, nothing would get done. There were times I’d return home expecting to smell something cooking, only to find silence from the kitchen and Tabby scrolling through her phone. It was as though she functioned on autopilot, waiting for instructions like a robot programmed to respond only to specific commands.
Sundays were no different. While the rest of us dressed for church, Tabby stayed behind, her excuse vague but firm. “I’ll stay and make sure the house is okay,” she’d say, though I knew it was just an opportunity to watch her beloved bongo music videos uninterrupted. During the day, she rarely spent time with the kids. Instead, she retreated to her room, where she’d stay for hours. At first, I chalked it up to her being a Gen Z, immersed in her digital world and uninterested in cartoons or kids’ games. But eventually, I began to wonder what exactly she was doing behind that closed door.
One afternoon, as I walked past her room, I heard the inaudible sound of her voice. She was on the phone, chatting animatedly. It dawned on me that this was her routine, texting, chatting, and making endless calls to people I didn’t know. Her connection to the house felt superficial, like she was present but never truly here.
Then came the evening escapades. Around 5 p.m., just when the house started to settle into its evening rhythm, Tabby would tell me, “Uncle, I’m going out kidogo. I’ll be back in 10 minutes.” Her tone was casual, almost dismissive. But 10 minutes would stretch into an hour, then two, leaving me staring at the clock and wondering where she was. Later, she would return looking like a drunkard, red eyes, heading to her room, but totally mute.
Not one to pry too much, I held back my questions at first. But as the pattern repeated, I couldn’t ignore the growing unease. What if something happened to her? What if she didn’t come back? How would I even begin to explain her disappearance to her parents? The thought of it kept me on edge every time she left, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios.
The relief when Tabby finally announced her departure after two weeks was immense. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate her help, it was just that her presence had become another source of stress. With her gone, the house felt quieter, more manageable, even if I was left alone with the children and the weight of balancing work.
I sighed as I stood in the kitchen that evening, stirring a pot of ugali while the kids played noisily in the living room. For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe. The chaos of the past two weeks had settled, and though the challenges remained, I was ready to face them alone.
In her own way, Tabby had taught me something important: that this new role wasn’t just about juggling tasks but about finding my own rhythm, learning to lead without waiting for someone else to step up. And as I served dinner to the kids that night, their laughter filling the room, I realized that perhaps I didn’t need anyone else to define this journey for me. I could do it on my own, one day, one step at a time.
