They say, behind every successful man is a strong woman. I would like to know what the author meant by strong- did he mean agile, bendable, meek, silent or resilient? More importantly, I would like to know who stands behind the strong woman. It is certainly not the same successful man. Writing is for those whose hearts flow into pens like ink not for hearts stopped up like some dam on a river which releases a floodgate of pain every time water is released.

Florence was the name of her girlhood. Long before she became Maama Boy, Florence had been a girl. Like every girl, unknown to the world, Florence had thoughts about who she was and who she was going to be. They were not grand dreams but they were dreams, just like any little boy who dreamed of becoming a knight, saving a princess, building a castle or overthrowing the tyranny and becoming King. Except, in her dreams there were kisses, butterflies and picnics; butterfly kisses, playful kisses on the cheek, kisses on the mouth, many many kisses and many many boys. No, maybe just five, before she met her shining knight. There would be passionate breakups, – disagreements, tears and then moving on, moving onto bright sunny days, bright yellow days. This was before she understood that boys wanted more than just full perky lips.

Florence was one of five girls and as the typical African girl among one too many girls, she had always looked upon the male sex in quizzical ignorance- the one that had eluded her distraught mother, the type of child that her father had never had. It did not help that for all the twenty six years she had lived at home, her mother had never stopped cursing life for not blessing with her a male child. Though she had never said that they were not enough, she had not had to and so somehow in the bane of her existence, it had taken up roots in her veins, it flowed through her.

Taata Boy and her. Taata Boy and her. What a whirlwind, what confusion youth is.

With not one kiss too many, a ring on her finger had turned her forever into Maama Boy. Now Taata Boy, a man in his prime- for a man in his prime age is a woman in her gone age – the age difference had not been big enough to bestow upon him the pleasure of being the only voice in the house, no bestowed upon her the privilege a much younger woman finds in an older man who has navigated the seas, seen the world and is now tamed only to behold her beauty and be excited by her youthful vigour.

Taata Boy was a very busy, very important man, he certainly was not the same man who had led her through those bush thickets when he stole her away from home with selfish, unwavering, overwhelming desire.

I’m not a girlfriend. I’m a wife. This is not like me.

Their friendship ended when marriage began. After all, who is a friend if it is not someone you keep company with, someone you long to exchange minds with, someone whose presence in your life is celebrated for its vulnerable consistent voluntary choice.

No, his company, his heart and his mind were taken. He was the beginning and end of his life’s pursuits. In this way, he never wondered what Maama Boy did every evening when he stayed out with his fellow big men. He never wondered who Maama Boy talked to on week nights and weekends when he was out making big business deals. Certainly, he sometimes wondered if she even spoke. Once in a while when he shifted in his sleep into the cold windy alley between them, it was to relieve some sort of discomfort hidden in his mind, which had been unattended to by incessant phone calls or so Florence hoped.

King.

It is hard to be in love with a King. It is easier to be in servitude, to be in awe, to be in gratitude for his generous bestowing of gifts. You always need a friend but you don’t always need a King.

With Taata, she could not remember when he had last called her by her name. As his stature in society grew, his power well defined, it became her job to stand behind a successful man. Even before the maiden of his youth, he remained the successful man he was outdoors. Her role relegated to sidekick, the supporting role to his main character- dreamless, painless, laughing Florence with the wrinkled eyes. It was safe to say that she had spent those 30 years alone in her union, but here she was, receiving an award of selfless partner upon Taata’s magnificent recognition on his retirement party- a woman who had never faltered- the rock upon which he had built his empire- the strong woman behind a successful man. Hopefully, now weary, spent and unknown to her or the children, he would return to her, in quiet submission to her care in his old age.