The Cost of Respect

She was obsessed with herself, and this obsession ensured she could never really be a wife or mother. She didn't subscribe to the idea of being either. The thought of giving so much of herself to a child who wouldn't even understand the sacrifice was appalling. And as for men, well, she had never met one who wasn't a complete and total burden after six months. Like her luxury car leases, she found men fantastic for 18 to 24 months. Anything beyond that, and they became a burden. Except for one. He was different, which is why, 11 years later, they were still best friends. Only friends.

She was 38, single, and painfully happy. Like the 2020 Range Rover SV with the limited edition lining and custom sound system, she had recently traded her lover in. He was a fine man—the kind her mother would have loved for her to marry: Nigerian, rich, 6'3", and 31. But like many men, his obsession with marriage and his expectation that she make more sacrifices than he ever would didn't amuse her.

When she broke things off in Paris over a $267 bottle of Vernique Coola that she insisted on paying for, he laughed at her. "You know I'll be married with a child in seven months, and you'll still be a single lady looking for love," he said. She laughed with him.

"I know. That's the point. Your fantasies are my nightmares."

Her mother pitied her; her father worried for her. The entire Kenyan community wondered what a woman of her age could do with no man and, even worse, no child. She scoffed at them. She had no desire to be like her mother or her aunts, who lived for others constantly. They sought male validation that no amount of cooking, submissiveness, or self-loathing would ever grant them. They obsessed over their children because, sadly, it was their only true form of validation. They had never been to Paris in the spring or Phuket in the winter. They never knew the joys of only having to think of themselves. Worse, they never got to know themselves, love themselves, or see themselves as complete and whole people. Instead, they spent their lives as cogs in a machine—an African patriarchal machine that emphasized children above all else. They pitied her, but she pitied them more.

She loved them, though. Deeply. They had taught her, through experience, what happens when you give up yourself to love another. She saw their lives as a precautionary tale, a warning about following the beat of a drum without asking, Do I even like this song?

While they lived in two different worlds, she was always home for the holidays. She remembered every birthday and attended church without fail. Aside from being childless and manless, she was the daughter every parent dreamed of.

Until one day, their worlds collided. While she was in Italy shopping with her friends, her father called to inform her there had been an accident. Her mother. A tractor. It was bad. She raced home on the next flight.

It cost her $5,678 to get home within the hour.

She didn't even take her bags to the hotel, instead bringing them directly to the nearest hospital. The facility was in the only semi-developed part of Kambu. The staff was kind, but she worried they wouldn't have the tools needed for the surgeries her mother was about to endure.

Her mother was flown to Nairobi for $3,581, with a private nurse assisting for an additional $7,892.

The doctors told her that the first thing they needed to do was stabilize her mother. But she was worried they wouldn't pay enough attention to her wounds post-op. Nairobi Hospital had the best staff in East Africa, but competition for the doctors' attention was fierce.

She paid a nurse off the books—$670—to update her every 30 minutes, with the promise of more if the doctors were kept informed immediately.

Her mother recovered, but she struggled to walk correctly. She was taken to Switzerland for the best physical therapy money could buy—$10,459.

She never left her mother's side. When you work as the lead architect for one of the best design companies in the world, you can afford such things. When you're that good, people wait for you. And so they waited for her. Earnestly. Because when you're that good, the world waits.

After three weeks of the best therapy money could buy, her mother returned to Kambu—a woman who had never left Kenya, let alone East Africa. She was amazed by Switzerland. Amazed by the world outside. This was the world her daughter chose to live in. It was beautiful. It was magical. It was quiet.

Her mother had never been convinced to join her daughter on any of her travels. "I will travel when I come to join you for your wedding," she would say. A wedding they both knew would never happen. But this trip forced her to see her daughter for the woman she truly was: a powerhouse, a fixer, a force to be reckoned with. She admired how her daughter commanded the room, told the doctors what needed to happen, and had graduate nurses chasing down morning coffee for her and tea for her mother.

"Wambu," her mother said earnestly as they had their first meal since returning to Kenya.

"Yes, Mama?"

"$28,712." The cost. Her mother had been keeping track of every expense.

"Yes, Mama. I know." Wambu poured them both tea and sat quietly at the small dining table in her parents' modest home. She could see the gratitude and shock in her mother's face. She couldn't understand how her daughter had so much money.

"We must prepare for dinner. Your aunties are coming to visit."

Wambu began to take out the vegetables, as she normally would when helping her mother cook.

"No. Today, you will not cook in the kitchen with us. Today, you will sit."

Her mother began preparing meals, calling her sister and younger brother to help. It felt strange sitting in the living room with her father.

Family and friends came in and marveled at her mother's recovery and her new European wardrobe. They sat peacefully as the house filled with loud, boisterous aunties sipping soup and uncles drinking beer.

"Aahh, Wambu, now, Switzerland had no men for you?" Auntie Chico roared. "When will you bring someone home?"

She was ready with her usual line of, What do I need a man for? But before the words could escape her, her mother chimed in.

"That's enough, Chico. We will not have such discussions in this house. Leave my child to her own business."

They glanced at each other. There would never be a husband. There would never be a child. But for the first time, in this existence, there would be respect. There would be understanding.