“Mama! Mama!”
That call became her signature tune, the sound that made her mother’s heart skip a beat every time she heard it. This is the story of Ella, the family’s messenger of doom. A role she never asked for, but one that somehow chose her, maybe because she was the eldest daughter in the family of Habbu. Ella was the fourth child out of eight. Before her are three brothers whom Habbu, their father, sent to the white man’s land, America, to study and make something of themselves. So when they left, Ella became the eldest at home, holding the fort for everyone else. She took care of her parents, her younger siblings, and in many ways, became the glue that kept the family running. With that came another role, that of the bearer of news. All news. But mostly, bad ones.
The first message came like a thief in the night. A telegram from Nairobi. Her younger sister’s husband had died, barely two years into marriage, leaving behind two little children, one still breastfeeding. There were no phones then, so Ella took the long trip home to break the news in person. As she entered the compound, she went straight to the shamba where she knew her mother would be.
“Mama! Mama!” she called out.
“Obola shina? (What is it?)” her mother responded in luhya, lifting her head from weeding, her hands dusty with soil.
Ella broke the news. Her mother froze. The jembe dropped from her hands and her knees gave way. Death had entered their home, not through the front door, but carried on her daughter’s tongue. Years passed. Just as the pain started to fade, another sister’s marriage turned sour. Her husband had started beating her almost to death. And so Ella packed her bag again.
“Mama! Mama!” she called as she reached home.
“Obola shina?” her mother asked, this time rising from the chicken coop.
Again, it was bad news.
And then it happened again. Yet another sister is widowed. Children left behind, another funeral to plan.
“Mama! Mama!”
“Ella, obola shina?” her mother replied, shelling maize on a mat in the courtyard.
Ella took a deep breath, and her mother already knew before the words left her lips. The pattern had set itself. Every “Mama! Mama!” came with tears, and every visit meant loss.
Years later, Ella had news of her own. But this time, it wasn’t sorrow. Her mother was seated outside the house, watching over the cattle, dowry gifts from her daughters’ marriages. She saw Ella walking through the gate and clutched her heart immediately.
“Ella, I can’t take any more bad news!” she cried out, her voice breaking as she sank to her knees.
Ella rushed to her and held her hands.
“Mama, it’s good news this time! I’ve added another one, a daughter. And I’ve named her after you!”
Her mother’s eyes widened, then filled with tears of joy.
“My name?” she asked, laughing through her tears.
That was the day Ella’s mother was reminded that even a messenger of doom can carry joy in her voice.
For a while, peace returned. Until death came again, first for her mother, the one person who had received every message with open arms.
But the title stuck. Even after her mother’s passing, Ella remained the first to receive bad news. Her second eldest brother died in her arms in hospital. Her eldest brother passed away just after she visited him in palliative care. Her sister-in-law died on her birthday. And her eldest daughter, her pride and joy, was admitted to HDU on her birthday after what was supposed to be a routine surgery. It was as if grief had memorized her address.
To this day, the messenger still receives the news first, whether she’s present or far away, whether it’s a normal day or her birthday. She has carried the weight of her family’s losses and pain with grace, but the echoes of her voice, “Mama! Mama!”, still linger like a song that refuses to fade.
There are some people who are chosen to speak when others cannot, to deliver words no one wants to say. Ella is one of them. So if you ever read this, whisper a prayer for her, the bearer of her family’s sorrows, the woman whose voice once brought trembling to her mother’s heart, but who still finds the strength to speak.
And sometimes I wonder, maybe the burden of bad news does not just choose the strong, it creates them. For in every whisper of “Mama! Mama!”, I hear a woman’s courage echoing through generations. The messenger may have carried sorrow, but in her voice lived love - fierce, unbroken, and eternal. It was indeed the voice that carried both life and loss in equal measure.
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