If you ever passed through the dusty road of Matuu and saw a man in an oversized brown coat waving a newspaper like a sword, chances are you saw Mr. Benedict Muli, Assistant Director of Nothing-in-Particular at the Ministry of Public Service. A man whose salary was so mysterious even KRA gave up on calculating his taxes accurately.
Benedict had two wives, Mama Nduku, the teacher, and Mama Mumbua, the farmer. He often bragged that his home was “the perfect example of national unity”—one wife working with the government, the other working with the land. In reality, the only unity that existed was when both wives united against him.
The Man Who Educated His Own Problem
Back in the day, Benedict had married Mama Nduku when she was a young girl who dreamed of becoming a teacher. He had sacrificed, sold two of his father’s cows, and even skipped lunch for three years so she could attend Machakos Teachers’ College.
He imagined that one day, she would teach schoolchildren during the day and still sing his praises at night: “Oh, Benedict, my brilliant husband who believed in education!”
But reality had other plans.
The day she received her first salary, she came home with a new hairstyle, sunglasses, and the confidence of a Cabinet Secretary.
“Benedict,” she said, “from now on, I’ll be contributing to the house budget. But that means we must plan together.”
Benedict didn’t know that “plan together” was code for I now have a voice in this house.
Within weeks, she was correcting his English (“It’s children, not childrens!”) and rolling her eyes whenever he talked about his ministry work.
“Assistant Director of what exactly?” she’d ask. “Because even our village chief has more authority than you.”
Benedict, wounded but proud, sought peace elsewhere—specifically, with Mama Mumbua.
The Farmer of Faith and Fertilizer
Mama Mumbua was everything Mama Nduku wasn’t—soft-spoken, submissive, and always smiling, even when her maize failed. Her hands were permanently stained with soil, and her favorite perfume was cow dung.
She never questioned Benedict’s authority, mostly because she never listened to him long enough to argue. When he talked about government policies, she nodded politely while counting her chicken.
Her loyalty melted Benedict’s heart. So he bought her a second-hand cow, built her a small house, and declared her “the future of the family.”
But farming has a way of humbling even the proud. Every season brought new disasters—armyworms, fake fertilizer, or neighbors’ goats with a PhD in trespassing. The farm became a black hole for money, and Benedict’s salary could not keep up.
He started taking small loans from his SACCO, telling himself it was temporary. He even mortgaged a piece of land “for expansion.” The expansion, however, was mostly on the list of people he owed.
Children of Modern Times
If Benedict thought his children would be his salvation, he was wrong.
From Mama Nduku, he had Kevin and Faith—both raised on Wi-Fi and sarcasm. Kevin was a university graduate who majored in “Online Hustling” and had perfected the art of looking busy while doing nothing. Faith, on the other hand, was an influencer who gave relationship advice online but still depended on her mother for bus fare.
From Mama Mumbua, he had Mutua, Ndanu, and little Kim, the only one who still believed in Santa Claus—and in his father’s importance.
Whenever Benedict tried to instill discipline, Kevin would mumble, “Dad, chill. This isn’t the 1980s.”
Faith would add, “Honestly, Dad, you’re so dramatic. You should start a TikTok.”
Mutua would simply say, “If farming is the future, I want to go to Nairobi.”
Benedict would then retreat to his small living room, take his newspaper, and mutter to himself, “These children will remember me one day.”
Trouble in Paradise (And Payroll)
Everything changed when Benedict’s department was “restructured.” That’s a polite Kenyan word for we’ve fired you but in slow motion. His salary stopped coming on time. His allowances disappeared like a politician’s promises.
He went home one Friday, wearing his oversized coat and a fake smile.
Mama Nduku met him at the door. “You look tired. Rough day?”
He sighed. “They’re just reorganizing the ministry.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You mean they’ve fired you.”
“No, no,” he said quickly. “They’re realigning human capital to optimize service delivery.”
“In English, Benedict.”
He scratched his head. “Fine. They fired me.”
Mama Nduku didn’t cry. She didn’t even gasp. She simply adjusted her headscarf and said, “At least I still have my job.”
That night, Benedict decided to sleep at Mama Mumbua’s place, seeking comfort. But comfort was out grazing.
The moment he arrived, she announced, “The cow is sick, and we need medicine worth two thousand. Also, the maize was destroyed again.”
He just stared at her, tears in his eyes. “Even God is against me.”
“Maybe,” she said kindly, “but God still loves us.”
The Fall of the Patriarch
Soon, the SACCO came for their money. The bank came for the land. Even his beloved second-hand cow was sold to settle a small loan.
The once proud civil servant became a part-time bodaboda passenger, begging for discounts.
Meanwhile, Mama Nduku joined a teachers’ union and started wearing red berets during strikes. People began calling her “Comrade.”
Mama Mumbua, after years of struggle, joined a women’s farming group and was elected treasurer. She was now famous in the market.
And the children? Kevin moved to Nairobi to become a “content creator.” Faith married a gym instructor and started posting motivational quotes like, “Cut off negative people, even if they raised you.” Mutua became a boda mechanic, and Ndanu joined her mother in farming. Little Kim grew up calling his father “Uncle Ben.”
The Man Who Sat By the Road
Years passed. Benedict’s brown coat faded to the color of forgotten dreams. He now spent most mornings at Matuu market, sitting under an acacia tree with other retired men who all claimed to have once worked “in government.”
They’d discuss everything—from politics to football to which witch doctor had the best success rate. But whenever Benedict’s turn came, he’d sigh and say, “I educated my wife, and she educated me back in humility.”
The others would laugh. One would slap his back and say, “At least you had two wives! I only have one, and she controls the TV remote!”
But deep down, Benedict missed his home. He sometimes walked past the school where Mama Nduku taught and saw her leading the pupils in a national anthem. She looked happy, glowing, like the woman he once dreamed of.
At the farm, Mama Mumbua’s land was green again—thanks to her group’s savings. She’d wave politely but never invite him in.
The children rarely visited. On Father’s Day, Faith posted a photo of her gym instructor with the caption, “My rock, my everything.” Kevin called once in a while, mostly to ask for money.
A Humorous Tragedy
One day, during a wedding in the village, Benedict was accidentally called to give a speech. The MC thought he was a “guest of honor” because of his dusty coat that looked almost official.
He took the microphone with trembling hands.
“My fellow Kenyans,” he began, “marriage is like a government department—too many meetings, no clear results.”
Laughter.
“Having two wives is like having two ministries. You think you’re the president, but in reality, you’re just the clerk.”
More laughter.
He smiled, tears welling in his eyes. “But love them anyway. Even when they forget your name.”
When he sat down, people clapped. Some thought he was joking. Others thought he was drunk. But one person—Mama Mumbua—wiped a tear quietly in the crowd.
The Forgotten Hero
Years later, when he finally passed away peacefully under that same acacia tree, few attended his burial. The wives sat far apart, each under her own umbrella, both pretending not to care.
Kevin didn’t come—he had a “content shoot.” Faith posted a black-and-white photo with the caption, “Gone but not forgotten 🕊️.”
Mutua and Ndanu dug the grave silently.
The priest, after struggling to find something good to say, simply muttered, “He was… a man of many responsibilities.”
When they lowered him into the ground, a sudden gust of wind blew his old brown coat off the coffin and into the air, landing right between his two wives. Everyone laughed through their tears.
Mama Nduku whispered, “Even in death, he still can’t choose sides.”
And just like that, Benedict Muli, the forgotten civil servant of Matuu, was gone—leaving behind two wives, five children, and a legacy of laughter, lessons, and the quiet tragedy of a man who gave everything and got forgotten anyway.
Sure Media Magazine 