My father, Juma Mwachai, is 70 years old. Yes, he was well past his midlife when I was born to his fourth and last wife. He is now withered and dying from prostate cancer, but when I was 8 years old, he was  a strong, virile and quite powerful community leader and a paedophile.

I was just one of his many victims. Sometimes, I think that he would never have come after me if I had not caught him having sex with my thirteen year old cousin. I didn’t even understand exactly what was going on, all I knew through some basic instinct, was that it was not right. When he started with me, I was even more disturbed.

My father was not a rapist. He was a seducer. He never forced himself on me, or the other girls. He wooed us with Math lessons, new clothes, sweets, and gentle caresses. I knew there were other girls, but I expect that they thought it was just their own little secret. What a secret.

My father’s home here in Ngongoni is built at the top of a hill. All around are shambas with coconut trees, cashew trees, as well asmaize, beans and amaranth after the planting season. From his homestead myfather could see anyone coming up the hill using the path. The path descendedto the shambas below and into the road leading up to the Vipingo shopping centre.

During the planting season, which almost always fell during the school holidays, my uncles would send their kids, and sometimes some of their wives to my father so that they could help with the work. As a rule, two persons would remain in the home to make the midday meal, and perhaps do the housework. Some of the children also remained behind. But there would be a point in time when my father would find a way to be all alone with one of his nieces, and eventually with me.

I can’t tell you why I let it happen, all I know is that he was my father, and I was in awe, scratch that, fear of him. It continued for 6 years, until I sat my KCPE and was called to study at the prestigious Mama Ngina High School. While I was away for that first term, my father found himself a new playmate, the one who finally ratted him out.

She was a brave little girl, but for all her bravery he was hardly punished for his sins. He was fined by the village elders, a goat which they ate themselves, and then the matter went away quietly. The little girl, my own cousin, committed suicide not long after that. Life went on. I like to think my father did not have anymore little playmates after that, but have you heard, a paedophile will abuse more than 100 children in his lifetime?

Anyway, after I sat my KCSE exams, my brother called me up to his home in Ganjoni. He sent me to college to study a secretarial course, helped me get a job at KPA where he worked. He introduced me to the man I am going to marry.

I like to think that not one of my 7 brothers inherited my father’s disease. But once in a while my heart skips a beat when I think one of them is looking at a child in a way I think is inappropriate.

It haunts me and disturbs me, even though I like to pretend that I am just fine. That’s why I am coming home today. To find some kind of closure: to lay the demons to rest. At least to breath out some of the pain, shame and anger before I get married and start my own family.

But as I step forward to enter my father’s compound, a wail breaks out in the house in the middle of the compound, the one built with stonewalls that my brother sent home to build a ‘decent’ house for mzee wa kapindi.

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Juliet Maruru is a writer/editor and the author of  She Blossoms. This is a work of fiction inspired by the words of one of my closest childhood friends, Dzendere. I miss you, now you can rest in peace, your story has been told.