Adelle Onyango - My First Divorcee Christmas

 

It's Christmas Eve in my home in Nairobi, Kenya, and something strange is happening. Mommy's in the kitchen cooking. I watch her open the oven, and garnish the chicken with rosemary, in shock, because all year round, this is the only time she gets into the kitchen. It's part of our Christmas tradition that involves overeating and overdecorated Christmas trees. I still remember Mommy, my sisters, and I sitting around the table full of food, cackling, opening gifts. 

 

This tradition felt good. It felt like home. After Mommy died, my sisters and I desperately tried to keep the tradition going. We would buy gifts, overdecorate the Christmas tree, and have tons of food, including chicken, rosemary chicken. But no matter how hard we tried, it never felt right without her. I had to hold on to these traditions, because I couldn't face the pain of Mommy's death. So, I kept the traditions going and, seven years later, added another tradition, I got married. 

 

I married a man from a completely different culture. I remember on our third date, laying down my deal breakers, "Listen, all Christmases are going to be spent with my family. And if you don't like it, leave now." [audience chuckles] I was very outspoken, I had loud feminist takes, and I was a media personality well known for speaking out and speaking my mind. Nothing traditional about me. We started our life and come Christmas, I'd have the gifts ready by October, decorations up by November. But there was one flaw in my plan. Our apartment. I hated it. 

 

I'd drive home from work, and turn onto the pothole-riddled road, and I'd just regret living there. I'd park my car, climb up the staircase to our unit. It had these dark, dirty gray walls and I'd just get enraged. Whenever I'd walk into our apartment, it never felt like home. Our first Christmas was wonderful. Our second one, too. But by the third, it wasn't just our apartment that didn't feel like home, but also my marriage. It was becoming very clear that the wife my husband wanted was nothing like me. 

 

I remember one night we were in bed after one of our many arguments, and he said, "You refuse to give me the three things that make a marriage. You don't want to give me a child, you wouldn't take my surname, and you've stopped wearing your ring." I remember feeling like, “Well, he's right. I'm definitely not that traditional woman.” But I was so exhausted, and all I could whisper was, "I can't do this anymore. I can't do us anymore.”

 

My marriage was over. And the divorce wasn't those amicable ones that you see in the movies. Mine was drenched in drama, with family calling and saying, "Well, if he didn't hit you, why are you leaving?" I remember another family member saying, "You will never find another man more devoted to you than your husband." It was the hardest time. I wasn't sleeping, I'd stopped eating much, so I lost so much weight and I looked so frail. And because of my work that involves small talk, smiles, performances, being in front of crowds, I was losing energy, and the little that I had needed to take me through my therapy sessions and meetings with lawyers. 

 

I had never lived alone. I went from living with Mommy and my sisters, to just my sisters after Mommy died, to my partner after we got married. And so, this new chapter was exciting, but I was also quite anxious. So, I began looking for an apartment, and my only requirement was I needed a garden. My best friend took me for all my visits. But nobody prepares you for just how hard it is to find a home. I remember the first unit we saw had ceilings so low, I felt like a giant in a hobbit's house. [audience chuckles] There was another unit that had one natural light source for the entire house. And there was another unit that our agent took me to, and it had numerous bedrooms, about five. When I reminded the agent that, "Hey, it's only going to be me living here," he said, "Well, no worries. When you have kids, you have space."

 

I kept wondering, why does everybody want me to be this traditional woman, even this stranger? The last unit that we viewed in Nairobi was an apartment that had this strange staircase where each stair was a different size. [audience chuckles] As we hobbled back down the strange staircase to the car, I said, "Maybe I'm not meant to live in Nairobi." I immediately thought of a place I'd go to whenever I'd get so stressed in my marriage. It's a little town out of Nairobi called Limuru. It's known for its tea farms and its flower farms as well. So, all its hills are full of thick green carpets of tea, and these little greenhouses full of flowers. I'd always drive there, and get calm, and dream about living there. So in this moment, I thought, I want to live in Limuru. 

 

So, one Thursday morning, I had two options, either see another apartment in the same neighborhood with the strange staircase, or take the nature-riddled drive out to Limuru. I chose the latter. And so, I got into my car. My fear was increasing as I kept looking down at my GPS and seeing just how far this place is. And then, I got to a point where I went up a hill and in front of me were these acres of green tea. And in my rearview mirror, I could see the skyline of Nairobi behind me. And in that moment, I danced between, "This is so beautiful" to "This is a terrible idea" [audience chuckles] to "I can't wait to take walks in the tea farms" to "This place is really far."

 

And then, I went up another hill to the house, and it was love at first sight. We walked into the front room. It had a front room through this charming half-wooden door that is terrible for security, but just so beautiful for aesthetics. And then, we walked into the living room that had these beautiful wooden floors, and this big fireplace, just like my childhood home. We walked into the kitchen. Now, as someone who doesn't cook, I immediately thought of changing my ways, because it was so spacious. And then, we went to my favorite part of the house, the main bedroom, my bedroom. It had the same wooden floors and old white windows positioned just right, so that the sunrise would meet you at the foot of your bed. And its bathroom was bigger than the bedroom I had in my apartment in Nairobi.

 

And the compound, the house is sandwiched between two tea farms. It's got yards of garden space, it's got a flower garden, it's got a kitchen garden, and at the back, this huge avocado tree. I loved the house immediately, but what really sold me was as I was walking through this house with complete strangers, because my best friend didn't come with me to Limuru on that day, no family members, no loving husband, as I thought my happily-ever-after would be like, I still felt at home. It's like all the fear and the loneliness had vanished, like we had left them at the wooden door. 

 

And so, I began my move to Limuru. And the morning the movers arrived at the apartment, I was so happy. I couldn't believe that these were my last few minutes in this horrible house. I walked through each empty room, releasing any hopes I had for this home, releasing any hopes I had for my marriage, and then I took my very many plants as a plant mom, put them in my car, and drove right out, leading the huge moving truck to Limuru. When we got there, as the movers were unpacking my stuff in my new home, one of them asked, "Unahishi kwa hii nyumba peke yako kama mwanamke?" which means, "You're going to live in this house alone as a woman?" And I told him, "Yeah, why not?" putting on a brave face. But inside, I was terrified. 

 

I was a divorced African woman in her 30s living in a new town, in a new house, all alone. My number one fear was collapsing in this house and not being discovered for three days. And so, I gave a set of my keys to my best friend, fussy safety. But as I settled down into my new house, one thing was scaring me. Christmas. I was panicking, because I knew I needed to find a new tradition. So, October came around, and I hadn't bought gifts. November came around, and no decorations were up. Then December came, and I felt like closing my eyes and just opening them up and finding myself on 31st. 

 

And on Christmas week, I was driving back home. I parked my car and I got to my charming wooden door and something hit the top of my head. I looked up, and it was a Christmas wreath, and I thought, do I have a stalker? [audience laughter] And then, I opened the door and walked into the front room and there was an over-decorated Christmas tree and even more decorations in a bag, including three stockings. And I thought, what a thoughtful stalker. [audience laughter] It turns out it was my best friend who had orchestrated this surprise. I called him, and I was tearing up, and I was so happy. And for the next hour, I showed him how I was decorating my house. I was nailing the stockings to the fireplace using high heels, because I didn't have a hammer. [audience laughter] 

 

It felt so good, like Christmas had come full circle. And on Christmas morning, I woke up to the sunrise at the foot of my bed, to the sounds of the birds chirping, and I went to the kitchen and I started to make chicken. Not rosemary chicken, but honey-glazed chicken, which is my favorite. And then, later that day, I was putting the food onto the table as I was waiting for my best friend to arrive. My favorite artist, Hugh Masekela, was playing in the background. I felt an overwhelming feeling of happiness, of joy, of peace, of calm. And then, it hit me, that's what I loved about Mommy's traditions. The feelings. It didn't matter that I was divorced, it didn't matter that I didn't have kids. What mattered was the feelings. That was the best Christmas I had since Mommy died. And I think it's because I finally felt at home. I finally had my own tradition. Thank you.