Deborah Auko Tendo: Triumph after rejection - I was never meant to be born

Deborah Auko Tendo, Fargo’s head of commercial, still weeps for her mother. So many unresolved issues there — pain, abandonment, rejection, bitterness. A broken childhood. She knows a thing or two about going through the wringer: she has lived in a sprawling slum, in a lodging with prostitutes and thugs with guns, and a church, waking up to the toiling of the bell that marked, rather loudly, another blighted day. Her mother remains a thorn in her flesh to date. How do you resolve issues with someone you never knew, someone who is dead?

Well, in no particular order, you drink copiously, you stop drinking, you go to therapy, you get married, you have children, you write a gritty, naked memoir with an oxymoron title, Rough Silk, you climb Mount Kenya and Kilimanjaro in one year, “because of that constant confrontation with oneself.” You fight cancer with the one man who never let go of your hand and eventually bury him.

You are suddenly all these things — a wife, a mother, a logistician, a patron of Kenya Women in Logistics and Transport (KWILT), a public and private security analyst, a dangerous goods specialist, a multilingual, a rhumba aficionado with rhythm in her very bones and heart, you are a wanderlust having travelled to 86 countries. You are not just living, you are alive. You survived.

“For me, this International Women’s Day is to celebrate women who survived to tell their story.”

And when you sit down to tell your story, and you go back to the past and your mother, you are suddenly not any of these things, you are a child again. And you can’t stop weeping.

I’m not surprised you are a teetotaller [it’s 1pm, and she’s having a virgin mojito] with your high energy you’d be a hurricane if you drank alcohol.

Oh, I used to drink a whole bottle of whisky alone. Never was one to drink tots. Oh, it wasn’t good. I’d get on the plane with a bottle from duty-free and ask the cabin crew to get me a glass and ice. Then my dad died from cancer after I struggled with him for over a year, I found myself broke and unable to sustain my drinking anymore. I was embarrassed to have anyone buy me a drink because I always bought my drink. And when people insisted I was forced to drink what they could afford, even if I didn’t like their choice. I had no power. I hate not having power or a choice, so I quit. I haven’t touched a drink since 2016.

Do you miss it?

Not really. My husband still drinks quite a bit, and he is my motivation when I see him on a Saturday morning, really suffering from a hangover. I like it. [Laughs loudly]. I look at him, and I’m like, I’m not going back there. I don’t have any regrets about drinking so much because I used to be brilliant when I was drinking. I had amazing clarity of thought. I had amazing ideas. I would be in a pub writing down notes because I knew the moment I’d get sober, these ideas would all disappear. Having said that, continuing to drink could have limited my career.

You said you hated not having power, why was having power so important? Where did that stem from?

Childhood. My story is long and can’t fit into this interview, but here is an abridged version. My mom, at 15, got pregnant by a man running away from the war in Uganda. Because she was afraid of the stigma that came from being a teenage mother, she tried to abort about twice and failed. That’s when my journey of survival began.

Her mom told her to give birth and give her the baby. My grandmother was called Deborah. I’m born, and my mom hands me over and goes away. Later, she meets and falls in love with a man, George. She doesn’t tell him she has a child back in the village, she denies it, and she denies me, many times. He has me brought over and says he will raise me as his child.

Meanwhile, he doesn’t mention that he left two wives back in the village, with children. And the marriage is a lie. That’s how I ended up in Nairobi. I’m two years old. The marriage gets violent, lots of fighting. Dad is drinking so much, staying away from home for days, you know, typical of South Nyanza guys. [Laughs]. On one of those disappearance days, my mom goes looking for him at my uncle’s house. She was carrying my younger brother on her back and me by her side when she walked into the living room and found my dad passed out on mattresses with three women. She was so shocked that she dropped my little brother on the floor. She then turned and walked out the door, and I never saw her again for many years. I was five.

What?! Just like that?

Yeah. I told you, you don’t have space for my story. Then it was just us and our dad. Life became so hard for my dad, who lost his job, raising us. We moved to Umoja, then Eastleigh. We got auctioned. We went knocking on his friend’s door, begging him to house us. We lived in a church, St Teresa’s Church, the three of us. My dad was a messenger, one of those guys who ran errands in town.

You know those guys who congregate outside City Hall, talking politics in broken suits? That was my dad. We lived in Mathare and then in one room in a very cheap lodging with prostitutes and thugs with guns. My dad would go out drinking and eating with his friends and tell them, ‘Wrap these leftovers for me, I have a dog at home.” We’d eat that food, rummage through what was decent enough to eat—food other people had touched and left.

Did you ever see your mom again?

Yes, thrice. The first time, she came to school and asked me to sneak her certificates from our house. The second time, I was to join high school, I had passed very well—under those dire circumstances—and was called to Alliance Girls and Moi Girls, Eldoret, but my dad had no money. He had gone around knocking on doors with his bowl, begging for school fees from anybody he could. She just appeared and offered to pay for me. She was doing well for herself.

When she dropped me off at school, she introduced me as Deb, never as her daughter, she was still denying me. I cried so much when she left. I resented her so much. The last time I saw her was four years later, in Form Four. Upon suspension from school, I went to look for her in Homa Bay, where she was working for CARE Kenya. The woman I met was a bag of bones, unrecognisable. Last stages of HIV/Aids. We were both shocked to see each other.

I made food for her because she could barely stand. When a man showed up at night in Nissan Sunny, she struggled on her feet, shaking, she went to the kitchen to warm food for him. As the man ate, he asked, ‘And who is this?” She told him, “She is my niece.” I left the next day and later told my dad this story while crying uncontrollably. She died three months later, but before she died, she told me about my real father, saying that he had fled to Europe. His name was Tendo Alex. “If you are interested, go look for him.”

Did you look for him?

How could I not? I did, desperately. I found his people on Facebook, and then I learned he had died.

How important was identity to you?

Very, very important! Identity gives you rooting and a sense of belonging. I rebelled a lot in high school because of this. I fought other girls, I sneaked out to watch football, and I smuggled a radio into school to listen to rhumba. This was President Moi’s school—quote unquote—but I hung a photo of Raila over my bed. [Laughs]. I led strikes. I got suspended every year of my high school.

I ached for my mother, I wrote her letters, which she ignored. I was smart and performed well, and I sent her my report form, hoping she would write and tell me how proud she was of me, but…but she didn’t. I longed for her. [She breaks down and weeps]. I felt abandoned. Unloved by my mother.

I know you have gone through therapy, but I’d like to know how you processed this difficult relationship with your mother.

[Pause] Imagine knowing that you were unwanted before you came to this world. That your mother did everything to kill you. I was never breastfed, I was given goat milk. But I’m here, Biko. You had earlier commented that I seem like someone who doesn’t seek validation, can you imagine surviving all that, abortion, and rejection? I survived all that when I was defenceless, as a foetus, as a child, survived being handed over, being denied affirmation, and validation, and soon you stop seeking it outside, but within yourself. Education was a great validation, by the way. I was smart in school. I think this grading system is very key because coming top of my class, despite the abandonment, the lack of belonging made me realise I was someone.

After going through these hurdles, what do you still find yourself struggling with the most?

My mother. [Long emotional pause]. I’m sorry, I keep crying…[Weeps] It doesn’t matter how many therapists I talk to, I can’t resolve my mother’s issue. She isn’t here to give me an answer, and it remains a burden. I wonder if she lost sleep thinking about me and my brother. If we had eaten, if we were cold, were we sick? Why did she constantly deny me? I can’t ask her these questions.

How did your childhood experience shape your motherhood?

Imani, Zola and Romeo who is turning 13. They know my story, and they have also read my book. I feel that they have it easy in life. I always tell my husband, ‘These kids have no grit at all, how will they survive this world?’ When they ask for something I always remind them that I grew up without food and they say, OK mom, sorry we asked. [Laughs]. If they ask for something expensive for their birthday, I tell them, "Do you know I never even celebrated one birthday, never had a gift..” They say, OK, OK mom, sorry, forget the gift, we are fine. [Laughs loudly] They are tired of me and my childhood stories. Tired! They say, “Mom, can you please heal?” [Laughs]

You were devoted to this man who wasn't even your biological father. He sounds like a remarkable man, very flawed but also very human.

Can you imagine this man insisted that I be brought to Nairobi so that he would raise me, a child he didn’t know? He insisted on giving me an identity; gave me his last name. When my mom abandoned us, he could have easily sent me back to my grandma but he didn't. He struggled with feeding me when he couldn't feed himself. The easy thing would be to say, 'this burden isn't mine, take her back.'

We suffered together until I finished law school and I got a job. Then I started taking care of him. And my dad was my friend, Biko! We used to go to rhumba together and watch football. We would always go drinking together, people thought he was my sugar daddy. [Laughs]

People hide these things from their children but my dad allowed me to see what it meant not to have, what it meant to lose your job and all your friends. He also showed me how irresponsible a man could be. My dad reached such low levels that his friends started sleeping with his girlfriend. He allowed me to see who he was and to love him that way. And I loved him so much. I loved that man so much and when he got cancer I fought with him to his death because he was the only person who fought for me when nobody thought I was worth fighting for.

You mentioned earlier how when auctioneers came over, they even took your novels, which seemed to pain you a lot. Why were your books so important to you?

Back in the day, the Kenya National Library services used to come to the slums in a van to donate books. Novels were an escape from my suffering at home. I could go to New York, Japan, anywhere through books. I pretended I was the character and I started living their life. I loved Shakespeare to the point that the librarian always gave me his books to go home with.

What rhumba song defines this season you are in?

"Parking" by Ferre Gola. It's from the new album. It's very slow and smooth and calm, like my life now. I’m very peaceful now, very happy. My children are fine, my marriage is fine, my career is fine. My life is quiet and smooth. Oh, Oh, [gets excited] another song that defines this season is "Loumousou" by Rochereau. Listen to it, [Closes eyes] very calm.

What is the one thing you want to celebrate on International Women's Day on Friday?

Women survive to tell their stories. A lot of things could have broken me but I made a conscious decision to be a better human being. To not let the things that happened to me define me and not to bleed on everybody as a result. To be kinder to people, to listen more, to help those in need. For me, this day is about surviving to tell the tale. But Biko, is this not a business paper, you haven’t asked me one business question. Do you even know what I do for a living? You know, I'm a very well-regarded corporate woman who…

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