No, my son is not a retard

Kikuyu. This name and tribe comes with many things. Some good. Others not so good.  I was born a Kikuyu.

Sometimes, I don’t know whether to celebrate or hide my ethnicity. I have been to meetings where one of the warnings whispered, in jest, is, “Watch your bags, we have Kikuyus amongst us”.

In international meetings, the warning is, “Watch your bags and passports, we have Kenyans and Nigerians in the building”.

Mind your language

Recently, a close friend disclosed that she overheard another friend discussing my son Issa, who has autism spectrum disorder (ASD). From the discussion, it was clear that this friend had no idea what this condition is all about.

I went public not so long ago about Issa being diagnosed with ASD. For reasons beyond me, this warranted a meeting with some people that are close to me.

The language they used was awful. I could not stand it. They discussed, one after the other, the remedy for ASD. You would have thought they were talking about, and dishing solutions from a case study that had been carried out at Harvard University.

First was the justification that, in our lineage, there is no “Kirimu kana kiugu”, meaning that in our family, there is no retard, deaf person, or person with a mental disorder. And I’m being polite here - the language used was extremely hurtful and heartless.

When this is discussed in Kikuyu, it kills me further. This is a child, my child, being called a kirumu or kiugu. It’s almost as if Issa is not a human being. And it was being done without apology or remorse.

Such handles rob people of their dignity and self-esteem. They are meant to demean and victimise a person whose only blessing – (because my child is a blessing) – was born with a certain medical condition.

I’ll say it once, just this once: my son is not a retard.

A sick resolution

I was lost for words. Never in my scariest nightmares did I think that someone would think and say that of my son. And not only my son: any child with any condition should not be defined by their condition.

A child is a child. Period. I am sure the conveners of the meeting saw my eyes turning red. I tried to compose myself, as I was handed the “solution”. By this time, I had lost interest, and was barely holding onto my temper.

The solution? I should buy goats and traditional Kikuyu beer so Issa could be cleansed and reborn. “After this is done,” I was told, “Issa will no longer be a kirimu or kiugu.”

I didn’t say yes or no. I walked out and hastily reversed my car, cursing under my breath, and regretting why I had agreed to attend this sick meeting, which had made me miss my church service.
My resolution

Bah. I will not buy goats or traditional beer. I will have this group know that my son is not a kirimu or kiugu. I thought we passed this era of looking down and victimising people because they have this or that condition. Obviously, I thought wrong.

To me, Issa will always be a precious child. Nothing can ever change what my heart feels for him. He’s a treasure. I wouldn’t change him for anything in the world.

From the time Issa was diagnosed with ASD, I have come to know of other families in my shoes. If you were the one in my situation, how would you have reacted or responded? Let me hear your side of the story.

Eating and drinking is alright. I’m sociable. I would have been glad to play hostess under different circumstances. But not when my son has been summarily slapped with handles to offend me to my heart’s core.

I refuse to be fooled. If anyone has any scientific research supporting this foolishness, let me know.

At the moment, I am doing what I know is best for Issa: following proven scientific methods to manage ASD.

And from the look of things, Issa will be like, if not better than, other members of the society. If you didn’t hear me the first time, I’ll repeat it for the last time: my son is not a retard.