Unbowed: A Memoir (Vintage)

by Maathai, Wangari

  The trial lasted for about three weeks, but it seemed like years. Throughout, the press recounted details of the proceedings like it was a popular soap opera. With every court proceeding, I felt stripped naked before my children, family, and friends. It was a cruel, cruel punishment. My greatest claim to fame and press attention was that I was married to a man who was getting rid of me! As I went through the trial I swore to work for laws that would protect couples and their families from destroying each other. I cannot claim much credit, but such courts are now in place and it is a source of pride that the government of which I became a member appointed the first woman family judge when it came to power: Justice Martha Koome.

  During the trial, Mwangi was quoted as saying that he wanted a divorce because I was “too educated, too strong, too successful, too stubborn, and too hard to control.” This statement made it into the press and later went around the world. I don't recall his saying anything like that. It was the press's expression of what they perceived his sentiments to be. As it was, there was very little sympathy for me in the press: The reporters and editors, like many others, assumed that if a marriage fails it is the woman who is not doing her job properly and obeying her husband. As far as they were concerned I deserved to be whipped publicly for challenging the authority of my husband. And since I was an educated woman, being publicly humiliated would also serve to warn other such educated women that if they also dared to challenge such authority, the same fate would befall them.

  At one point it became clear I was being turned into a sacrificial lamb. Anybody who had a grudge against modern, educated, and independent women was being given an opportunity to spit on me. I decided to hold my head high, put my shoulders back, and suffer with dignity: I would give every woman and girl reasons to be proud and never regret being educated, successful, and talented. “What I have,” I told myself, “is something to celebrate and not to ridicule or dishonor.”

  One moment in the courtroom encapsulated the situation I found myself in. I was on the witness stand and Mwangi's lawyer had asked me a question. In court when you are asked a question you are supposed to answer yes or no and the atmosphere is designed to be very intimidating. But in that moment, I felt that I was addressing just another person who had asked me a question. I wasn't intimidated. Instead of answering, I posed my own question: “Why did you ask me that question?” The lawyer should have replied, but he turned to the judge and said, “Your honor, did you hear what she asked me? If she dares ask me a question in court what do you think she does to my client at home?” I realized that I had just put a rope around my neck.

  I knew then that I would lose the case. I realized that because of that exchange the judge would be persuaded that I was indeed a stubborn, unyielding, and difficult person who dared to ask questions and seek explanations in a court of law. The judge would use that to show that, therefore, I was giving my husband hell at home! It did not surprise me either that the evidence I had with me to prove some of the lies that were being told in court—such as my causing Mwangi to have high blood pressure—was stolen from my car outside a restaurant where my lawyer and I were having a quick lunch before returning to court for more questioning. When the ruling was handed down, it went against me. I was now divorced. I felt cheated, betrayed, taken advantage of, and misused. I walked away in pain. I was in pieces, and worse was yet to come.

  To add insult to injury, after our divorce Mwangi did not want me to continue using his surname and let me know it through a letter from his lawyer. I remember thinking to myself, “I'm not an object the name of which can change with every new owner!” And I had resisted adopting his name in the first place! As a way to deal with my terrible feelings of rejection, I got the idea of adding another “a” to “Mathai” and to write it as it is pronounced in Kikuyu. And so I became “Maathai.” The extra syllable also signified that although a part of me would always be connected to Mwangi and his surname, I had a new identity. Henceforth, only I would define who I was: Wangari Muta Maathai.

  A week or so after the trial, Salim Lone, then the editor of Viva magazine and an advocate for free expression, interviewed me about the case. When he asked me about the judgment, I told him that the only way the judge could have granted a divorce on hearsay was that he was either incompetent or corrupt. The truth of the matter was that there was not enough evidence to dissolve our marriage. Although it was not considered grounds for divorce, incompatibility would have been a fairer reason.

  My statement to Viva set off a chain reaction that astonished me. Apparently, my comment so angered the judge that I was threatened with contempt of court—a serious crime. “People,” he said (and I suspect women in particular), “can't go around slandering judges.” When I refused to retract it, the government hauled me before another judge, and I was actually charged with contempt of court. Once again I needed very competent lawyers to rescue me from the jaws of the judge and the courts. I argued that I hadn't actually called the judge corrupt or incompetent, but had rather concluded that he would have had to be one or the other to render the decision he had.

  Unfortunately, the court did not see it my way. Salim was offered a jail term of six months or a fine of some forty thousand Kenyan shillings, which was a lot of money at the time. I, however, was given no such option to pay a fine, and was instead sentenced to six months in jail. I was immediately arrested and taken to Lang'ata Women's Prison in Nairobi.

  This turn of events was so rapid and unexpected that I had little time to sort out what had happened and how I had come to be in this predicament. I had never come face-to-face with the law before, and imagine my astonishment as I confronted jail time as an outcome of my divorce. Not only had I lost my husband but I had also lost my freedom. I had no idea then, of course, that this was only the beginning and that I would eventually visit jail on many occasions in the course of the years that followed—almost earning the reputation of being a jailbird.

  This time, as on many other occasions, I would not have the opportunity to go back home to say good-bye to my children or to explain my predicament. They were at home with the woman who helped around the house, and would learn from relatives or friends about my fate and deal with it the best way they could. How well they understood or appreciated the matter I could not tell. However, I was worried that they were too young to understand what was going on but old enough to have their sense of security threatened by it.

  Thankfully, whenever I have been imprisoned, the stints have been short, generally a matter of days. But being in jail is never easy. Prison is crowded, filthy, cold, and dehumanizing. This first time was no different. The very afternoon I was due in court on the contempt charge I attended a lunch party. I had just had my hair done and the fashion at the time if you wore braids, as I did, was to have a lot of beads in your hair. I remember that I had beads all over my head, and I'd dressed carefully. At the lunch, I joked with some of the other women: “I better eat a lot because I don't know when I'll eat next,” I told them. “Ah, don't worry,” they replied, “they'll probably just give you a heavy fine and let you go.”

  As it turned out, it was a good thing that I'd eaten well since, once the judge had passed his judgment, the police didn't waste any time. There were so many of us in custody that we were all squeezed in together in the police cell and then the van that took us to prison. At first we were taken to the remand cell. It was raining and the cell had nothing that could be called a roof: Rain fell all over us and I felt wet and cold. There I was, dressed to kill with all my beads in a cell that was cold, dank, filthy, smelly, and crowded, with no room to sit down. Water was everywhere. Most of the other women were there for petty crimes, such as brewing illegal alcohol. This was strange company, very different from the elite crowd with whom I had shared a sumptuous lunch only a few hours before.

  Finally officers came to transport me from the remand cell to the jail cell. I was taken in a police van down a long, dirt road lined with small market stalls to the prison pro
per: a large, squat building surrounded by high walls and barbed wire, not too far from the home Mwangi and I had shared on Kabarnet Road and within sight of the Kibera slum. When we got there one of the guards looked at my clothing and hair and said, “And where did this one come from?” I did not find this funny and at that point had no desire to respond.

  I was put into a concrete, maximum-security cell with four other women and given a uniform, a pan to use as a toilet, and a blanket. The women wardens also cut off my braids. The situation was extremely depressing, to say the least, but the other women prisoners, no matter what had landed them in jail, treated me very kindly. They showed me how to fold my blanket properly. “You don't use it to cover yourself,” they said, “you use it as a mattress so you can sleep on the concrete.” They also told me to sleep between them in a huddle on the floor so I wouldn't feel cold.

  “Why are you here?” one of the women asked me. I am sure she was surprised to see an educated woman, a member of society's elite so to speak, next to her in the cell. “I told a judge he was corrupt,” I replied.

  “But they are!” she cried. Another woman said, “We have to pray for the judges so they will judge fairly and justly tomorrow.” For the very first time in my life, I heard people pray for judges. I prayed, too, because I knew I was in the deepest trouble I'd ever been in. I will always remember the generosity, gentleness, and kindness of those women.

  The next morning, however, I discovered that my friends outside had been working hard because the fact that I'd been sent to jail was all over the newspapers. Details of my case had obviously made it inside, too, as a result. After we had cleaned the cell and the guards, who were also women, had assigned all the women additional jobs, one guard gave me the task of holding the baby of a prisoner. I knew then that the guard was sympathetic because I could have been given a job that was much worse. I sat and took good care of that baby.

  The effect of the jailing on my children also weighed heavily on my mind. They were still young (ages ten, eight, and six) and I couldn't spend six months in prison away from them, especially for something I found absurd. I worried a lot about the children, because it was difficult for them to handle the public exposure and criticism, and they were still too young to understand what was going on.

  It was also the case that while some among the public were happy with the punishment given to me, others felt that jailing me and with such a long sentence was not right. People knew that many of the judges were, in fact, corrupt, which helped build pressure for me to be released. After three days in prison, my lawyer developed a formulation whereby I provided a statement to the court that they found sufficient to set me free.

  My experience in jail was a turning point. Until that time, I had had no problems with the law. Even afterward, though people accused me of deliberately courting arrest or acting arrogantly with Kenya's legal authorities, I always tried as far as possible to stay within the letter of the law. But after the divorce and my time in jail I could see that certain people were jealous and wanted me to be taught a lesson and put in my place. They took pleasure in what they perceived as my comeuppance. The message was clear: Every other woman who contested her husband or the (male) authorities was being told, “If you try to be anything but what you ought to be, we will treat you exactly the way we have treated her. So, behave, women!”

  Far from beating me down, however, this message gave me strength. I knew I'd done nothing wrong. I had not acted maliciously, arrogantly, or criminally. And look what had been done to me! Despite my wrenching experience, something positive may have come out of it for other women who faced divorce in future years. Because many men saw that I remained resolute in the face of the pressure put on me, they realized that if they wanted to divorce their wives it would be best, for themselves as well as for their children and families, if they did it fairly and respectfully.

  Throughout this difficult time, my children were the reason I got up in the morning and continued working. Each day I would look into their eyes and want to do something for them. They kept me focused: I still had to get them to school, make sure they had food to eat and clothes to wear, and pay their school fees. If I hadn't had the children I would have been left with an enormous vacuum in my life.

  Vertistine Mbaya also helped me enormously. She was a wise and kind friend. In 1976, she experienced the trauma of her husband's death in a car crash, leaving her a widow with four children to raise. Having just gone through deep emotions herself, I think Vert could understand what I was experiencing. She knew I needed to forget what had happened and not dwell on it. She and I rarely talked about the divorce and the aftermath. Instead we discussed all other manner of subjects under the sun. By not sharing what she heard, Vert also protected me from any comments my colleagues at the university might have made to her about my situation. She helped me cross that valley.

  Money, however, remained a problem. There was no legal requirement for Mwangi to help support me, and, in any event, I had decided not to seek any of his wealth or property, since the loss of him as a friend and companion far outweighed any money he could give me. But I was in debt, with very few savings, and hiring the lawyers to handle the divorce had cost a lot. They had also demanded their fees up front, because they didn't think I would be able to pay once the divorce was finalized.

  I wanted to protect the children as much as I could from what had happened between their father and me. They were still too young to fully understand the pain and struggle I was experiencing. But at times I could not hide the realities of my situation or the financial hardship I faced. I remember one occasion vividly.

  During the hot weather, I would take Waweru, Wanjira, and Muta to a nearby pool we frequented in one of Nairobi's hotels. Waweru and Wanjira were happily swimming in the main pool and Muta, their younger brother, wanted to join them. But I had to keep telling Muta to stay where he was in the kids’ pool. The older children had inflatable plastic water wings (readily available and fairly cheap) that allowed them to swim safely in the big pool. Then, though, I could not afford to buy Muta a pair. He looked at me with his big eyes, leaving me with no doubts about what he wanted. I felt terrible that I couldn't buy him the wings.

  Another time we were at the pool and the children wanted to eat sausage and chips from the pool's snack bar. I didn't have enough money to buy them each a plate of chips, so I ordered one plate and asked the children to share. But Waweru understandably wanted for each to get their own chips. He was the oldest and had been swimming hard and was hungry. “I don't have any money,” I told him. I have never forgotten that day. I was without money and my children wanted chips and I couldn't buy them. They didn't understand how I couldn't have the money. There was nothing I could do. When people tell me they can't afford to put food on the table, I know how they feel because I experienced it myself.

  It was clear that the salary I was drawing from the university was simply not enough to sustain the children and me. Soon after the divorce, an opportunity arose to supplement my income. Vert told me that the United Nations Development Programme was looking for someone to take a six-month assignment with the Economic Commission for Africa to explore the constraints on improving the region's livestock industry.

  Even though I needed the money, I had to think very hard about this consultancy because I would have to be based in Lusaka, Zambia. I knew I couldn't take the children with me. They were in school, and the job required me to travel throughout Africa. Besides, the lawyers were asking for their money and I didn't have any. If I turned this consulting job down, the children and I could literally be out in the streets. I considered who could take care of the children in my absence. My mother? Another relative living in Nairobi?

  Then one day I realized that if anything were to happen to the children in my absence, the person most likely to be called would be their father. Although Mwangi and I had no formal arrangement regarding the custody of the children or visiting rights, I knew he was the right person to care
for them. “If there's anybody who loves them, it's him,” I thought to myself. “If he can't take care of them, nobody else can.” So I put Waweru, Wanjira, and Muta in my little Volkswagen Beetle and told them, “We're going to Daddy.”

  I drove the short distance to his house. I knew Mwangi wouldn't talk to me, but I also knew he wouldn't send the children back. Mwangi's niece, also named Wanjira, who was living with him, opened the gate and we greeted each other. “I'm bringing the children for a short time,” I said. “I'm coming back soon.” What I didn't say is that it would be six months before I returned to Nairobi to live full-time. Then I watched those little children turn and walk into the compound.

  I thought then, and still do, that it was important for Mwangi, as it is for all fathers, to have a close relationship with his children. I deliberately tried to ensure that. I told the children, “You will be all right with your father.” During the next few months, while I was in Zambia, I kept in touch with the children and tried not to let this disrupt their lives with their father. While I worked at the consultancy, I would pass through Nairobi regularly and hear how the children were. I was pleased to learn that Mwangi was taking very good care of them, and I was not surprised.

  The children ended up staying with Mwangi for a number of years. When they eventually came back of their own accord to my house, around 1985, I was very happy they were back and that that chapter had ended. But I encouraged them to keep in touch with Mwangi and, when they were studying outside of Kenya, to write and call their father.

  Now that my children are grown, I realize how lucky I've been. No one comes through divorce untouched—neither the wife, nor the husband, nor the children. That said, many children grow up in unbroken homes but are destroyed by the tensions they experience. Of course, there are many, many children who emerge from a broken family situation who are very strong. If the parents help their children and protect them, they come out all right. In spite of everything that happened between Mwangi and me, I am very pleased that our children have a positive relationship with both of us.