The two young ladies my household who call me Baba Yao are ten years apart—one’s a savvy seventeen and the other’s a spirited seven. You’d think the age gap would make them different. Wapi! They are united by a single, unwavering purpose in life: to annoy their dad.
Sometimes they’re the best of friends, swearing that each is the best thing that’s ever happened to the other. Other times, they’re pouting, quarreling, and hugging, apart but still stuck together like glue. It’s like watching a live-action soap opera. Sisters can transform from mortal enemies to soul mates in the blink of an eye. I can’t understand these girls, let alone women.
Occasionally, they come in handy, teaching me how to update my Whats App status and navigate YouTube like a pro. Other times, they goof off way too much. Like last weekend, when they were decorating themselves but smudged the walls with makeup. I gave them a heartfelt speech about accepting one’s mistakes and using them as a learning curve.
“Embrace your mistakes always,” I summarized. The elder sister embraced me. The younger sister followed suit. I’m yet to recover from that nuanced jibe.
Sometimes, they find endless amusement in my old-man ways, like singing off-key Mugithi tunes in the bathroom or murmuring to myself while working around the house. This morning, they decided to get to the bottom of it.
“Dad, why do you talk to yourself?” they asked. It was my time for sweet revenge.
“It’s not talking to myself. It’s giving myself expert advice,” I replied.
Their collective eye roll lasted a good five minutes.
