This is the story of a woman who survived her husband’s attempt to kill her and her children before he committed suicide:
“My name is Dianah Wanjiku. I met my husband, Richard Machio, in 2003. I was waiting for a matatu to take me to college when a man approached me. He was tall and good-looking.
“Hi. My name is Richard,” he said. “I am a matatu driver on route 25,” he added, then went quiet, looking unsure.
For some reason, my heart began to race. Unlike the other matatu drivers and touts that I was used to seeing here, Richard seemed well-mannered and, even better, was well-groomed.
“My name is Dianah,” I finally replied.
“Oh, Dinnah is a beautiful name,” he said.
“It’s Dianah,” I corrected him.
Throughout our marriage, when Richard wanted to tease me, he would call me Dinnah. He would say that it reminded him of the first time he saw me.
Well, he offered me the front seat and on the way, he enquired where I was going and asked me to give him my number. I did. During the next month, we met frequently at the matatu stage and eventually, went on a date. His caring attitude won me over. He would ask how my studies were going — I was training to be a teacher — and how he could help. In fact, he paid my final examination fees.
After dating for five months, we decided to move in together. I was 24 years old. We started our life together in a one-bedroom house in Riverside estate along Baba Dogo road, in the outskirts of Nairobi. I was five months pregnant with our first born daughter, Praise. She is now 10.
In December 2004, I took Richard to meet my parents, who gave us their blessings. That same month, we travelled to his home in Busia to meet his mother.
Although we were not financially well-off, we knew that by working hard together, we could move mountains. By late March last year, my husband and I had bought two parcels of land in Nairobi and were planning to build our home. One thing that I cherished was how open our marriage was. If Richard had work-related problems, he would come home in the evening and discuss them with me.
A few years into our marriage, Richard decided to quit the matatu business and instead got a job as a personal driver. I supported him, especially since he had earlier told me that he was finding the job difficult. I was then working as a coordinator at an NGO that advocates women’s empowerment.
Throughout our marriage, my husband never hit me. Neither did he drink alcohol. We had our challenges like any other married couple, but ours was a loving marriage.
Things changed on 14 April last year. That Sunday, around 11pm, Richard came home drunk. It was my first time to see him drunk. He acted unusually happy and kept repeating, “Sweetheart, I am back, and I am sorry I am late.”
I was confused, but did not make a big deal out of it. However, when he came home drunk again the following day, I was alarmed. Why had he started to take alcohol? I wondered.
On 16 April, it was a Tuesday, he came into the room where I was ironing, our two daughters in tow, took down his picture from where it hang on the wall, and told us that when he died, that was the picture he wanted placed on his casket.
I was shocked. I felt that his strange behaviour was not the result of the alcohol he had taken to drinking. After tucking our children in bed that evening, I asked him why he had behaved that way in the presence of our children.
He just laughed. I thought of calling his uncle to tell him about this behaviour, but changed my mind. Richard did not like getting relatives involved in our affairs. I feared that if his uncle came to talk to him, he would get angry.
Throughout that week, to Thursday, 18 April, Richard took alcohol daily. On Friday, 19 April, he came for me from home and drove me to town, where he bought me lunch, then went back to work.
I passed by a friend’s house and arrived home at around 6pm. Our house help told me that Richard had returned home, then gone out to look for me. I wondered why, but since it was already evening, I knew it would not be long before he returned.
He came back at around 8pm and went straight to our bedroom. Our daughters, whom he was close to, followed him. He did not speak to anyone. From the kitchen, I could hear our daughters laughing. I went to the bedroom and asked them to come to the table for supper. Strangely, Richard took the house and gate keys and left. At around 9pm, I sent him a text message, asking “Uko wapi? tunataka kulala.” He did not reply.
Since he had the house keys, I decided to store his food in the dishes, the way I did whenever he worked late, and went to sleep.
I woke up to excruciating pain in my head. Blood was dripping on my face as my husband slashed me with a sword. He held a knife in the other hand. He was drunk. He kept cutting me and I dropped from the bed to the floor. He must have thought I was dead because he walked out, leaving me on the floor. I heard him talking to his mother, telling her that he had killed me and that he was going to kill our children, then kill himself. He then called my father and told him to prepare four graves.
After he hang up, I heard Praise shout, “Daddy usituue!” (Daddy, don’t kill us). Somehow, I managed to stand up and dash to their bedroom. Richard was holding Catherine, who was struggling to escape, by the hand, while Praise lay on her back, a knife pointing at her.
“Richard!” I cried out. He must have been shocked because he dropped the knife. The children took advantage of that to run out. He recovered, picked up the knife, and pushed me against the wall. He then sunk the knife into my hand as I tried to defend myself and forced it down, breaking a bone, I would later learn. Luckily, I managed to pull away and run outside. I remember his last words as he pleaded for me to go back inside.
“Afadhali tufariki humu ndani, lakini kama hutaki, basi nenda ukafe huko nje; mimi nitakufa humu ndani.” (We should die together inside our house, but if you don’t want, then go die out there alone. I’ll die here).
Our neighbours rushed me to Guru Nanak Hospital. I remember I was about to go to the theatre when neighbours called to say that my husband had committed suicide in our bedroom using the knife he had cut me up with. I was discharged from hospital two weeks later.
The period after my husband’s burial in Busia remains the toughest I have ever gone through in my life. I felt alone and broken. My daughters kept asking if their father would ever come back and why he had killed himself. Even as I went through the emotional turmoil, I knew that for my daughters’ sake, I had to be brave as Richard had always said I was.
In those days, some of Richard’s friends and a few relatives distanced themselves from me and would send me abusive messages, claiming that I was the one who had killed him. Nonetheless, I am glad that many of my in-laws and I have maintained a deep relationship. In fact, I spent the last Christmas holiday with my mother-in-law and sisters-in-law.
I remember that while lying in my hospital bed, I wondered what would have become of my children had I also died. Who would have taken care of them?
I took a notebook and wrote notes to help me heal. In that book, I declared that I would make it my life’s purpose to help orphans and widows and that I had no one to turn to as I raised my daughters.
After recovering, I started an organisation called Cometogether Widows and Orphans. I launched it in December last year. Through the help of donors, we support 1,700 widows and more than 2,000 orphans — 14 are in high school.
It would be easy for me to play the victim or blame Richard and say that he was a wolf in sheep’s skin. But I was his wife and friend for 10 years and I know he was a good man, husband, and father. Ours was a happy home until that day when he abruptly changed. I do not blame him or accuse him and would give anything to have him back in our lives again.
Something must have happened that led him to do what he did. I wish I knew what.
He may not be here to read this or know that our children and I have forgiven him, or that his photographs still hang on the walls of our home, but I still feel that I need to say it. I know that he always wanted us to succeed and raise our daughters to be successful women, and that is what I will always strive to do.”
