Dear mama,

I am very tempted to respond to the letter that you cowardly directed to a local daily newspaper instead of directing it to me. My heart tells me that you will not take this kindly, but my mind tells me that I should.

I would like to start by setting the record straight and acknowledging that you did not study literature in school. Yes, I know because I have a copy of your CPE pasted on a wall in my school cubicle. I also know that you studied MCB, Maths, Chemistry and Biology; that is how you went on to A-levels and became a doctor. The relationship between literature and this letter will become clear when I am done.

Your career and profession is a testament of your dedication and hard work, but to us your children, it is a daily source of anger and frustration. When Dan, my little brother wanted dance schools for his birthday, you and dad made it clear that none of your children is destined to become a dancer. There is no doubt that your job enabled you to sent me Sh 30,000 in pocket money this term, which I have distributed to my friends by the way, but it is also the main reason why I only saw you for no more than 30 waking minutes each day during my school holidays. You and daddy were not there to tell me what was wrong with me when my moons came. My friend Janet did after much anxiety and enduring the sneers and taunts from local boys. When I was fifteen, our gardeners son told me how beautiful I was. I was very surprised that he told me those words. Before then, I thought that I was an ugly duckling. It is no surprise then that I would crave to hear those same words from the boys in our brother school. Liking their compliments does not mean that I am slut, it just means that I am growing up.

I am very surprised that you are making a big deal about the mini skirt issue, during the school holidays, I wore one every day and not even dad who at least tried to spent an hour in the house noticed. Even if he had, I had caught him in bed with the mboch and the neighbours daughter so many times that I would easily have blackmailed him. So I wore the mini to church, I wore it to jam session, I wore it to Planet Yoghurt, I wore it to Jeff’s going away party. And there was no word of protest. I adjusted it an inch upwards every day, and there was not a single word of protest. I took your absence to mean that you took me for a grown up.
Do you know why Dan committed suicide? I could list you five different reasons and each of the five would have your name and that of dad in it.

In our literature class this term, we learned of a word called 'metaphor' which I doubt you will understand given your penchant for scalpels and stethoscopes. Just like Dan’s dance shoes were a metaphor for rebellion, our miniskirts are a call to dialogue. Will you listen?

Your daughter in fear,
Anna