My mother thinks I live in a secluded rustic-cabin convent in the remotest part of Karen, Nairobi. She slaughtered a chicken for me when I was awarded a partial scholarship at an obscure Catholic-sponsored university. The fact that even my father was not allowed to escort me to the hostels told her that she had nothing to worry about. I was protected from university corruption and debauchery. “God answers prayers,” she quipped. “God loves you.” When I finished high school without a scandal, and scandal here means being spotted with a boy, she recited the rosary, prostrate before the image of the Madonna and the child. She repeated the joyful mysteries in earnest. At times like this, she wished for the virginity of Mary, the Mother of Jesus, but the Lord had blessed her with open legs. A month later, she still called me for hours in the evening to remind me how much God loved me and that He had told her I would be a nun. It was one of these evenings after she had hung up when th