When the One You Love Dies (True Story)

“Death aims only once, but never misses.”

                                                         Edward Counsel, Maxims.

“Death is a great revealer of what is in a man, and in its solemn shadow appear the naked lineaments of the soul.”

- E.H. Chapin, Living Words. 

            Ours was a platonic affair but it bore the resemblance and undertones that may one day have matured to romance. Maybe she was cheekily suggestive but cautious. Giving leading clues but still stopping you on your tracks. Voluptuous, large round eyes that danced with life when cast at you and fleshy strong arms; Asunta or Ciru was a girl of my neighborhood. She stayed with her mother and younger brother on the ground floor while I at the fourth floor.  I could have dated her. I wished I got serious enough to date her. 

            I first got to know Ciru in 2009 or 2010. I don’t remember clearly. Back then I was a little scraggy, disorganized and bemused with life. I stayed in one-roomed house with my cousins Pablo, Daddy and a family friend called Vinnie. Things were hard. Except for Pablo who had a daytime job, the rest of us had none. The future looked bleak and my only comfort was books and writing poems. I read Miguel Street by V.S. Naipaul, Before the Rooster Crows by Peter Kimani (currently Standard columnist) and poems by Tupac Shakur. I had downloaded and printed several from the rap legend’s book ‘The Rose that Grew from Concrete.’ I had several books from one of my cousins who had completed her varsity education at Kenyatta University. I would read and write in the morning and go drink hard with friends in the evening. It was during this period that I was introduced to Ciru via Vinnie for whom God created in my image. We look alike. Constantly strangers ask if we are brothers. Sometime we used to set the record straight but no more. If asked, I answered in the affirmative. Ciru also swallowed the bait that we were brothers something she would never forgive me for in the years to come. 

 

            I wanted to date this girl. We were compatible if I may say. Or maybe I thought so. She was delighted to hear that I wrote poems. I can remember how her large eyes sparkled with life and ecstasy whenever I told her about verse. She later requested or is it sweetly commanded that I pen her poems. As many as my muse could allow. I remember the day she had invited me to her mother’s house. It was at the far end of the ground floor. Dark and damp between a small corridor. It was a Saturday afternoon, bright and hot and Githurai market was bustling with intense activity. I rang her first. She was in jovial moods and could not wait for me to come. I was at my aunt’s house. After confirmation, I took some minutes before climbing down the stairs to their house. 

 

            I was apprehensive and uncertain of myself. Would I manage the conversation? Oh, I had not written her the poem(s). I halted in my tracks and contemplated climbing up back to the house. Would she get livid for not writing her the poem(s)? I changed my mind and continued with my graceful descend to their house. She was cleaning clothes. Basinful of clothes. She had a short black skirt and her blouse was drenched with water. I greeted her before leaning on a wall as she hung clothes. I was admiring her legs. We talked about common things. The weather. The clothes she was cleaning and how washing in the afternoon is always hard sometimes. How I am lazy these days I don’t remember exactly when I had cleaned my own clothes. She later brought me a stool and was profusely apologetic for welcoming me that way. I told her I had no qualms. But she could not believe it and hurriedly finished the cleaning then ushered me into the house. 

 

            If Ciru liked me – I am desisting from using the word love- it was that afternoon. A stranger could have noted it right away. I have regretted that lost opportunity when I could have struck the iron when it was still blazing hot. She served me Orange juice in a thin, long glass before bringing the family album. She sat beside me and explained where she was during those photo shoots. She was like: “Here I was in school. There we had gone for a family meeting. Oh, there, those are my friends. The one on the left is working in town. The others I don’t know. It’s a long time.” 

 

            And it went on and on as she also flipped TV channels. She wanted to know what I was interested in among the TV programmes. I told her Tahidi High. Then there was a soap opera that had become a fad in every household.  Love Spell acted by two feuding brothers that my elder cousin Pablo had compelled everyone in the house to watch. Nothing will erase the cheerfulness, bliss and happiness we had together in that short duration as we narrated stories of all kinds in turn. It was a moment one wishes had been frozen. She asked me about Vinnie. Vinnie had made moves but baby steps. He had given me a carte blanche to ask the girl out. That day I deceived her as we now did that Vinnie was my brother. I have to clarify for the record that I had not turned into a cheat neither Vinnie but the question on our similarity had become a bore. If Vinnie or I said no, someone would refute it. What could one do if not lie even to a potential girlfriend such as Ciru who promptly believed me? 

 

            Then now she wanted the poems. Her poems she called them. I told her I had forgotten though it was a big prank. The truth is I had not written any for her. I don’t get ‘bossed’ around that way, I told myself. But I made a promise that I later kept two or three days later. They were two poems. I had written them in the quiet of my cousin’s house lying on the white woolen carpet one bleary morning. I polished them to near perfection and read and re-read them. Later I handed them to Vinnie for suggestions but deep down I was seeking for approval. Vinnie said they were not bad. Its unfortunate dear reader that I bear no copies of those ballads of which I could have reproduced here to demonstrate how I had fallen for this girl. 

 

            Fast forward to last year, things had changed. Things change anyway. I had left Nairobi without her knowledge. She was furious and told me without blinking that I had not taken her seriously. I was secretly flabbergasted and elated at the same time that she had some ‘feelings’ for me. But I was mistaken. It hits you like a heavy bolt that you have been mistaken all along. That the one you thought loved you years back no longer feels the same about you. Ciru had moved on. She had a guy. She told me. A guy working at an electrical shop nearby. She had even gone to his house and had been made to cook, clean and sleep over. She had been mistreated and was pondering walking out of the relationship. I felt bitter. I felt an overwhelming jealousy that would turn to hatred for myself. I had wasted a chance of dating this girl. The conversation threw hints at my ineptitude. My lack of grabbing the opportunity. 

 

            This year things were normal. Normal in the sense that I had healed and move on. Occasionally we met over a tête-à-tête. But nothing more. She still asked for her poems that I had pledged I would write but never did. I lost her number twice when I had been robbed of my phones. Recently I was to take her number but had constantly postponed it. I was also afraid I would arouse the feelings she had before that I had not taken our friendship seriously. But still I had made the resolve to get her number and specifically from her. 

 

             Seventh April, Monday, would become our last meeting. I had met Ciru along the pavement near Githurai market. I was from town and it was approaching one p.m. I saw her first. She was in a purple top with blue denim jeans. We hugged but she had some suggestive cheekiness because she pressed her breasts hard on me. I was carrying a book. Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. She snatched it from my hand and said she wanted to go and read it. I managed to convince her that I was still reading the book but would get her a romantic one. Her last words would remain etched in memory. Vile niko lonely (The way I am lonely). 

 

            But yesterday (Thursday), my look-like ‘brother’ Vinnie called me to come over to Githurai from Kahawa. He asked if I had read his message. I said no. After the call, I read the message. I could not believe it so I called him for confirmation. He said it was true. A sense of despair and denial engulfed me. When one loses a loved one, the first thing that comes is denial. Deep denial that it cannot be true. May be it is a joke. That’s how I feel. I still think Ciru is alive. At their house or scrubbing their carpet on a sunny Sunday as I clean my clothes and we crack jokes. Or maybe on a cool Saturday evening when we would take a stroll in the neighborhood holding hands though without strings attached. 

 

            It pains me that Asunta will never wake up again to see me live it. She died the day I got my letter to study what I have yearned to pursue all the years. I was told it was a painful death. I wished I wrote her one last poem. I wished I gave the romantic book I had promised though I have none in my library but still I could have searched it for her. She was worth searching for only that I had become lazy. Caught in an endless hustle to beat life’s challenges. Asunta, please forgive me for the poems and book but more so the love we never shared in full.