(In
memory of Asunta)
It was a sunny May evening with an element of freshness
hanging in the air on the day destiny slated us to meet. I was going to buy my
laptop together with fellow roommates at an electronic shop along Kaunda
Street. Leisleigh had another of its
Saturday workshops and I was not going to miss on this. I had promised myself. The
process of acquiring a new laptop took a considerable amount of time. It was a
HP 2000 Notebook PC laptop (2.00 GB RAM with a processor speed of 1.50GHz) sold
to us by a girl of dark complexion possessing a rather flawless persuasive
flair. She exuded it in a natural sense that one did not find forced or
cunning. Thereafter, we strode into one of the eateries that line the noisy Moi
Avenue where we rapaciously attacked fries with cold sodas as Soul music boomed
around. But I was a man on the move. I had begun to contact a person (a lady
she was) I had saved as Leisleigh. It would later turn out to be Beth ‘Bee’
Nduta who had been receiving the calls. Not Musita as I had expected after
learning about her via Facebook and the agency.
I was in a hurry and left my roommates informing them of
my itinerary to Ongata Rongai. Being my maiden leap, I still never knew it was
such an exaggerated sensation in terms of the crazy distance and ‘diaspora’ tag
that featured prominently during the recent polls. By the way I love that
catchword of ‘Accept and move on.’ Or ‘Kenya is greater than all of us.’ I
hastened to Ongata Rongai bus-stop located near the Railways just directly
opposite Haile Selassie Road. Being a ‘foreign’ town of its own (internet
sources place it as 17KM away from Nairobi) I first panicked whether it was
worth bussing out. It was past the time. The session was on. However, I clung
to a ‘CORDIAN’ hope. Better take it the Supreme Court and have it thrown out
rather than cry sour grapes. I boarded and went straight to the rear seats.
Nairobi sun sunk fast with the large sky displaying patches of dark clouds. It
was going to rain. The bus left.
We passed Langata Cemetery on our right. I craned my neck
to observe the people who were milling around the gravestones of their loved
ones. Death is a unifying brother. I noted to myself. We drove on. Later we
came across Multimedia University. All along we communicated with my caller. I
would assure her I was about. She would reply: You are almost. Hope springs
eternal. Fine mists begun dotting the windows of the bus. The day transformed
into a distasteful grey that forewarns you it will be cats and dogs after all.
God never disappointed. He disappoints at times.
Darkness was beginning to invade the storeyed buildings
when I alighted. The weather was charged with an air smelling of rain. It was a
horrible grey if I can recall clearly as I rushed toward the ‘Leisleigh House.’
I knew it was over. I regretted my fare to this No Man’s Land look-alike. One
normally regrets his fare first before anything else. I was mistaken. By the
way I was clutching tightly to my short story For God and Country. It begins thus:
“Things were set to plan. And any leak would confirm that somebody was
talking too much. Of late, the local Cheka was sniffing out any bit of a puzzle
that was not adding up. The head of the mob sat in a pensive mood, occasionally
commanding orders to the younglings who squatted on the carpeted floor.
Attentive. “This is for God and country.”
It
was a badly written short story by the way I wrote for a Storymoja blog
competition. It never won. It was destined to fail. I later sent it to Mehul
Gohil, recently published then by Kwani? for suggestions. This is what Mehul
ala Gorilla had to say:
“Your prose has good flow to
it. Which means you are capable of better.
Your
piece has too much tell, too little show. You simply state things. You don't
show them. So the story is not alive.
Furthermore,
you need to do some proper research into the motivation of a suicide bomber or
go deep into yourself and ask what would convince you to become one. The way
you have put it, it seems only the daft and the idiots...unthinking people go
ahead and do this. The IQ in general seems low from what you have portrayed.
The story would have more nuance and depth if the people involved were
intelligent yet ready to do this. It's too obvious. As a fiction writer you are
supposed to tell me something I won’t hear my bar mates tell me over beer. If I
meet up with my pals, I'll here juicer stuff regarding this matter. You can't
write the story with such an obvious and easy to decipher angle.”
I
am digressing. After a few directions over the phone, I got to a small room
full of writers and poets. Beth was waiting with arms outstretched to welcome a
new ‘disciple.’ Richie Maccs was sitting on the same row with the witty Kevin
Orato (I had known these cats through Facebook). I decide to sit beside them.
Maybe I felt safe near them because our camaraderie on Facebook had given me
that illusion of protection of brotherhood. It has turned out to be a reality of
brotherhood. Ask Richie Maccs. Across the small room that had a drawing of
Michael Jackson was a lady of a rich, dark complexion with that betraying smile
that makes one uncomfortable and slightly inattentive in the unfamiliar setting.
Her name I later got to know as Julie Auma. I had read her poem Woman thou art loosed recently via
shared notes on Facebook. Samuel Kibagendi was there. Roundsquared Chumolette
was also present but we never interacted because he left a few minutes after I
had arrived. And Linda Musita was there. Joyce Owino. Lovely people.
*******
A year later, these memories come gushing into my head in
this unholy hour as I write this piece. It is 1.48 a.m. Kahawa Wendani is
wrapped in a deathly silence. And it’s biting cold outside if you venture at
the balcony. That evening being ‘A Night of Thousand Laughs’ at Bomas and even
on traffic because we spent more hours than I actually take from Kisumu town to
my rural backyard and back to town. Richie Maccs later cracked one his first
dark humors I heard that evening. He said rich people had to spend Ksh 2000 to
afford a laugh. We stepped into town almost at 10 p.m. The streets had small
water pools everywhere, colorless, dark, and reflected by the soft Nairobi
streetlights. Later we escorted those who were to be escorted to their
bus-stops. What we did later with Richie Maccs and Orato Kevin remains
classified. Maybe John Mututho will one day exact his revenge. Meanwhile he
claimed drunks and bar owners conspired to have him voted out. I hope he was
right.
