Feeling lost? wait! stick around and hear this. She is the reason why Sauti Sol sang melanin because she oozes it. She is a black beauty; you wouldn’t look at her once without gazing the second time. Her curves are smooth and elegance is her second name.
She’s the clean type, probably with OCD. Just the sight of muddy puddles give her migraines. And contact with it? Huh…. contact with mud gives her nightmares and sleepless nights. She tosses and turns as memories replay in her mind and greatly torment her until she visits a psychologist. She’s washed twice a day. Passers by can’t stop looking, and she knows it.
She knows it because she always looks away. She knows how to play hardball, and she plays it well. She’s definitely Kalenjin, because she’s speedy and sleek. Despite how outgoing or how well she speaks, she still says ‘siyuko’ instead of ‘siko’. And to her, it’s right that way.
But how can you correct a beauty like her? How do you even begin doing so? Which word will you even start with? I bet if you started, words would shove themselves as each struggled not to get picked.
No, wait…. I think ‘listen’ wouldn’t mind taking one for the team. It would actually love to do so. Doesn’t ‘listen’ just sound like a snitch? She’s gorge . Her lights especially, they are grandiloquent.
She’s not the kind that would swoop away bumps because she’s a little low. She has a great scent. A signature scent. Her name is Probox, Toyota Probox. Isn’t the name just beautiful? She has a spacious bunk. Her seats aren’t marked with debris of food from last year.
She is the reason why I always stare through the window, twice everyday. When she leaves, I watch her disappear into the horizon. I imagine how she tip toes on roads to avoid getting dusty.
Boy is it dusty everywhere at the moment? Is the sun still out there to give life or kill? Maybe the sun and the wind had a bigger fight this time round. Y’all who don’t wanna remove your coats are killing us. Would you just remove them already? We feel like India moved nearer. Or we moved to India.
Seriously though, I think something is wrong with the ozone layer because these heat waves aren’t normal. Or is it just me? One time, I was on one of these roads going to where the wind blows. I was headed straight for the fire and ice. There was no turning back.
Okay, I’m not even a spontaneous person. It was a planned visit. I went on a motorcycle, hoping that at some point, I would tell the nduthi guy to let me ride. I can’t suppress the excitement having recently learnt how to ride a bike. You’ll have to agree that bikes are cool. What especially inspired me is the part in movies where a lady in all black pulls over on a bike and takes off her helmet.
The exercise is never complete if one does not flip her hair the same way a horse does. That might not be possible anytime soon though.( not riding in all black, but flipping my hair because there’s a required length for hair to do that and mine refused to tap onto it’s potential) I didn’t actually get the chance to ride. I was too worried about incoming cars which created tornados of dust.
The universe was pretty naughty, since she sent a couple of cars my way. Suffice it to say, I got to my destination all dusty. Not even my eyelashes survived.
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She was expecting me because we’d planned this visit for quite some time. Or rather, I’d met her too many times in the market and all those times promising her that I’ll create time to go visit her. It’s guilt that took me to her place.
If she was going to thank me that day, I was going to ask her to give credit to the guilt I felt. There she was, seated on a stool in the shade of a tree. Her face was all cringed, and I thought, surely, why wouldn’t the sun ‘come slowly ‘ just for her.
She wore a black skirt and floral T-shirt. She had a kitambaa tied on her head the way oldish ladies of the village like her tie it. Let’s call her Mrs Whom. Hers is a sad story. She lives in her late mother’s place. She’s got two sons and all of them have put up structures in that small compound.
THE FEELING LOST EXODUS.
She’s sixty, but looks older than that. She walks with a limp; says she had a polio attack when she was young. As a result, her toes are bent and all her shoes and slippers have taken up that shape. That is no big deal though. The issue is that her attitude towards life has gotten bent with time.
She criticizes everything she sees. Nothing that goes on in her life is right. She always feels attacked when someone speaks. She is a victim. A victim of circumstances. A person who’s had a few bad experiences and hated life. Someone who’s jam is throwing pity parties.
Being with her and listening to her talk for twenty minutes makes you feel like your heart has been plugged out and thrown away into the land far far away. It makes you feel empty. It gives you the impression that life is meaningless, feeling lost “type of way”. That there’s no point of pursuing a degree in The University of Nairobi for a decade because we all die eventually. Her talk drinks up the zen vibes in you.
She went on and on about how this part of her body and that one was ailing the whole of last week. She couldn’t sleep particularly the night before because of migraines which kept gonging from a specific part of her head. She mentioned something about her son beating up his wife every time he’s drunk ( people still do that?) she couldn’t stop rambling about the high blood pressure which worsens when her son does so. How she is at times forced to seek refuge and hide from her own son.
Who’s to be blamed when a bouncing baby boy is brought into the world, loved and given everything then turns into a drunkard who threatens to kill you?
Apparently, all that makes you look eighty when you just turned fifty six. That and being insulted by a man whose diapers you passionately changed two decades ago. It brings creases on your face because you are always startled by any noise you hear. (The whole thing comes with a really good sense of hearing. It’s like an adaptation.)
What always goes through your mind is, ‘ Is that my son? Could that be him causing mayhem? Is he out to bring shame upon me again? ‘
Everything has been tried. The guy has been arrested. Mrs Whom consented it. However, she went down to the station after a month, saw her son and decided to bail him out. He was emaciated and remorseful . He asked for forgiveness. Promises were made in the station. Tears were shed.
What else could she have done? A mother will always be a mother. I mean, even Pablo Escoba’s mother wanted to know why her ‘innocent’ son had been killed. How do you say to a woman that killing your son was for the good of the society?
No one can be as forgiving and loving as a mother. You could be Lucifer himself and she will still love you and give you a billion chances to change.
Apart from that, men of God have been invited into the home. Prayers were made. Evil spirits were cast out. But nothing. I now look at the tea which was offered to me and poured into a cup thirty minutes ago.
It looks sad, the tea. And the bread beside it looks even more devastated. Like the water and milk molecules were shedding tears as they were getting heated. They weren’t like other molecules who get all excited and shout, ‘Yow, suckers, we are about to get hot!’ No, these ones were pleading to be released from the sulfuric.
Looking around, I notice that everything around me is sulky. The trees are bowing low instead of standing tall. Even the shade we are seated in is now looking deformed. That was my cue to leave. I quickly had to come up with an excuse so as to leave. I promise to visit some other time and to remember her family in my prayers.
Deep down, I never really want to go back there,
feeling lost. Call me mean and selfish, but I think the only person who can change her situation, is her.
Things will change for the better once she stops walking around like an easy target. I want to have conversations that don’t make me hate life.
Overlooking on the bright side of everything, conversations that make me seat up in a ninety degrees posture. I abhor to use my hands and facial expressions as I speak and I want none of those facial expressions to have creases. Life is, how you see it, fam.
THE END OF THE TRAILER
It’s been a while fam. I apologize unreservedly for taking this long. And I’m happy you waited. Some of you kept sliding in my DM asking what gives. Your dosage is finally here. I see y’all. And I appreciate the support.
This is our new home. I’m certain we’ll all have enough room. I hope you’ll love it. We should come up with a name for this home of ours. Any suggestions? Of course we need happy names, something like The corner. Or the corner place.
(Everyone loves corners) A penny for your thoughts?