I am now of the opinion that all extra-ordinary days start out like any other. So was February the Eleventh. Nothing about it was different from any other of my mornings. Of course, except for a text message I had received a little after one in the morning, and pissed off by the indecency of its timing, and a sweet dream unceremoniously cut, I deferred its reading till long after I had had breakfast. It wasn’t so bad, for it gave meaning to an otherwise ‘plotless’ day. Someone wanted me to meet them in town. This meeting was to be either at ten or one, an open choice to my own convenience. It now was a few past ten, and I am of the discipline of timekeeping.
I was quick to doing my preparations, allowing myself an hour or so in town to meet my buddy Vic. In certain but not all meetings that have a business motive and a financial end, I thought that a helping hand, Vic’s in this case, could come in quite handy. So I left my simple room in Roysambu quarter to twelve. I was dressed in a dark blue jeans trouser, white sports shoes, a white t-shirt with blue stripes, and a black jumper. It was scorching hot, but I was so ready to roast and shine for I could not remove my jumper and taint the completeness of my image. Lucky for me, my hair was still a little wet, and the evaporation of this wetness spread a much needed cooling effect. I was a happy boy, and a smile of positive thought must have given my face a glow. They say my eyes are sexy, and I thought of them so this morning.
I had no thought of stopping when I passed the tens of cheap kiosks close to the matatu stage. This mushrooming of businesses enterprises had happened consequent to the demolitions done to allow the construction of the Thika road eight lane super Highway. They are mabati kiosks which house cheap foods, are rich in keg, and if you listen keenly, might as well learn that they host men and women that are masters in the art of drug trafficking. Well, of course they may not have such expensive drugs as cocaine and the like, but bhang is certain there in hidden plenty. And yet, this is where the unexpected turning of my day started.
A girl in a quick rush caught my attention. By the roadside stood another, checking through her phone, dialing numbers read from a used Safaricom line replacement card. A momentarily confusion did me no good. I mixed up my intention to say ‘hi’ to the girl in a rush and did just the same to the one whose face I hadn’t seen. The girl in a rush noted nothing, except she turned prompted by what the one by the roadside said.
“Just that?”
It took me a moment to interpret the meaning or purpose of this response, yet the one or two steps I made felt wrong. I turned to her, her face still bowed, brown hair from her weave covering her face. The smile from the one on a rush faded as quickly as it enveloped her face. Yet, now it is like a blurred image in my memory, for everything that sticks clear in my mind, remembered like real theatre watch of a blockbuster motion picture, belongs to this that stood by the road side, head bowed, concentration full taken by the things she was doing. It seemed like there existed a difference between her being and the part that addressed me.
“What?” I asked in doubt of my hearing, for no stranger had ever asked me such a question, so in the moment’s heat I thought it was a friend from some forgotten past.
“You say hi and that’s just it!” She said.
She lifted her face for the first time and I saw what all men of taste wish for. Her eyes glowed with warmth like a pair of perfect pearls; her face was brown and spotless, except for a little scar which she’d later explain as to the source. Her figure was no less that of a model, except she was a little shorter that a model would be. I looked at her for one breathless moment and wondered whether this was a silly joke of fate, or I was sleep walking in a fairy tale. She smiled, as though she was reading the needful agony on my face, and went on to say;
“Why do men do that?”
“What? Say hi? Just hi?”
“Yeah! I find it offensive and I am going to take you to court.”
Her confidence was just spectacular, so I played a long, quickly flowing in the ease of conversation that often happens when I am hooked up like a fish on a fisher’s bait. She told me where she had come from. One, she had lost her SIM card which she had just replaced, and two; she had just had her phone repaired. Silently I exclaimed Wow, there does exist among this many kiosks a greater percentage of men that do honest business to put bread on the table. For a moment I looked at her face and thought I didn’t deserve the moment I was experiencing. Let’s face it, the last girl I dated that was anything close to her beauty was my first girlfriend, way in primary school when love was nothing beyond letters written in closets and read in the toilets.
“Let’s go to town!” I don’t remember what demon of thought caused me to say that, but it just came out, filled with confidence that didn’t seem my own, and inspired by the unreality of associating with such a beauty.
She did not hesitate to say yes, a shocker on its own, but for formality and in attempt to reduce my own expression of surprise, she complained about how she had not prepared herself, that she wasn’t dressed well enough.
“You look great,” I said, not sure as for the reason of my saying it.
So we walked together. She had in her hand a green nylon paper bag which I assumed contained a phone charger or such a simple and tiny accessory having something to do with phones. I did not ask, neither did I let my curiosity run course and render me more observant. I was elated by the thought of spending a day with such a girl. She told me she was impressed by my hair. As far as I know, I have not cut, neither yet combed my hair any once since the year started. I keep it clean by washing it daily, but generally leave it so shaggy. She was the third girl to stop and associate with me because of it in just a week, and the first to make me believe that rough look is attractive to some of the opposite sex. I bet I’m keeping my uncombed hair a lot longer. Such benefits aren’t too bad to live by.
At the matatu stage, we stood, my fake reason being that we needed to enter a matatu that was with booming music. Obviously all had, indistinct though, following NEMA guidelines towards noise pollution in Public Transport Vehicles. My real reason was to check whether she was going to change her mind. She did not; she started to tell me about herself, and the only thing that she cared about in life. She wanted to be on stage, she wanted to act. Being emotionally lifted by the thought of being a hero funnily has a rather negative effect on me. But beating the pride that swept over me, concealing the smile that was quickly betraying me, I looked at an approaching matatu and said;
“This could be your lucky day!”
Whether the noise of the conductors or the silence of her stare towards me made the moment such arresting, the feeling has up to now not gone from me yet. I wanted to move, let us into the matatu that had just stopped. But she held me back. With quick explanations, I told her that I had just adapted a script from a book, and was going to give the book and the script to my would be director who is at the heart of Kenyan theatre too. I did not give many details, but since she wanted to act, theatre or screen, I was going to introduce her to my friend.
A matatu stopped just that moment. Basing my reasoning on the thought that too much trust on a stranger, beautiful as sin or not, was not quite the way to go, I let my attentions to her be intentionally distracted. A few people stepped off the matatu, I peeped to see that there was space, then stepped back to let her in first, a worthy attempt at being a gentleman. She sat at the back, where no seat was empty adjacent to her, so I sat close to the conductor, and in no time we were part of the mayhem that is the Thika road traffic jam. An addition to this madness, with all matatu and private vehicles engaged in a game of attempts to overlap, was the dust from the ongoing constructions. At one moment, the dust that suddenly filled the vehicle reminded me of childhood days when kitchens were small, fire from improperly dried firewood, and smoke that filled the room like a torturous enemy that remained adamantly unavoidable.
Alone, I was supposed to meet Vic in town, and together we would walk back to Ngara from where we would decide where the heck Pangani Liberty Hall was. But with her, I had Vic come up to Ngara where we alighted in the hope that I would save her the effort of walking all the way back, or money spend on unnecessary fare. We stood together at a pavement opposite Fig Tree Shopping Center, and with all my attention to her, I failed to realize that we had just stood right outside an hotel. We had a little chat, most about her, and all else my flattery, though in all sense true, about how beautiful I found her eyes to be.
I found it uncomfortable when she asked that we wait inside the hotel. It was lunch time and I had no money. But failed of choices, we entered and sat just close to the door. The waiter was there barely before we had sat.
“We are cool.” I said, “We’ll just be a minute.”
The waiter, contrary to the common expectation of young men or women dressed in black and white, was an old man, but not too old to be inefficient, who wore a green overall. His voice was courteous, as he explained in a single sentence continuously punctuated that the management would have a problem if we just sat there doing nothing commercially viable to the business. Nothing in my reaction betrayed me, for without strain of thought or disturbance of expression I quickly ordered a coke for myself as she asked for Krest; bitter lemon. When I paid, it was with almost all the money I had left in my pocket.
Vic came just a few minutes after. The rest of what was in my pocket went to the purchase of his drink. When he sat next to me, opposite of her, I began my introductions. On such occasions I do not say that this is Nora* or this is Vic. Of the words that came out of my mouth, she was ‘the girl who was putting a smile on my face, the beauty whose eyes I could not stop staring, the confident being who almost drove me crazy.’ At this she leaned over to me, for the first time having me feel the smell of alcohol in her breath, but unable to be critical, I turned and as Vic listened to her say that she was Nora* and he return that he was Vic, I interrupted by singing similar praise for Victor. He was my best friend, the one that taught me most of what I know about script writing. I wanted to add, that it was well the case of the teacher that makes neurosurgeons and pilots, but I feared that either of the two would take a while to appreciate my dry humor. Or worse, that hard feeling would be quickly bred.
Vic in whom my hope now lay, told me in private that he had gone through the CBD and bought a few magazines all of films and Hollywood film making from street vendors and that had rendered him broke. I flipped through the magazines as I tried to let this sink, but the worry was lost in the humorous realization that the best of the magazines had so many pictures missing. Either the first person that read the shit cut off all the pictures of the celebrities, or the street vendor, frustrated in the loneliness of a city with no readers, kept himself busy, then wrapped the magazine beautifully again, and wiped his mouth as if no sin was committed.
All hope was not lost. I had a little cash on my M-Pesa account, and as Vic went through his attempts of flirt with my girl, I stepped out and came back loaded with what I could not trust would even be enough to pay our fares. I am a man who concentrates little on worries, so I quickly forgot that there was such an issue as we took a number 6 and were dropped at Pangani. Lucky for the whole lot of us, Vic knew where Pangani Liberty Hall was. We were there in no time.
When we reached our destination, I told Vic that I needed to find a cyber and burn the script into a CD since it was only in my e-mail drafts. We looked around, but found none. Of habits that I detest, I hate disappointing people, and being late. It was already one, and a text telling me to hurry before the afternoon session of the play showcasing started. I was saved by the hope that I was going to meet a very cool, understanding guy. That and Victors encouraging affirmations. All sealed y the beauty of this girl that now walked by my side.
When we arrived we noticed that there were tens of high school buses at the parking. We did not stay long before hundreds of school kids started to pour out of the hall for a lunch break. Without needing to ask, we were sure that the Thespians were showcasing plays adapted from the high school set books. I called my friend on phone and met outside the hall. Besides giving him the book, I explained of my difficulty in finding a cyber, but in wisdom concealed, he suggested that he’d even love it more just e-mailed to him long before I offered to do so.
After our talk about the progress of our business was done, my favorite part being his promise now to read the script and talk to the financiers with the hope of striking a deal, I now introduced my friends. My style remained different as usual, and to my friend I introduced her as the most passionate, most promising and true aspiring thespian I ever knew. Knowing I wouldn’t, she said her names, her tone a little begging, and said she craved a chance to do the only thing that made her feel alive; acting. Seth* my director friend, made a promise, that he would see what he can do, and as long as I was there as an intermediary, nothing would go wrong. She smiled, but I noted dissatisfaction on the same smile, except that the notion disappeared quickly as I again felt blinded by her beauty.
The three of us decided we were of no special hurry. We stayed for afternoon showing of a play based on Ngungi Wa Thiongo’s The River Between. Seth* took us in, showed us to great seats at the back, and went to rejoin the cast to prepare for the play. The high school kids quickly entered the hall, and we found ourselves seated on a row that divided them from their teachers. The last of them sat on the immediate row in front of us, while the teachers were behind us. An acquaintance of Seth’s sat with us, Vic to my left, Nora* to my right and the new guy to her right.
Nora said a few things about the stage. She wanted to be there. She was supposed to be among the cast, she was made to do this thing. Then suddenly she lost interest, and before I could read any expression on her face, darkness like a plague downed on us. A solitary light brightly illuminated the first of the cast at stage jerking Nora* to a sudden interest. And as the narrators voice tore through the silence of the hall, my hand and hers clutched together in simultaneous squeezes. After the first two acts, and total darkness in a span out a few seconds filled the room again, my face and hers touched in a whispered conversation. She let me lick her lollypop, before she quickly gave me a peck and looked away with an hidden smile.
The play picked momentum. My attention was torn between my love of literature and the goddess that now leaned on me in the occasional moments of darkness and slight illuminations. Unable to resist her, neither to respect, if not the teachers behind me, the memory of my high school discipline, I yielded most eagerly to her kisses. The smell of alcohol was strong on her breath, and grew stronger the more each moment of darkness gave us to frolicking and deep kissing. Out of curiosity I observed, only to realize that she had a beer bottle, from which she sipped on every available chance of darkness just as she eagerly kissed me. The teachers behind us were getting another thing to watch, all the same. And our little drama seemed to draw their curiosity more than did the story they stood in front of their students to analyze every day.
I was drawn back, either by conscience or some blank moment of reason, and returned her kisses no more. She did not stop; she licked the right side of my cheek whether the lights were up or not. I secretly loved this, even though there was a battle of conscience within me. She must have realized my reservations, so she stopped, complained of being extremely sleepy, and slept on my lap for the rest of the play. I didn’t stop playing with her hair, just as those behind us did not stop casting their glances rather too often or even the guy on her right jerk up every time she moved, in my interpretation in the hope that she was going to confuse him for me. He had stolen several of her seconds, exchanged numbers with her, and whispered this or that before she went out alone for so long to pick a call. Since he didn’t follow, I interpreted what was most favorable to me. He had bored her stiff.
After the play, she went and talked more with Seth* asserting her need and wish to be in the cast of any theatrical play. I listened to them while I walked about at the stage, wondering what it feels to stand in front of all those eyes. Seth* on account of my friendship to him, despite his reservations, worked out something quickly enough, and organized for her to attend practice in for yet a different play. She was hooked up, and the glow in her face, the joy she transmitted as we walked up to the exit hand in hand, made me weak with desire to always be hers, together forever.
Our acquaintance stopped her, and as they talked a while I went out to Vic who wanted to know whether I was taking her home for the night. That suggestion alone tore through me with a feeling that I did know could possess me on such an occasion. Suddenly it was ringing in my mind like a bell. Doubt flooded in my mind. For some reason unknown to me I even felt a little afraid. And I told Vic, ‘when the deal is too good, think twice!’ He laughed it off, and in the laughter my doubts dissolved and evaporated, my heart suddenly gripped by the desire to be with her. My emotions were swinging like a pendulum, my indecision great, and my unsteadiness of thought highly questionable.
Vic, more familiar with this part of town, showed us to the stage after we’d said goodbye to Seth* who went about other businesses. I took her hand, very aware of the almost empty bottle of Kenya King in her pocket. We waited a while, this time seating together in the rear seats of the matatu where our feet could hardly be kept straight. She slant towards the window and started reading the play Seth had given her, I put my feet in between the seats and closed my eyes in reflection of what this days had just been.
At Roysambu, I talked to her about her home, and a sister she had mentioned. They stayed together, her sister and her, or so she said. But the more I talked to her about her home the more it appeared to me that she thought that I was trying to dismiss her. Hell no, dismisses her? Oh hell no, I said to myself. She put her thoughts into words more straight forward that previous parables.
“Are you afraid of me?” She asked, and my answer was an obvious no. “We’ll go to your place and practice my lines.” She added in a no request tone.
I said no more. Too much of everything, even the sweetest, is poisonous. I kept my anticipation to myself, diluting it with the saying that I needed to find a cyber and email Seth* the script. We went together, she surfed a while, placing a face book invite to me, and checking her mail as I did Seth* justice. Then we stepped out, and started to my place.
Fear suddenly gripped her. Not of me or the thought of going to my place, it was the fear that someone was watching. She said it was her boyfriend’s cousin. I believed it easily. I allowed her the directives, and it took us thirty minutes to finally enter my building, which was less than a minute away, with conclusively believable disguise. She was talking to her sister on phone about the practice, about the play, asking her to pass by and pick the keys, when she entered my room. She did not look around, there is nothing to be admired, she did not comment anything, nothing could be commented, or so I thought, and she ended the phone conversation with the words, “I have no option but to come.”
She turned to me, asked where her play was, I gave it to her, and she said thank you when she was half out the door, contradicting her promise that she’d be back in a while. That look in her eyes said that she was gone forever. And in my heart I was screaming my age-old wish, ‘if I had it, you’d not only be my queen, but my goddess.”
Appetite gone after a whole day of ups and downs on an empty stomach, I made only tea, recited my age-old wish again, and drunk my tea in self imposed misery. I walked to the top of the building and watched the stars a little later on, the deep mystery of them, not knowing when I went back to my room, and waited just a few seconds for the minute had to hit top of the hour, 9PM, she would simultaneously knock at my door, under the pretext of coming for practice, and that visit would forever alter my thoughts about life, and my view of it.
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