boyfulani

It’s one thing to scream and it’s another if the screams come from a grown up man.

It’s doesn’t get any bitter when the wails and cries take on a deathly hue, like someone with a 9″ inch knife stuck in his heart.

But when they take place in a place, infested by a nose numbing human odor,  dimmed roster cigarettes, oil (mechanics) acrid smell of shit and urine – you get the picture.

More so, when you have to wake up the others to ‘turn’ as you sleep on the hard floor – well, catch sleep?

Not here.

Tales catch on to half past 3 a.m.

They hardly pose to listen to the guy whose knees have been turned jelly by the Corporal’s cane, but his spirit remains staunch, his voice betraying pain and agony:

“Aki ya mungu, nitakaa ivo, sikuli, huyu Kopeo kumaaaamake! Aiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii Uuuuuuuuuuuui!”

Collo (my confidant) whispers to me that he’s a (serial) fake money peddler.

“Aiii…mimi si ngwea!  Offisa, wanataka kuniua..uuuuuiii!”

“Anadai eti yeye ni ordinari hapa? Anafaa apigwe mbati za mawe!”

Man, you can’t even dare look in that dark corner, filled with miscreants from one walk of life: the dark, dunk and dirty alleys of the city.

On Monday, I’m glued to the screen, headphones in place blotting any attempt to bring back the sights of the weekend, when I’m nudged and find our whole department looking in my direction.

A thin layer of sweat main lines itself close to my spine, and I  collect what is left of  myconfidence to face the boss, who has called impromptu meeting.

His clean shaven head, laugh, and pot belly flash back and forth my mind, meshes with the memory as the gray-haired officer who was on my case with boots, blows a snake-like whip (with a deadly pain).

Licking my ashy lips and making way to the meeting, just desks away, their stares heighten the ‘they know what you did this wick-end’.

Maybe I should be delighted in the fact that the possibility of getting a job here is simply waiting for approval, but men- little surprises me of late.

Truimph, loss -alike, embrace them.

Just like I let Collo take off with my phone,  my leather belt…man- by the end of the state visit, the only thing I wasn’t ready to willingly give up was my dear life.

The moment I was thrown in, there was a hand in my every pockets, and wasn’t not for Collo, all I had would have disappeared into the thick air.

Some background.

Many months ago, I entered into some deal, where money was flowing and I was supposed to deliver services on my end. They were after some skills I possess and they were willing to do anything to get me in the boat, even offering to pay my rent, blah.

As human as one can be (the good side)Ii attempted to resign  and refund all I had taken for the obvious reason that I wouldn’t hack the hustle with my internship in tow.

They flatly refused and went ahead to pumped dough,  which my needs (mashida, lol) weakened the body and my spirit followed through.

It turned out that, true to my prediction, the project went mala.

Apparently, I was labelled the annoying bacteria that spoiled the good milk .

On Saturday afternoon, I receive a call and the guy on the other end says he’s near our offices and would like to see me.

We didn’t speak more than two words before I saw to cops, armed with Ak 47s circling closer.

I could only look at his face and resign to fate, probably just muffle like Caesar: Even you, Brutus

Around this time, sporadic rain pounded on our roof tops. I disliked the weather partly because going to my campus fox hole, was a too muddy affair. During these awards, it paid off as the said run-away date could not get to her hostel due to, in her words,  ’the fear darkness and loath she holds inside for mud’.

I had absolutely no objection to her resolution, and in fact, was more than glad to go through my compilation of CDs with her.

The kind that play music.

V- for Voila!  bumps into me along the campus streets. V is getting  rained on and i wonder aloud.

The  umbrella she has back in her room,  has  ’cobwebs’.

Nibbling at her meal now, she throws almost everything aside and complains about how horrible the campus menu is -before she tasted it.

I simply watch blankly, my acrobatic minyos causing a circus as they share my meal. I don’t blame them, they last drown in alcohol.

The hapless chicken thighs have never had it rougher, in between…teeth as only the (dry) powder from the sifted chicken bones appears on my lips.

Tonight, I have to face Mbogo, like a man. Mbogo, let not the buffalo name mislead you, is the little midget who masquarades as the hostel caretaker and watchman.  I owe him two months rent and he has stated addressing me by my surname.

On this other line, I voilate Viola’s sassyness with corny lies and she is wild-eyed with what I think is honest amusement.

She once tried smoking, in Britain, Rotten Britain, had an 8-minute stand in a lift…

And well, doesn’t mind walking in the pouring rain with this fearless jerk.

I prefer profundity to profanity. There is no fucking joy in shallowness. But the depth of her ignorance was like a stick of dynamite in a bon-bon; it shocked me so much it nearly killed me. I still can’t figure out why they want to lock me away when it was obvious any children she might bear would set our evolution back thousands of years.

We met at a time when I was completely vulnerable and completely broke. She thought buying me something to eat was a precursor to me being oblivious to her many and varied prejudices. Her grievances were both astounding and inane and her vocabulary had absolutely no variation. For God’s sake, she finished virtually every sentence with the non-sequitur ‘doncha know it’.

I tried really hard to resist the urge to ram my egg-covered tines through her dull, watered-down eyes. Aside from the fact that the place was full of witnesses, I was also very much enjoying my breakfast. She drank tea, sweetened by the contents of 8 sachets of sugar. She smoked incessantly, blowing bilious blue smoke first over one shoulder then the other. If I hadn’t been so stupefyingly hungry, I would never have allowed her to waste any more of this worlds precious oxygen.

Her putrescence, her sheer stinking stupidity, was most certainly generational if not multi-generational. The only good thing about her life was the orgasm her father had in order to create her. I can’t imagine any situation or path of destiny that would lead her to actually doing any good on this earth, nothing at all.

I told her all this later. I gave her a chance to understand, to accept what I was doing. Of course, she screamed at first. She struggled against the ropes. But when I finally told her I loved her and all would be well, she showed the first signs of intelligence I’d seen her exhibit. She closed her eyes and wept. It was then I felt sorry for the pale, shallow bitch and finished her quick.

I mean, we all have bad habits and mine is that I’m a soft touch.

Story re-blogged from here

Even as I wrap up with good music, and my thoughts continue to fornicate with the prospect of a warm duvet, something still nags me.

That late night matatu.

After various requests to have the company car to ‘ac-company’ me home,  the sleepy driver said something to do with mileage and went ahead to caress his late-night hard-on with the question:

“Is the intern a lady, she could come over?”

Idjiot!

Anyway, my journey home sends me right into the wanton embrace of drunken passengers who just make the night, a bitter-sweat journey.

For more than an hour, we sit, solemnly waiting for that last matatu to fill. Murphy’s Flaw applys vi-major ; what with Kenyans, in various states of inebriation streaming soon as we are like two guys  short of the ‘legal passenger limit’.

But again, this is Kenya, and the ’seat-fillers’ (will do a post on them some day) quickly get out and mna-realize bado mtu ka kumi!

Last Friday, script haiku-change! Amidst the jostling of the last ‘minuters’, is some jamaa- lets call him Jethro.

Jethro thinks the mat will fly and leave him and he rushes in a kiu-ndutho (fogothary) stairo that shocks the prim among us. He literally shoves and pushes his way to the backseat.

With unamused passengers in his wake, we are all hopeful the mat will get going any moment….

only for a cry to come through:

Weeeeee, hautakaa hapa! Silipi mia na niskumwe na mtu!”

A lady in the back seat demands for ‘haki yake’ and her arms, words are ready to deny rowdy Jethro the pleasure (or pressure) of sitting besides her. I assume Jethro would get the cue, calm down and look for another space to squeeze himself.  But Jethro is Jethro and with everyone’s attention now, he keeps insisting to be ‘songewad’.

Lady 1:Wewe ni mwanaumme wa aina gani unajibishana na wamama?

Jethro: Hawa ni wamama ama ni malaya? Mama mgani ako nje saa hizi?

A debate is sparked with almost all joining in.

One of the two women at the front seat protests saying that with his comment, Jethro has insulted ‘all women’.

It is either the sheer effect of beer or just general loneliness because she next asks Jethro ”aache kuteseka huko nyuma.

“Kuja unikalie” she says in what must be a hooker’s voice.

Jethro remains in a ‘bend over’ position, mooning the rest of the passenger fraternity who let it out:‘mnatopotezea wakati!

The konkodi and dere intervene intervene this time and ‘kindly’ ask Jethro to sit….

Next to me.

All this time, there is the (@milonare) ’s  BambaTwentySomething beside me who is inching closer as it gets chaotic! Talk about getting sand-witched between two forces.

I should raise my haki yangu cry, but the effort is muffled either by the decency or by the disguise of the opposite. More so, we needed to get going.

With Jethro breathing froth beside me, I prefer to think the case was settled.

I welcomed him with, er, open hips  (sic) making sure the bamba-twende-home was ‘without reach.

But the kwekwes ladies at the back keep the insults coming, like acrobats rocking afro-pussies (er, whatever that is)!

They get worse (and funny still) as some mathees on the front seat joined in the gender-based tussle which pitted the culprits exchanging some really nasty words that would fit (or not fit) well, a midnight matatu.

I think i must have zoned out of the conflict because I was ruffled back after by alighting militants.

I realized the seat beside me was empty and caught the sight of an agitated Jethro accosting two ladies who had a guy with them.

This must have been their stage as i could see an estate from where the mat had stopped.

Si niliwaambia nashuka na nyinyi tujue mwanaume ni nani?

The guy accompanying the ladies stepped forward and slapped Jethro so hard he lost his balance.  What followed was a mini-stampede as the ladies joined in kicking the brother who got up and fought back…

Much to the chagrin of the other passengers.

One was picking a rock on the road side, but by this time, the condi who had been holding Jethro back was already in the mat saying; ‘dere twende! wacha afunzwe na dunia!’.

Needless to say, it was now kedo 2 AM and two mathees who had offered Jethro a seat were already discussing the prospect of their next bar stop.