A man will stand
on a balcony in an apartment he has recently moved into. In a pair of khaki
shorts, rocking the best sandals Maasai guys - we all know they are kuyus from Karatina just doing business in disguise - ever put together and a
particularly flashy phone – not Infinix of course – in his grip he will
reminisce old memories as a soft wind blows against his freshly shaved
signature beard almost reminding him of the tranquil that can become of life.
The tranquil that was life in days of innocence when he knew less and did less.
He will want to go back to that. Really bad.
Leaning on the well
curved metallic balcony grills he will make sense of the recent past and its
darkness and his heart will skip a couple of beats when he remembers the pains
- including the time he staggered into his house that he’s strangely unaccustomed
to and hit his toe against the edge of the table and it hurt so bad. He felt it
even in the daze of drunkardness. And he cursed in the darkness as he caressed
the cold wall trying to reach out for the switch and cursed a little more in
the light when he found it. Now it’s alilo
funny when he thinks of it. He will rest his entire weight on those grills
because he will be tired of his now unfamiliar and heavy soul.
He’ll understand
why it feels that way. He’ll know he changed.
And he will be
hopeful of better days. He will hope to get a better car – that doesn’t sound
like a dying walrus when pulling into the basement parking - , marry her
because she doesn’t text xaxa and can live a day without her makeup, knows
names of economists and mathematicians besides knowing akina wizkid and that famous guy who sings trap music and she cooks
round chapos – not like those who at their best produce maps of Kiribati – and
also hope to go on holiday with her to the Seychelles because he will be the
guy that can confidently say ‘bank otuch’. He hopes to have lots of money.
Perhaps he will
resort to stop smoking soon even though he has been stopping for the last year
and the year before that and probably knows it’s going to take more than
written words in a resolution book to get that done. He will pray that the odds
be in his favour. Although I would think that he is not the sort of person that
believes in odds. He’s not the sort of guy that says he did not choose the thug
life and that the thug life chose him. To him choice is inescapable.
You’d understand
this choice thing better if, like him, you hail from an African home somewhere
in Rarieda where nothing is left to chance. Not even your career. Typical
African parents will for example pray and cane you into whatever profession
they think is apt for you. Your old man will watch you as a youngling and think
‘He counts like a banker’ or ‘He has the hand of a shara person’ and in a jiffy’s abracadabra, just like that, your
fate is sealed. You will have to become a banker or a businessman.
If say your name
is Shirievi and now as a ‘man’ having done you KCPE exam proudly proclaim that you
want to be a DJ – DJ Shiri for Shizzle. Your father will wait until both of you
have eaten supper – for the strength; much so that they don’t cane you into
fainting and then have to pay that guy who owns a moti in the village 1500 bob to rush you all the way to Russia
hospital in Kisumu thinking you’re in a comma. Then he will cunningly slide in
provocative statements that will make you repeat that you want to be DJ Shiri
for Shizzle. He will then suddenly get angry, click loudly – create a mood for
war - , summon strength from the ancestors and then come down on you with the
vigour like Safaricom does on our data bundles.
He will whip you
using the QnA approach (only that you don’t really get to answer);
*Whip
Q: Ati unataka kua
nini? Eeh? Shizzle ni nini?
*Whip *Whip *Whip
Q: Unajua shule
nimelipa pesa ngapi? Ama unadhani ni bure?
*Whip *Whip
Q: Si nilikuambia
hii maneno ya facebook inakuharibu akili? Eeh?
*Whip *Whip *Whip
Q: Unadhani
utalipwa na nani kuchezea watu nyimbo na wako nazo kwa simu zao?
*Whiiiiiip (that
long one where the lash is raised up at least 180 degrees ready for impact)
Q: Unalia nini?
*Endless whips
into the night.
Ps: The whips
correlate to the question. The more a question agitates him the harder he will
hit you.
You will then have
to become a banker and give you folks the satisfaction of telling other
villagers that their Shirievi is a bank employee before you can quit and become
DJ Shiri when you already have kedo
forty years and your signature beard isn’t even that cool anymore.
Remember the guy
at the balcony?
You also know it’s
a habit for him because every Saturday morning finds him on that balcony. Smoking.
On those mornings, he will be smelling more like a KBL tanker and his mouth
will have the taste of some turquoish waters of Dunga beach. It’ll taste like
he ate the forbidden fruit. He did. And this will make him cringe when he
remembers the night before. When he remembers the other sins of the night that
he has to own up to in the light of day he will quiver. Sipping on lemon juice
(they say it raises alkaline levels and lowers hangie levels), he will swallow
hard and feel nausea and lethargy inevitably take over his whole being and
while battling against swooning he will find his way back to the couch. He will
lie there feeling poisoned and dead and almost rigour mortised as the hangover
eats him up and he will wait till his boys pass by and drag him out of his
misery with some light hearted talk and bits of brotherly abuse.
But they won’t
show up.
It will be hours
before he reverts to his rather ‘puritanical’ life. He will get up and garner
his exuberance while rounding up empty liquor cans and pressing them together
in the trash bag. He will want them out of his life – and out of his door. Then
under the streams of water in his shower, he will swear that last night was the
last time. He will think of his life and quietly swear,
“Sitawai kunywa
tena”.
A lifelong
decision made in a flash. He will mean it.
He will call her
and let her know too.
He will earnestly
want to be a better man. A man not driven by booze. A man whose lungs don’t
suck at being lungs. He will crave tranquillity. And stability.
She will probably
get the call while on a book thing with her girlfriends. They will be reading
things Sophia Nelson has written in The Woman Code and drawing deep life skills
because modern ladies like her take book clubs seriously. They read, do yoga
and drink sophisticated things like green tea and talk about weight and healthy
living. Being the progressive woman she thinks of herself, she won’t answer a
call in the middle of a damn meeting. Instead, she’ll courteously excuse
herself and trot away to pick the call. The door will seem an eternity away as
she squeezes herself between seats and dodges the manicured toes of her
counterparts and the scattered pillows on the floor. Finally she will swing
open the door and mumble a ‘hello’ as she moves further from the door on the
outside.
“Uko sure
umeacha?” She’ll ask him distinctively. “Kabisa?”
He will explain
how he came to the resolution as she listens and tears quietly. It will make
her happy. She will nod even though he can’t see her over the phone and promise
to support him. He will then hang up and she will take time to let it all sink
in. Finally he has become the man she always wanted him to be. Her man. Her
perfect man. She will wipe her tears, clear her throat and then go back in but
she will not hear anything else they say because he will have stolen her heart.
And we know the heart is what really listens.
However, the thing
with women is that they glow in some glory when they are happy. And she will
glow. They will look at her, at their books, at her again and definitely see
the glow and they’ll exchange quick glances with each other and you’ll be sure
the glances carry coded messages more secretively than Nasa’s emails. They will
pretend to go on with the book club but on their way out one of them will ask
her about it.
“So what was that
all about?”
“Huh?” She will
feign surprise.
“Ni yeye alicall
ama? Anataka nini?”
She will tell her
what happened. That he changed. And the story will be passed on to the rest
over WhatsApp in like 10 milliseconds and the rest will pretend to not know
until she tells them personally and then they will say ‘awww’ to her face to
make her feel appreciated. And they will be a little jealous that she got that
man.
In the end, she
will see him as the perfect man. He will be the perfect man. But we know that
the man is a consequence of conscious choice. He is not the unsullied man. No.
He is the man with imperfections made perfect.
