Wanjala tried hard to make himself clear; he could use diagrams if
necessary. But October was hot. She was breathing fire. How could she
understand him? There was some woman somewhere milking her husband: of
semen and money. She had heard it whispered severally by Gossip Fm.
But she had kept quiet, perhaps to unearth the truth by herself. Now
she knew. She knew what her friends said about men. Men are just but
tails in trousers. Men are beasts. Men are champions in lying. Men
can't be trusted. Men are devils. Men are.... Hell!
Nelima starred her patients and sight. She was the only ward attendant
that evening. The rest had retired home to fulfill marital
obligations. Twenty human forms lay lifeless in the huge iron beds.
These suffered from every disease ever diagnosed on earth. She grabbed
her clipboard and went round, checking beds and scribbling somethings
down. She did with a lot of ease. She had done it for decades. It had
evolved into a ritual.
That morning, they had received two more patients. These needed urgent
admission, but owing to the fact that the big hospital suffered from
inadequate facilities; two patients had to be discharged. They had not
fully recovered; they could do that at the comfort of their homes. The
new arrivals were in a critical condition. One on the verge of sliding
into the bottomless pit of death. The other was steadily heading there
too. It was dangerous for the management to overlook the urgency of
this.
The patients were a young couple. Probably in their mid thirties. They
had been rescued from their burning house. The woman, who appeared to
have been the fire's darling, was burned beyond recognition. She had
been rushed to the ICU on arrival. The young man looked kai kai.
Nobody could fathom what the hell happened really. Their good
samaritans-- two odd looking neighbours-- blankly starred at each
other and at doctors whenever the latter hurled endless questions at
them. ''Doc, we saw flames. We heard people scream. They were being
roasted. We got them out and brought them...''. They chorused.
''What do you think could have set the house ablaze?''
''Only two people have the answers need Doc''.
''Who?''
''The police and your patients...''
''The police?! Where are they?''
''We no not the answer. We told one of us to call them...''
''And you're sure he did that...''
''We will when they show up.''
The doctor felt like blowing off. He was getting nowhere with the
arrogant Samaritans. They seemed to like being questioned. He wondered
how they had survived in school. He wondered how they will survive
come judgement day. He left alone. They appeared to have slept not for
decades. They dozed off and left him to mind his business.
Wanjala was a teacher at High Tech Boys. The only school in the
country known to be most developed than many public universities. It
was the kind of schools in which presidential debates are held.
Moreover, acquiring education here was extremely expensive as compared
to university education on parallel degree programme. See? And like in
most big schools, the head is arrogant and bigheaded. He thinks that
he is God. And teachers are like school boys and girls. They question
nothing, it amounts to disrespect. They move by running. They respond
when the principal sneezes. One wonders what their students think of
them. Apart from teaching, Wanjala was also the Senior Head of
Department of Furniture, Construction and Aesthetics (FCA). His
efficiency were better seen here. He was a strict man as far as the
school outlook was concerned. No man or woman of sound mind was to
step on grass. No man or woman of sound mind was to carry acres of mud
from farm-like roads around into the school. No man or woman of sound
mind was allowed to spit anywhere, anyhow like a pregnant woman. These
worked. Violating them invited unbearable consequences. However, in
class, Wanjala most often hid behind a textbook, gave students
century-old notes and thoroughly caned those asking too many
questions.
In the week before the fire incident, Wanjala and his colleagues had
gone to Busia to mark a joint exam. Such academic-oriented missions
were a common phenomenon. They came with something juicy to bite. Who
ever fathomed missing this?
'' you know,'' Wanjala started, '' there's nothing sweet like money in
the world.
''True. Naked truth.'' Chorused his drink-mates.
''some people dwell on some dubious ideology that there's plenty of
wealth in heaven for the poor. What I ask myself is: Are there banks
to manufacture money?''
''Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha...''
''I stopped listening to such nonsense when my pastor, Chomoka,
threatened me with hell fire if I keep slimming my offerings,''
Fagilia said. The liquid was now taking control of him.
They laughed. Swore and cursed.
It was 8pm. The night was in its infancy still. Patrons-- more and
more-- were streaming in. Thus the Sweet & Bitter Waters Joint was
growing livelier. The DJ proved to know his job very well. His magic
with the discs got everyone dancing, howling or snapping. Wanjala
offered him two swallows.
Money in itself is magic. It keeps one restless and attracts its
eaters. Many a girl hovered around Wanjala's gang like locusts. The
latter had money, and everyone knew it. Ugandan women see men from
this sides as damn rich. So they were determined to make a good
harvest of their share. Who said what you earn is yours alone? The
government is there, stretching its wide hand of taxation. The police
are there, with bulging stomachs, threatening to charge you with
anything if you shorten your hand or starve them. Children are there
demanding fees,
clothing and eating. Some unimportant relatives can't stop visiting;
and can't leave till you have released them! The landlord is always
looking awkwardly at you. And the electricity and water bills ring in
your mind all day long. On pay-day, you smile all the way to the bank;
and frown all the way back to your inadequate house. Money will never
accept to stay in your pocket. It leaves as soon as it enters.
October tried to reach Wanjala in vain. Fifty times! Wanjala was off.
Whenever he was with 'elders' irrigating throats, he switched
everything off to serve only one master. This kept her thinking.
Worried and thinking. She knew where he had gone. Why he was off was
what she couldn't understand.
That night was very distasteful to Wanjala and his cohort. It was as
if the devil had chosen to pay them a visit. Very unexpected and
unwelcome though. There was a bloke seated around a table next to
Wanjala's. He was so full of himself yet he had nothing; except guts
and two dames. Very beautiful somethings. Nothing admirable could be
seen on his table. He had emptied six bottles and was now trying hard
to compete with the music system in singing. His was a very irritating
gruff voice. It was as if it was coming out of a cement mixer. Every
patron disliked this. They shot him with their drunken eyes. But they
couldn't tell him anything offensive. The dude was a giant. Damn
scary.
Trouble had started when one of his dames ditched him to join
Wanjala's table. She was sure as hell that the climate of his pockets
was hot and dry. She could tell, from a distance, that the patrons
there were seated right in the middle of a stream of kilulu. It flowed
and overflowed. One could drink and bathe in it. She could not afford
to deny her beautiful self the pleasure of being one of them by
confining herself to a broke dude. No. Ignorance could not take her
that far.
Wanjala welcomed her with his wide eyes. They popped out dangerously
as if they would fall the next minute. He shoved two bottles of
whisky into her hands, extending his hand to feel her exposed full breasts. They were
firm, round and attractive. This sparked a wave in his blood. He noted
that he had been missing something.
''you look beautiful woman,'' He whispered. ''thank you,'' she whispered back.
''can I dance with you?''
''I've problem with that. But niharibu kwanza.''
''oh, that's no big deal to me. What drink on Earth do you wanna
irrigate your throat with. Ask and all shall be given to you...''
''Thanks, that's very good of you. Lemmie have a cold pilsner please.''
The waiter came running. Here and there, taking orders. Wanjala had
drank to his fill. But he still could maintain his upright gait. It
was strange. What was happening? Were these also ill-mannered as to
sell water instead of kilulu like some bastard Kenyans? He could not
understand. But what he was sure of was that he wasn't going to sleep
alone like omusumba that night. A blissful night-out on a foreign with
its daughter was something he was warming up to. The girl, after
downing three pilsners, thrilled him with her talkativeness. She was
the kind that could keep you entertained and you will never waste your
money on a radio. Such angelic gems are rare on Earth like rain in the
Sahara. What we have in plenty are the women who take lectures. They
will let you talk and talk and talk till you get multiple headaches.
And their's is just nodding. Wanjala requested for her contact. A one
night stand with her won't be enough.
the world.
''True. Naked truth.'' Chorused his drink-mates.
''some people dwell on some dubious ideology that there's plenty of
wealth in heaven for the poor. What I ask myself is: Are there banks
to manufacture money?''
''Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha...''
''I stopped listening to such nonsense when my pastor, Chomoka,
threatened me with hell fire if I keep slimming my offerings,''
Fagilia said. The liquid was now taking control of him.
They laughed. Swore and cursed.
It was 8pm. The night was in its infancy still. Patrons-- more and
more-- were streaming in. Thus the Sweet & Bitter Waters Joint was
growing livelier. The DJ proved to know his job very well. His magic
with the discs got everyone dancing, howling or snapping. Wanjala
offered him two swallows.
Money in itself is magic. It keeps one restless and attracts its
eaters. Many a girl hovered around Wanjala's gang like locusts. The
latter had money, and everyone knew it. Ugandan women see men from
this sides as damn rich. So they were determined to make a good
harvest of their share. Who said what you earn is yours alone? The
government is there, stretching its wide hand of taxation. The police
are there, with bulging stomachs, threatening to charge you with
anything if you shorten your hand or starve them. Children are there
demanding fees,
clothing and eating. Some unimportant relatives can't stop visiting;
and can't leave till you have released them! The landlord is always
looking awkwardly at you. And the electricity and water bills ring in
your mind all day long. On pay-day, you smile all the way to the bank;
and frown all the way back to your inadequate house. Money will never
accept to stay in your pocket. It leaves as soon as it enters.
October tried to reach Wanjala in vain. Fifty times! Wanjala was off.
Whenever he was with 'elders' irrigating throats, he switched
everything off to serve only one master. This kept her thinking.
Worried and thinking. She knew where he had gone. Why he was off was
what she couldn't understand.
That night was very distasteful to Wanjala and his cohort. It was as
if the devil had chosen to pay them a visit. Very unexpected and
unwelcome though. There was a bloke seated around a table next to
Wanjala's. He was so full of himself yet he had nothing; except guts
and two dames. Very beautiful somethings. Nothing admirable could be
seen on his table. He had emptied six bottles and was now trying hard
to compete with the music system in singing. His was a very irritating
gruff voice. It was as if it was coming out of a cement mixer. Every
patron disliked this. They shot him with their drunken eyes. But they
couldn't tell him anything offensive. The dude was a giant. Damn
scary.
Trouble had started when one of his dames ditched him to join
Wanjala's table. She was sure as hell that the climate of his pockets
was hot and dry. She could tell, from a distance, that the patrons
there were seated right in the middle of a stream of kilulu. It flowed
and overflowed. One could drink and bathe in it. She could not afford
to deny her beautiful self the pleasure of being one of them by
confining herself to a broke dude. No. Ignorance could not take her
that far.
Wanjala welcomed her with his wide eyes. They popped out dangerously
as if they would fall the next minute. He shoved two bottles of
whisky into her hands, extending his hand to feel her exposed full breasts. They were
firm, round and attractive. This sparked a wave in his blood. He noted
that he had been missing something.
''you look beautiful woman,'' He whispered. ''thank you,'' she whispered back.
''can I dance with you?''
''I've problem with that. But niharibu kwanza.''
''oh, that's no big deal to me. What drink on Earth do you wanna
irrigate your throat with. Ask and all shall be given to you...''
''Thanks, that's very good of you. Lemmie have a cold pilsner please.''
The waiter came running. Here and there, taking orders. Wanjala had
drank to his fill. But he still could maintain his upright gait. It
was strange. What was happening? Were these also ill-mannered as to
sell water instead of kilulu like some bastard Kenyans? He could not
understand. But what he was sure of was that he wasn't going to sleep
alone like omusumba that night. A blissful night-out on a foreign with
its daughter was something he was warming up to. The girl, after
downing three pilsners, thrilled him with her talkativeness. She was
the kind that could keep you entertained and you will never waste your
money on a radio. Such angelic gems are rare on Earth like rain in the
Sahara. What we have in plenty are the women who take lectures. They
will let you talk and talk and talk till you get multiple headaches.
And their's is just nodding. Wanjala requested for her contact. A one
night stand with her won't be enough.
| Each received a fat night-out allowance. Upon arrival, they quickly performed the ritual: opening ceremony, moderating the marking scheme and marking a few scripts; and leaving the rest for the following day. They had money. It was itching. So they needed to relieve themselves of it to be comfortable. You can't think with idle money in your pockets. They crossed to Uganda to swallow a few bottles of kilulu and some cheap women. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
''Still wanna dance?'' Marita asked.
''Oh, not now. We can do it later.'' Wanjala had completely lost
interest in the dance. He wanted to forget it. It was of no use now.
His mind was on the other kind of dance, the bedroon dance. He stood
to take her to the special rooms. He had hardly moved a step when a
strong hand gripped his neck.
''This is my woman. Where the hell do you think you're taking her
fool?'' The bloke-- the lady had ditched-- blurted.
''To your mother's bed. You wanna escort us...?'
A hot slap cut him short. He saw a million stars. He couldn't tell
when he latter came back to his senses. Hell had broken loose. Fagilia
who loved fighting than anything else was there engaging the giant.
Other patrons busied themselves too. Fists were thrown. Missiles of
abuses were hurled. Bottles were broken. Everyone just wanted to take
part in anything. And that night, Wanjala and his cohort slept in a
police cell. They would be bailed out late the following day.
Back home, October was wild. Anger had incited her to break every breakable thing. What remained was to bring down the whole house. Why Wanjala had gone off-line for that long was unfathomable. What was he upto? Who was keeping him? Where? Only men with discrete motives are fond of such habits. Today, men are increasingly becoming untrustworthy. He is only yours while in your bed, working under you. He is a public property once he slips out. Every bitch's plaything. Lockable, metallic underwears should be fashioned for them, and let passwords be kept by women-- their wives.
She wore a cold look when Wanjala walked in. She neither hugged nor took his bag. He did not mind. It was just one of the thousands of episodes he'd seen under his roof. He went to take a shower, to freshen up, perhaps. It had been long since water touched his bronze skin. Who on this soil said man should be a darling to water? Men are not fish.
''Where have you been?'' She asked. Wanjala was not going to talk. She knew that. He remained mum. Perhaps he didn't hear her. Only the violent sounds of a stone eating his cracked sole could be heard. She reached for his phone and sneaked into the message inbox. It was then that she saw it. Marita's sext.
Marita and Wanjala had been in touch for quiet sometime. Since he left that goddam cell. Some unusual intimacy had sprouted between them. High Tech Boys had promised to take teachers to Kampala this year. So Wanjala was sure they would meet and pertake of the sweet, forbidden fruit. People meet, unlike mountains.
He was damn sure he had deleted all messages. How this remained puzzled him. He stared into his wife's fiery eyes blankly, mouth agape. '' I'm finished'', he told himself. He regretted why he had not installed a password in his phone like Fagilia. For Fagilia, his newest Sumsung Galaxy even asked for a password to be charged and switched on.
''... I asked who the hell's Patapata? Stop staring at me as if I'm made of wood!'' She shouted. Wanjala laughed. He laughed at his ingenious wit. Patapata was Marita, the Ugandan Vixen. But how could he say that?
'' Oh, mmmmh... Cool honey. You see...''
''Stop honeying me! Who the hell is that bitch?''
He could not say anything. After all, what was there to say? The nightmare in some cold cell? His swollen cheek, from the giant's blinding slap? The lost opportunity with the Ugandan Vixen? His principal's roaring rage at what was termed as ''indiscipline''... No. Some things are not said. Better that way.
She was hurling abuses at him already. She threw things, then herself at him. Tearing him apart. She was seriously murdering him! He struggled to free himself. He punched her. She bit him. Then, overpowered, retreated. She ran and imprisoned herself in the kitchen.
There had been food on a stove cooking. She switched on the gas; it flowed and colonised the little air in the room. Then she struck a match stick. She wanted them dead. She could not afford sharing her man with whores.
The fire that ate the house was hard to quench. Hell! They would have perished were it not for their night-marathon neighbour. He saw it early and alerted others to come to their rescue.
(c) wafula p'khisa
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