“Do you want to come in? I am into my second trimester and I get tired sometimes.”
“No, you do not want me anywhere near you, Mrs. Muli. I came here because I could not live with myself knowing that your husband had been interested in me when he was married.”
“So…he cheated on me with you? How much did he pay you, Rosemary? How many times did he sleep with you and in how many hotels? How many times did he tell you that he loves you and that he is divorced? So, you have the guts to come to my home and show yourself, but why did you come here in clothes when you go to my husband naked? Why couldn’t you come to me the same way you go to him so I could see what he sees? God will punish you, I swear He will—”
“You have every right to be mad at me…”
“Oh, SHUT UP! What do you know about being a wife? What do you know about being Richard’s wife? If you have any dignity or sense of worth, you will leave and never come back…nikikuona hapa, I swear I will kill you and cut you up before covering your body and placing it on his bed so he can sleep next to a corpse!”
“Mrs. Muli! I quit! I quit because he wanted to sleep with me and I refused, okay! You are right, he kept saying he was divorced and kept sending me flowers or paying for my lunch—but I wanted to come and see you, because I could not do what he wanted me to. I am not like that.”
“So, now I should clap for you, Rosemary? If you quit, he will hire someone and she will sleep with him, so you have not done anything worth my applause.”
“Mrs. Muli, did you ever work for Trans-Media seven years ago?”
“You looked at my profile. Yes, I did. If you are done talking, please leave because you have overstayed your welcome, Rosemary.”
“It’s alright, but you were in my position once and you slept with your boss.”
“That was seven years ago, now, leave!”
“The man you slept with every weekend was my Father, Mrs. Muli. I did not look for you to validate my actions, Mrs. Muli. I wanted to see what it took to send my mother into depression and kill her, and I am glad that you gave me such a fine sight.”
Rosemary threw the flowers on the ground and walked on. She had to secure another job so she could finish paying her HELB loan. She did not look back as Mrs. Muli called her for she knew that if she did, she might be tempted to forgive the woman. It had taken her seven years to find the cause of her mother’s death.
***
Michael
This one’s for my friend. I pray you and your husband will heal.
***
I find myself in between words written using this blue pen on this white piece of paper. You left for work today at 5:30 in the morning. You looked at me, stretched your hand to stroke my head but withdrew it as though I was a baby who could cause mayhem with just one touch. You dressed in the bathroom and left without taking tea or even writing me a note. You live as though I am a minefield and you’re the Wanderer who has to make it through without losing a leg or an arm.
See, I noticed, not because I wanted to but because I could not sleep. I have not slept in a week and you think the medicine that doctor prescribed helps but it does not. I want us to talk and sit before the TV talking about La Malquerida with you pretending to follow when you are clearly bored. I want you to look at me as you did before the voices started filling my head.
It’s always the voices.
I can hear them and they are always coming after me.
Where were you Michael? Where were you when they insisted I follow them through those woods? Where were you when I fell and had to cry out for help as they looked at each other wondering what to do? Where were you when she flowed out of me as if she could not stand the filth that was within me? Where were you when the doctor had to say, “I am sorry for your loss,” reading from the script of her career as though those six words could bring her back to me?
Michael, I am not going to see the Therapist or Pastor Mark. I am not going to talk to my mom or your sisters or my best friend. Tell them we are not entertaining guests and talk to me.
Look at me and tell me everything you have to say for yourself because I am falling and I am watching myself die every time I inch closer to the earth. You leave me in this house where our hopes for her assail me and expect to come back and find me cooking in the kitchen while listening to Xfm.
Michael, she died and your sisters stood there debating over who pushed me and what they would say to your parents. I lay there afraid to move as the trees parted to reveal the clear blue sky. How was I to know that no one visited those parts of the woods? How was I to know that whoever heard the children singing as they walked through that part would lose their soul? Who believes in such stories?
But, I heard the children singing. I heard their voices as beautiful as the sun that lit up the clear blue sky fill my heart with such peace before our daughter spilled out of me. It hurt. It still hurts and that is why I have not been able to close my eyes.
I closed them for a second thinking I could feel my legs but when I opened them, I had lost my precious one.
Our daughter.
You told me that night on our way back.
“Let’s forget about it, baby girl. God has a plan for us, everything will be alright.”
But you never looked at me again. We sat next to each other in that bus for three hours and you never said anything.
Was it God’s plan to have your sisters trip me so I could fall in the middle of nowhere? Was it God’s plan to have your family look at me like a pile of filth simply because I am not the woman they wanted you to marry? Was that reason enough for them to commit murder and then bring in God as a buffer?
Michael, you will come home tonight and find me seated on the kitchen floor waiting for you to read this letter. I cannot speak for my head is filled with your sisters’ voices and laughter. You will read this and when you are done, you will reach out and finally hold me in your arms. You will sit there on the cold cement floor and hold onto me until I cleanse myself of every ounce of pain and anger through every teardrop.
When I stop for a while, we will have the Ugali and osuga that I shall have prepared and start…we will start because I know what I heard in those woods and I know now that they are not just stories. I know those children have our daughter and some day she too will sing for your sisters.
And oh…how I look forward to that day.
Sadly,
Your Wife, Maria.
***
A Concert of Their Own
Ben invited Nancy to lunch on his unluckiest day.
His immediate boss had uttered a long list of reasons why he was being monitored. The conclusion of that list had been on word “underperformance.”
Daniel, the employee of the month, had sold three homes worth ten million. He on the other hand had sold one apartment and secured ten tenants. This was not good according to his boss.
In his words, “we expect the best and this is not the best Benjamin. Your colleagues bring in investments greater than you do and yet you earn the same basic salary. You need to do something about this. Consider it your first warning.”
He’d walked out of that office smiling.
No one was to see him frowning or sad about being lectured. If they knew, he’d remind them that their commission depended on their sales. The employee of the month was proof of mismanagement of funds. He earned his commission and splashed it on his Mark Two car that never seemed to glide over a bump without a scrape.
So, when he received Nancy’s text that she was busy, his heart went out to Njuguna’s pub right across the street from his house.
He sent her another text: it’s okay, later love.
He sat down and went to back work. He had a list of clients in his database that he would follow up on to gauge their commitment to the organization. He pulled out his calculator and keyed in the figures of his sales. He calculated his commission and sank in his chair.
How could he have stayed here this long? He had wanted to start his own Real Estate Organization and resume school but somewhere between young single friends, readily available pubs and single women, his dream had faded into the background.
He was looking forward to having dinner instead with Nancy. They had been dating since January. In that time he’d learned that if she sent him a text he had to reply in under two minutes. If she talked about salon or somebody’s dress or perfume or weave he had to look at her and nod just as he did in his Comm skills class!
He also accepted that she was the mistress of disguise every time she visited the salon. His new skills included naming weaves; so far, he knew Daniella, Isabella, and Sophia.
He left work an hour early to prepare for dinner. He dropped by The Green Restaurant and bought the best of their fried chicken curry and vegetable rice before stopping by Uchumi supermarket for some wine. Nancy loved the Four Cousins and he did not hesitate to get that.
He got home in time to pay Mama Flo for cleaning and dusting the place.
He then started setting up the house for that dinner taking his time because she’d be delayed due to traffic.
Nancy knocked on his door at seven o’clock still in her grey office attire. She wore nothing but exhaustion and before Ben could speak, she told him about the stupid traffic police who made the driver pullover and ignored them for thirty minutes. She couldn’t alight because the conductor could not return their money. The woman seated beside her chewed loudly. The driver turned on Classic FM and the station lived on repeating the same songs.
When she stopped, she turned to him and asked, “I’m sorry, my day has been pathetic, how was your day?”
“My day was good love. I’m glad you’re here.”
“So, what are we having for supper?”
“Close your eyes for a minute. I know you are tired but tafadhali I promise it won’t take long.”
She closed her eyes and he turned on the lights and his music player. He walked to the middle of the room praying that she would believe in him because he did not at that moment.
He was shaking when he said, “Open your eyes, Nancy.”
“Ben is that Mozart?”
“Yes, I know your dream is to attend one in New York, and I swear you are the only person I know who loves this kind of music, so I thought why not have our own concert here and now, just the two of us, and ask, will you marry me Nancy?”
“What? Ben, yes! Yes! I will marry you, and now I feel so stupid. I was all about my day but you had this prepared for me. Thank you, sweetie, I love you. Wait till I show my friends!”
“Let’s eat then. So you really don’t mind this?”
“How many people listen to Mozart through their home theater system in Nairobi? Don’t you like how it fills the house?”
He didn’t but she did and in that moment, Ben and Nancy loved each other in their own little concert.
****
Stories
By
Elly Kamari
***
The Red Kanga
“Do you remember…?”
Kuria glanced at the woman perched on the stump in the middle of the clearing. She had a new red kanga tied around her hips. Her green blouse, made of soft silky fabric, clung to her curves. She’d covered her hair: that glorious long dark mess, hidden with a green headscarf. He couldn’t see her face because she was staring at the green grass at her feet. She held a stick, poking at the ground as though searching for answers in the soil nourishing the green blades.
“Do you remember we used to come here when we were kids?”
Nostalgia clung to her words; brought back memories.
“I remember,” Kuria said with a wistful smile. “I remember you never covered your hair those days.”
She chuckled, poking at the grass faster.
“I had time to play with a comb then. These days I’m too busy.”
“Busy is a state of mind, Shiro.”
Kuria shifted, pressing his back against the rough trunk of a tall tree. Hundreds grew around them. He stuck a blade of grass between his teeth and stared up at the waving branches above. The sun sifted through, rays of light falling on the stump in the middle of the clearing, highlighting Shiro. It looked like a natural spotlight.
She paused in her poking to glance at him.
“Are you going to tell me why you called me?” she asked. “I left githeri cooking on the jiko.”
“You always have githeri cooking.” Kuria scowled. She never invited him to eat it. “Who are you cooking for this time?”
She shrugged.
“The house is full of people. Stop worrying about my githeri. What do you want to tell me?”
“I went to the shopping center to get charcoal earlier.” Kuria threw the blade of grass on the ground and crossed his arms against his chest. “I heard you were seen there with Chege. Are you two together now?”
Shiro scoffed.
“You’re like a woman. Why do you listen to gossip?”
“Is it true Chege bought you mangoes from Mama Nora, or not?”
“The mangoes looked good.”
Shiro tossed her stick and sat up straight, a frown dancing on her forehead.
“So, he bought you mangoes?”
“Ah ha,” Shiro said with a nod. “What’s wrong with eating mangoes?”
“I bring you avocados from my mother’s tree and you sell them, but you ate the mangoes, didn’t you?”
“Chege paid good money for them,” Shiro said, as though that should make sense.
Kuria frowned.
The woman was going to drive him insane.
She just didn’t see the point.
“I don’t want you to eat anything Chege buys you again.”
Shiro gaped.
“Did you hear me?”
Shiro stood up, her hands on her hips.
“You’re going mad, Kuria. You can’t stand there and dictate what I can or can’t eat. Who died and made you my master?”
“I’m warning you.”
“Warn away,” Shiro said. “Keep going and I will go find Chege and tell him to buy me all the fruits in the market.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“Then you’ll go to jail,” Shiro said. “Anything else you wanted to say?”
Kuria fumed, annoyed by her innocent expression. She had no idea how mad she got him. How angry he was that she dared talk with that Chege.
Why couldn’t she see how he felt about her? Why didn’t she care?
He thought about the avocados he took to her house.
Three afternoons ago, he’d climbed the avocado tree behind his mother’s house and spent two solid hours picking each fruit with care. The trick with avocados was not to drop them from the tree. They bruised easy. Bruised avocados turned to rot.
Yes, he had carefully picked each fruit, and hauled two large baskets down the tree. He’d taken one to his mother, the other he kept for Shiro.
She thanked him with a smile. Ah that smile…, he glanced at her face now. That smile was missing. She didn’t grace him with her smile too often, so when she’d smiled at him that day, he’d felt like he won the lottery.
Yesterday, he’d gone to take milk to the dairy and heard the women there talking about Shiro’s avocados. Shiro had sold all the avocados he’d given her. It hurt to know she hadn’t even tried to eat one.
“If you’re going to scowl at me, I’m going home.”
Shiro’s irritation was clear and he pushed off the tree when she started to leave.
“Why did you sell my avocados? I brought them for you and your siblings to eat. Why sell them?”
“You brought a basket full. They would have gone bad in the house.”
“They weren’t ripe. You could have divided them and—
“I don’t like eating avocados.” Shiro sighed. “Don’t you have a fruit you don’t like?”
> “No.” Kuria fumed. “You used to eat them fine when I gave you a slice over at our place.”
“That’s because I didn’t want to disappoint you.” Shiro shivered. “I don’t like the taste very much.”
“What kind of excuse is that? If you don’t like something just say it,” Kuria said confused. “Did you sell all the avocados?”
Shiro nodded. “I sold them all.”
Kuria scoffed and shook his head. “So much for my efforts.”
“Don’t look so disappointed. I used the money to buy this kanga. Do you like it?”
Kuria looked at the red kanga.
“My old one was fading.” Shiro smiled and his heart jumped, the beat racing. Shiro’s smile had that effect on him.
“What do you think?” Shiro prompted, touching the red kanga.
“It looks good on you,” Kuria said, clearing his throat with a slight cough. He liked this pleased smile on Shiro’s lips. He wondered what else he could do to bring it back. “I can bring you more avocados if you like.”
“Will you?” Shiro asked in surprise.
“Yeah,” Kuria said thinking his mother wouldn’t notice one basket missing.
“Are you going to get mad if I don’t eat them?”
Kuria shrugged.
“No, as long as you don’t sell to Chege.”
Shiro laughed and turned to leave.
“I’m going to finish cooking my githeri. You’re welcome to come and eat it, if you like.”
Kuria grinned because that was the first time she’d ever invited him to eat her githeri. She left the clearing in quick strides, glancing back once to wave at him. He stared at the stump where she’d sat, and smiled.
Yes, he remembered. He remembered every time Shiro met him in this clearing. Every laugh, every smile, and every argument they’d had.
One of these days, Kuria thought, he was going to propose to Shiro right here, and she was going to say yes.
****
githeri– popular beans and maize traditional dish
kanga– colorful wrap
***
Have a Nice Day…
Hunter picked up his guitar cases from the minivan’s floor, and scowled when the snap broke and the case opened. He knelt on the tarmac, and placed the case on the ground, reaching for the lid, he paused, his gaze on the expensive electric guitar resting in the black velvet bed.