Was I too inspired by my ancestors to write some holly book, I swear upon my father’s beard that verse would have been my Genesis 1:1. Too bad the only inspiration I’ve ever got is to rant ceaselessly about my trivial rove upon the face of this planet. But I can say this; the only thing more vile than a Campus secretary, is a secretary from another Campus.

It doesn’t matter if she (yes, they’re always a she, why lie?) Is a secretary to the Vice Chancellor, secretary to head of department or the secretary to your class rep, these sadistic relatives of Hitler are a pain in the ass. Touts might be the rudest people you know, right? Perhaps closely followed by nurses and Mpesa girls, right? Of course you’d think that because your village refused to send you to University. If they did, you would hold a different opinion.

But my village sold cows, lots of cows to send me to the university. And here I have witnessed and been subjected to tones of injustices perpetrated by secretaries. I’ve seen a secretary reduce a comrade’s confidence to a mere speck of dust on her feet. I’ve seen comrades stripped off their self worth as if their self is worth only a lower-class Kenyan opinion. And I have experienced even worse.

I remember this time as a first year. Free and fresh. Fresh as keg (keg is always fresh bwana). My intestines were yet to meet the contamination that is chapo madondo. And even a single molecule of alkanol, any alkanol, was still only too foreign to the walls of my liver. So on this day I walked to the dean’s office with a bunch of papers on my hand. These papers were supposed to be my ticket out of poverty. Poverty that my family had inflicted upon me without my permission.

These first time helb application forms on my hand were devoid only of one thing, the Dean of students’ approval. And then I would become what I am meant to be; the richest man in my village, first of my name, heir of my father and husband of all widows.

Let’s just say things didn’t turn out exactly as I had imagined. The secretary’s door was ajar, I walked in and there she was in one of those feminist t-shirts branded, I’M A RAY OF SUNSHINE. She looked at me and I’ve never felt so reduced in my life. You know the way someone looks at you from the top of their thick rimmed spectacles and you can’t help but get the feeling that you might not have been the winning sperm as your highschool motivational speaker had so ceremoniously said? That’s exactly what transpired.

Apparently I was supposed to have knocked before entering her office and she considered it absolute rudeness that I didn’t knock on the air when I found the door wide open. She asked for my name probably to determine the source of my rudeness.

“I’m Village Rover son of…”, Before I could finish, I was cut short with, “come back next time and knock then I’ll help you”, and she didn’t even try to be sweet about it.

Let’s just say if the university did not suspend me then, I doubt I’ll ever be suspended in my entire Campus life. And madam secretary was a ray of sunshine indeed. Just a hot, burning, relentless ray of sunshine.

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No where else is as religious as this raunchy town sheathing in heat and smell of fish. Every quarter mile is either a church or a mosque or both since these folks are taking no chances with this heaven-going thing. Their desire to knock on the celestial doors is indomitable. If Jesus is not the way then surely it must be Mohammed. Either way they’re partaking of the free wine in heaven come rain come what?

Yet as holly as this town pretends to be, she still cannot escape her less dignified stories. Stories of careless sex life and patched land that grows little to no food. Stories of teenage drug abuse and water hyacinth chocking life out of the holly waters of Nam Lolwe. Stories of HIV/ Aids scourge, rising teenage pregnancies and the benign spirits of Nyawawa. If you don’t know Nyawawa that’s your own problem. How can you be breathing our free air all this time and still not know Nyawawa? Return our air bas.

Nyawawa are believed to be spirits of the dead residing somewhere in the lake. No one really knows exactly where it’s in the lake these spirits reside. Okey, some people claim to know but, you know, you can’t take anybody’s word for anything here. Now these spirits sometimes get bored just being there in the lake frightening fish. So they swim or fly or whatever- to the shore to frighten humans because it’s obviously more fun frightening humans to fish isn’t it?

These dead guys from the lake make their annual visits to kendubay within the months of July, August and September. I don’t know how people know exactly when they come but everyone knows when they are here. Who wouldn’t? Nyawawa are such attention whores they make sure everyone and everything knows when they’re around. Everything. Even dogs. When they make their grand entrance it’s with a whoosh. And the air becomes thick. And it gets chilly. Then the night becomes super dark. Soon you’ll start hearing weird voices. Voices calling to their children. Voices seeking direction. Voices bantering. Invisible voices. Voices. Voices.
“Otieno my child is remaining”.
“Anyango open for me the door”
“Atipa wait for me”
These voices, along with guttural laughter.

If you don’t want Nyawawa to kill you or do something worse like turning you mad or turning you into a dog or a cat, then you’ll have to join the rest of the villagers in hitting metals. Not drums, metals. Anything metallic; spoons, sufurias… just anything that can produce a ting ting sound. Supposedly this scares the spirits away. You must also not eat cold food because Nyawawa would sense your cold body and assume you’re a dead person and take you with them. And no one in kendubay wants to be taken by Nyawawa. So whenever Nyawawa make themselves the unwelcomed guests, there’s ceaseless hitting of metals till they leave.

Kendubay doesn’t like Nyawawa but they’ve learned to live with them. Just like they’ve learned to live with their rogue motorbikers. Jobodaboda. Famed for their fertility and conjugal prowess. They impregnate teenage girls like it’s their solemn duty to do so. And the way they ride those motorbikes, the ghost rider would be jealous.

Also, bodaboda guys of kendu bay do not want to see you in town. You’ll get to town and even before you can even settle on some basic formalities like whistle at the first fitbird you’ve notice, the same guy who just brought you a while ago would be back drolling with, “let’s go home”. And then he’ll be joined by another. And another. And another. All with the insatiable desire to take you back home. Let’s go home. Let’s go home. Because kendubay however murky is home. And what did they say about home?

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Of course, you can’t walk around smiling if you’re broke. What’s funny? I mean.

But no one has ever been the brokiest (I can’t really find the right word to describe his level and depth of being broke) than Eduh. He was always broke, but you could never tell unless you were his close friend.

When we joined campus, we happened to be placed in the same hostel. We shared the room with four boys, scratch that, four men. We all had hair in other areas of our anatomy, so yeah, men. Of the four of us, Eduh was the loudest, friendliest, and had everything – the shoes, the trendiest clothes, and of course, the girls.

It all looked classy on the surface. Whenever you looked at Eduh, all you could see was an epitome of a rich kid. Someone who has it all figured out.

As we disappeared into the kibanda to have our supper, Eduh would invariably be seen swaggering into one of the expensive restaurants in the vicinity of the campus.

We could later meet the real Eduh while in the hostel. He’d ask if any of us had some extra cash to lend him. He’d even promise to pay back with interest on top.

Being that we were just as broke as he was, we couldn’t help finance his lifestyle. So, obviously, he just had to look for it somewhere else.

He’d borrow money from other girls who had feelings for him. It’s hard for a girl who deeply loves you to deny you money. Eduh read that script and memorized the lines. He had a pile of debts from, like, a million girls.

We’d at times be chilling in the hostel and hear a knock on the door. On saying ‘come in’, a lady would just part the door curtains and ask something in the neighborhood of, “is Eduh around?”

And that happened again and again. Different faces, different days. Rather, same poop, different air freshener.

When this first happened, we thought that Eduh was a ladies’ man. But for the records, he was never really the type to exile us from the hostel. He’d rather have swindled a few more ladies than bring one to the hostel for some ones and twos.

The fact that we knew the other side of Eduh made it easier for us to know how to cover his ass whenever someone came to ask for him. Sometimes, he’d just be in the hostel with us but we’d lie that he’s not around.

“Mahn, these guys want their money back and I don’t have anything to give them,” he’d croak every time this happened.

Despite Eduh being a 24-7 broke guy, he also had a generous side. Whenever HELB came through, he’d take us to the nearest bar and let us gulp on keg to our fill.

He’d also pay for our kibandaski bill of ksh.50.

And eventually forget to pay back his debts. To return the favor, we’d always lie that we don’t know where he is whenever his people came asking for him.

I now understand why I thought campus students had lots of money. The situation on the ground is so different.

Perhaps, the people in high school who rub shoulders with me think I have money. I need to call for a press conference at this juncture, to address the nation and let everyone know that I don’t have that money. I wish I had. It’s just that I can’t allow myself to look like my problems. Plot twist, I am Eduh.

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We have all had our own difficult experiences from our childhood to where we are now. For some, it might have broken them completely while for others it might have changed their lives In a positive way. Let’s take for example the way you felt when you got rejected on a couple of your job interviews, the way you felt when your suffered loss from your business more than once, the way your heart was shattered down after your dream girl or boy told you that you’re not ‘their type’, the way you kept on failing that test and had to retake, the way you’ve been toiling to do things right at your work place in order to impress your boss so that he or she may consider you first incase of a promotion among so many other such experiences.

In all of those difficult situations, it is easy to feel defeated hence the urge of giving up. We get tricked into giving in instead of trying again because we are convinced that comfort is what we need. We simply allow our fears to rule our thoughts and that’s why we chicken out every time whenever there is another chance to try again. Have you ever thought how your life would have been if only you had tried again after failing the last time? Maybe you would have gotten it right and could have achieved that which you so yearned for.

Sometime mid last year while I was on my attachment in one of the media companies, I was assigned the task of going to Kibra for a live coverage after the demise of the area member of parliament who had succumbed to cancer. The head of news department had faith in me that I could do it but I did not have the same faith in myself so I gave him an excuse why I couldn’t do it and just like that I missed out on that opportunity. Until today, I haven’t been able to move past the thought of me turning down that opportunity. It was a big deal especially for an attache like me who did not have any previous experience on the same work.

Looking back, I must admit that I allowed my fear to control my mind. Both the fear of the known and the unknown. Or it could have been the fact that I was tired of so much work thus why I couldn’t take up the task.

Sometimes things will not go as we have planned. In fact, it may go on a completely different way and for that we are likely to go astray from our goals and plans. We should not allow ourselves to be knocked out by any form of barrier that may come our way. Too much pressure from ourselves and our surroundings of wanting to achieve that which we have set in mind may burn us of our energy, leaving us feeling empty from within which may force us into giving up.

It’s very easy to let go of our dreams whenever we feel like we cannot take it no more but it’s so much hard to start from the beginning up to where you’re now. So anytime you feel like wallowing in your comfort zone instead of putting in the work just remember that winners never quit and quitters never win and when going gets tough, the tough gets going so keep on keeping on like the winner that you’re.

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“Our sister has lived a good life. She’ll now know rest”, the pastor, solemn, intones.
You twitch your nose in disagreement because every bit of that sentence is an outright lie! Atieno hasn’t known any rest in death or she wouldn’t be sweating so profusely in that ugly casket. And a good life? What good life? She lived no good life. No, Actually, she lived no life. You know it. The flies hovering over her casket knows it. The pastor himself can attest to never ever receive any tithe from her so he too knows it. Hell yeah! Everyone knows it.

But that is not any of your fault, is it?

Or is it your fault that she was born out of wedlock to your mother’s sister who couldn’t even live long enough to take care of her bastard daughter? No. And when your do-goody mother brought her to your house, you were only too happy to have someone clean after you. She was so lucky she had someone to clean after. If you guys weren’t the perfect christians that you still are, Atieno would be out in the streets scavenging with her ilk.

But she lived with you guys. She did not become your sister, but she ate your food. And she went to your school, at least for sometime. Atieno was daft, she was glib, which wasn’t surprising seeing what she was. A bastard. Bastards aren’t supposed to be intellectually capable, are they? But you, not cumbered by ridiculous tasks such as cleaning, digging, cooking and every other adjective relating to Atieno, you became an academic meteorite. Passing those exams with your powerful mighty mind.

And then one day she commited the worst form of atrocity possible under the sun. Atieno swallowed a child. What a demented fool! How could she be heavy with child. You were in class seven then and you were outraged. It was annoying enough that a boy, any boy should even look at her twice. But she’d gone ahead and got pregnant with one! She, with her ancient dresses. No boy had ever paid any attention to you. And yet you were her better. You observed her protruding belly with ire. You were angry, and you were jealous. Your parents raged on and on about her ungratefulness and her appetite for swallowing children. Your father (God rest his soul) was particularly eerily silent over the whole fiasco. He seemed only too eager to avoid locking eyes with Atieno. So much unlike him.

Atieno had to abort that thing, your mother demanded ( God rest her soul too). One bastard was bad enough, but two! Even you with your grade E in math knows that two is more than one. She had to abort. It was decided. Your father agreed. It was the only time he ever opined to anything since Atieno swallowed a child. But Atieno. She just sat there like a stone. Her face, an emotionless mask. So removed from it all. It was like she was there but not physically there. Like she was an invisible spirit hovering about silently. Watching. Observing. Existing only in her realm.

And then she left. Not in the normal way people leave. She did not pack her bags and bid y’all a see-you-soon. Your mother did not throw her out, telling her to go find another home. No. One morning you woke up and she was just gone. Like she never existed in the first place. Like she’d never been nothing real, just a dream all along. A dream that you were finally waking up from that morning. A dream that your father seemed to have woken up from rejuvenated. Vibrant even.

Even today twenty two years later. Seated among other mourners, a part of you still believe it’s all a dream. A dream that has a boy with a very familiar face eulogizing Atieno. He’s an exact younger copy of someone you once knew and loved. Someone, someone who is, who is, who is…. your father! He looks exactly like your father.

“My mother taught me how to be strong”, this boy visibly in his early twenties is saying.
“My only grief is that she’ll never taste the strength of my arms like I did hers. I often thought of my mother as being a half goddess a half hell”. The crowd laughs. You laugh too.
“She gave me the only thing strong enough to help me ride atop the chariots of life; a good education. To that I’ll be forever grateful, because my mother wore strength and darkness equally and well.”
You have no idea how right you are! You want to shout but your mouth won’t open. You want to stand and applaud but something has just locked your knees.

This boy’s eyes swells in tears. You notice how those eyes looks exactly like your father. And then his gaze is transfixed at you. And you feel those eyes, your father’s eyes boring into you, reading from your soul. And yet they’re so kind, so loving. And then his face begins to blur. Now you can’t see him clearly. That’s when you realize you’ve been crying too. Because this is not a dream. Atieno was never a dream. She was a half goddess a half hell.

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The following week, the lost horse came back home with other horses. The villagers received the news and came to celebrate with their fellow villager. ‘You must be happy since your horse has not only come back but also brought along other horses too,’ they exclaimed. ‘Maybe,’ the villager replied.

The son was very happy that they now possessed more than one horse, so he went outside to play with them. He hurt his legs, and since the villager had very nosy neighbors, they caught the news and came to display their support. ‘You must be sad that your son has been injured by your horses,’ they said. ‘Maybe,’ he replied.

There was a war, and the soldiers came to recruit the firstborn of each household in the village. The villager’s son did not go into the war because of the severe injury that happened to him. The villagers came back to tell him how lucky he must be that his son did not go to war. ‘Maybe,’ the villager replied.

There are three types of beliefs that hold us back from our mental growth:

1) Unhealthy beliefs about Ourselves 

It’s okay to be sad, but self-pity magnifies your problems. Hosting your own pity party keeps you stuck, and later you are unable to find solutions to your problems. If I have learned anything, it is that good habits are not enough to help you when you are going through a mental breakdown. It’s the small unhealthy habits that you need to keep away from. It’s like when you want to be really healthy, you have to exercise, but if you really want to see results, you need to give up junk foods.

2) Unhealthy beliefs about Others 

Like the villagers, they kept on reminding the villager of his fortunes and misfortunes. The villager did not give up his power because he had a different reaction from what the villagers were probably expecting. Again, when you only hear about what people have to say about your life, it will hold you back from looking at the bigger picture.

3) Unhealthy beliefs about the World

We expect that the world owes us something, but that comes with its disappointments. That if you really work hard, you have to be successful. Once we are able to change our mental state, we look at the bigger picture. The only person you are allowed to compete with and compare yourself to is the person you were yesterday.

Like the villager, we should focus on how we react to ourselves, others, and even the world so that we cannot lose our power. Once you recognize that you have the power, nothing can stop you from attaining what you hunger for from this universe. Train your brain to think differently and positively every single time, and you will be the king and queen of your own kingdom. I recently came across a meme: ‘Don’t force issues because everything that happens has before now been written.’

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Those rumours had it that the guy would walk into the bathroom with an empty bucket and come out with a bucket-full of shopping. Sometimes, he would serve ugali and sukuma in the dining hall then change the sukuma into chicken. Yes, the way Jesus did his thing.

His name was Rajab, but close friends to him, like I, called him Raj.

Before these ‘devil worshipping’ rumours started spreading like wild fire, Raj and I were close friends. We would study together and share stories during preps time. One thing I never noticed was him going into the bathroom with an empty pail and coming out with shopping. Maybe because we were in different dormitories, I don’t know.

He, however, had money. From the stories we shared during preps time, it was clear that this boy came from a well-off family. He belonged to those type of friends who would tell you how wealthy their folks are, where they visited last holiday and the gift he got on his birthday. The type that would be visited with all types of delicacies on visiting day while you the only thing that your folks came with is a newspaper and a torrent of advice.

So, when I got wind of the rumours that Raj was worshipping other gods, I was so shocked. One, he had never mentioned that in his stories. Two, the rumours clearly stated that he had also converted some of his friends through food.

You see, there was always that time of the month when everyone would be ‘whistling’ (drinking tea without escort). And such times, Raj always came through. He’d take us to the canteen and spoil us.

Technically, I assumed I was also converted to his ways of belief. Unknowingly, of course.

Days later, the rumours slid to the administration and this is when it got worse. I had already unfriended Raj and was tight into my faith – praying, reading the Bible and even frequenting CU (Christian Union).

Teachers would walk into class and make light jokes about devil worshipping. “Nimeskia huku mnafanya shopping kwa bafu.” Everyone would turn to look at Raj and burst into a guffaw.

This didn’t go for long before we started being called to the deputy principal’s office one after the other. Anyone who had ever been a friend to Raj became a suspect by default. It was even worse if they spotted you with a tattoo, ring or necklace.

My turn came. I was called into the deputy principal’s office to give my side of confession. There was a panel of teachers. All the fierce teachers in the school. On the far left sat Mr Odera, the principal – he was a good friend to my dad and the reaction he flashed read disappointment.

Through sweating, stuttering and trembling, I managed to answer all their FBI-ilk questions.

Searching was later done. They searched our lockers and boxes. Auto-books, insyder magazine, letters and some pulse magazines were confiscated. We had no idea what they were looking for – skulls, maybe?

They found nothing to show that Raj was a devil worshipper. He was given a two weeks suspension while the rest of us resumed normal life in school.

The CU were not convinced enough. Other rumours had picked the waves, that one of the CU members always saw Raj walking accross the dormitory with a cat on his foot at night. They staged a weekend challenge and the whole school sunk into a crusade, fear and miracles!

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Now, coolkids and richkid-wannabes from Nairobi and Mombasa (especially) were the bigwigs during entertainment. They were the ones controlling everything in the hall, from what songs would be played and which movies would be watched to who would sit in the front line.

Also, these were the same people who never missed in those lists of accused ‘devil worshipers.’ Was it because they always frequented the canteen and had autobooks that had cuttings of celebrities and lyrics of songs under their desks? I can’t figure.

These troop hardly grasped anything in class though. Their’s were funkies, entertainment and telling city-stories in the dormitories till late in the night.

In my time, we had the “hot grabba mix”, served by DJ Lyta. This mix had all the latest riddims from the likes of Konshens, Popcaan, Charlie Black etc. We’d dance and sing along on these Saturdays. The coolkids and richkid-wannabes would carry the CDs (Compact Discs, not the condoms, relax) from their homes.

We also had DJ Nickdee’s “Dope” mix. That one for hiphop. But I won’t talk a lot about it because in my school, people who listened to hip hop were called “bunnies” or sometimes “yo”. And they had a tang beef with “Odi” – these were the group that preferred the Jamaican juice; either riddim or reggae, served cold with ice cubes.

So, on these Saturdays, one would do the laundry after lunch and choose one of these options – either to watch your clothes dry, or come back later to find your shirt missing.

After laundry, guys would converge in the DH (Dining Hall) to watch a movie while listening to music. Yeah, you’d watch a whole movie while “hot grabba mix” is playing. Funny enough, you’d understand the whole movie.

The coolkids mastered all the dance moves, they’d make a circle at the back of the hall and dance in turns. The students from the village (who apparently performed better in class) would just watch them from a distance.

But don’t forget, we also had those guys from the village who did anything to fit in. From forging accent and forcing themselves in coolkids’ cliques to keeping up with the new trends. Aki peer pressure wewe!

Supper time would approach. we’d line up, get served with two pieces of meat (on bad days you’d only get one piece which would turn out to be a bone), ugali and sukuma wiki. That was the menu for sato.

About the same time, those guys who had gone for funky (either sports, music fest, drama fest, etc) would also be arriving. You’d know they had arrived when you heard the hooting of the bus accompanied with loud yells. They never landed in any other way. They’d then walk around delivering letters from girl’s schools.

You remember that troop that was dancing at the back of the hall? Yes, the coolkids gang. They are the same guys who would fetch at least two to three letters each, from different girl’s schools. In short, they were literally the coolest kids in school – or so we thought.

At around 7:20pm, guys would get into groups and start telling stories – those who came from funky would yap of how they marinated a few girls and managed to scoop their digits. One of them would even pull out a peculiar tie and brag of how he traded his tie so as to remember the girl. To beat the record, another one would unbutton his shirt and show us where the girl he approached wrote her number; on the chest, near the heart.

The braggadocio would go on and on. Those who never managed to talk to any girl at the funky would be bashed and called sissies. These sometimes made guys to forge phone numbers on papers just so to earn gangsta points from mbogi.

The trickiest part of the weekend was choosing whether to go for CU or stay in the hall and watch a movie together with other sinners. It was always a tough decision to make. The smart ones always spent half their time in the hall, then would sanitize by joining the CU people the other half.

The bookworms did neither, they preferred staying in class studying. You’d find a form 3 bookworm in a corner of a form 1 class seriously reading. Now, him using a different class for studying was for the purpose of confusing others. You’d assume all of you are in the hall watching a movie, kumbe him is busy perusing and doing the assignments.

And on these Saturdays, you’d miss some faces in school. You won’t see them in the hall, in CU neither will you see them in any of the classes reading. Well, they are the sneakers – not the shoes, I mean, they always sneaked out the school on weekends to go ‘handle some business’.

On some occasions, they would be caught in the neighboring girls’ school wearing skirts. Sometimes, they would sneak back safely with some home-prepared food and would lie they were visited by their parents on weekend.

The day would then end well – just like that, but for others, it would be a time to mourn their missing shirts, socks or trousers that they aired out to dry while they watched a movie in the hall. And such is life.

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“I will miss you too,” I whispered back, and bent my head to meet hers.

It was the last day of a one week youth mentorship workshop. The week had been amazing, but I hadn’t figured it ending with me being so close to someone’s daughter.

It all began on that Monday morning. I was late for the pilot session. Well, blame Mombasa road traffic. So, I grabbed a seat and sat to the closest spot I could find. That spot happened to be directly opposite to her. I kept on staring at her. In my head, I was just wondering what an entrancing girl like her was doing in such a setting – she should have been on the runway sashaying that glam or somewhere pausing for some magazine photos.

Once in a while, our eyes met and we both fidgeted awkwardly on our seats.

As time went by, we got comfortable around each other. We started spending time together at lunch breaks. After the sessions, we’d sit at a peaceful spot near the gate and talk amidst the evening breeze. She later introduced herself as Grace.

She had a sweet voice that laced a coast accent. For some reason, I just wanted to hear her talk and talk and… You know, talk some more. Her dreadlocks made her flash a personality that bore both boujee and gangster. And her physique? A perfect 8.

The week slid well. A bonfire night was organized to end the workshop in style. And this is when I wished we could reverse time and start all over again. All through the week, we had been talking as friends. And it so happened that feelings were beginning to knock on the door.

“Yes, I will miss you when I go back to Naivasha.”

“But we will still be talking on phone, right?”

“Yeah but…” she turned to look at me with lazy eyes, “… I want to see you.”

“I am here.” I said, avoiding eye contact.

“No, I mean, I prefer being this close to you than talking on phone.”

Then silence struck. I rushed into my thoughts to forage for the right words to counter that line. I knew very well where this was heading to. I, personally, felt we were rushing things. I know she felt the same way too. But also, I felt like we had known each other deeply enough to even get married, already. Furthermore, it’s the 21st century where people meet on tinder and end up arranging for weddings even before they meet. What can’t happen?

“I’d love that too.” I said.

“I have a question, Ian.” She sat upright then turned to my direction. I knew the time had come. I wasn’t sure what my reply would be, but I could guess what her question would be. I turned to look at her. She looked cute, I could see the reflection of the fire in her eyes. This whole set-up felt like an excerpt of a scene from a Mexican soap opera.

She cleared her throat, then asked, “would you date me?”

“Of course, I would,” came my reply without hesitation.

“Why?” She asked. And that’s when she lost me.

The reasons I had in head wouldn’t sound mature if I decided to tell her. You know, like the one I mentioned up there – yeah, the accent turned me on. So, I didn’t tell her that. Instead I kept quiet and pretended to be thinking While scratching my chin. For almost 2 minutes.

“Okay, you know what, let’s go and sleep.” She flipped her dreadlocks behind then stood up.

“No, no, no, wait… I honestly don’t know how to answer the ‘why’ part of that question. What about you? Would you want us to date?”

“Maybe.” Came her reply, brief like a miniskirt.

“What time is it?” I asked, diverting the topic.

“1A.M, let’s go and sleep. This convo is getting worse by the minute.”

We stood up and swaggered to our rooms.

I could feel her frustration. We were just two souls who weren’t sure what we really wanted. Or perhaps, we knew what we wanted but didn’t want to take the risk. I still can’t figure out which.

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I was in an embassava sacco matatu headed to Embakasi. Next to me was a damsel full of beauty and style, sitted adjacent the window. She had every description of beauty on her – talk of the dimples, smooth make-up-less skin, natural hair, long neck, beady eyes, hips well spread on the seat, nice cleavage out… you get the idea, right?

I dived into my deep thoughts to fetch a pick up line. I had this one shot, only this one shot to make history. I felt like the Biblical David who had only one stone to hit that collosal guy. What if he missed hiting him? Eeh? Just inagine what would have happened to David. I doubt if we could have ever read about him, because the war that he would have received…

But listen folks, if I hadn’t made this move on this damsel, you wouldn’t be reading this neither.

I had a line in my head – well structured, grammatically correct, metaphorically rich and everything else that would pull a grin on that beautiful face. However, I didn’t want to hit her with it that fast, no, I wanted to hit her with it once she had paid her fare. Your boy hadn’t budgeted to pay for a stranger’s transport – that’s not even the case, let’s just say it was that time of the month when every coin has a plan.

Conductors can be comedians at times – they see you talking to someone in the matatu and assume you are paying her fare. The trap is when you give him say a Ksh 500 note and he goes, “wawili?” How on earth do you have to put someone in that rock-and-rock situation.

So, I waited till the conductor had taken his dues then I dived in. The coast was clear, guys.

“If you and I were socks we’d make a great pair.” I hit.

“What?” She turned, looking confused – flabbergasted, if you may.

“I mean…” I tried to explain. I felt like she hadn’t gotten the pick up line. Or she was in the caliber of people who think pick up lines are immature and old fashion. I’m not talking about you 80’s kids, chill.

“I know what you mean, but don’t you think that was fast?”Her eyebrows crept into her forehead. Her face suddenly morphed into the cutest thing I’ve ever seen on earth. Her voice came out strong – she had a lowkey bass and a touch of raspy. I just wanted her to talk all day, me listening.

“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?” I quipped.

“Well, I don’t.” She retorted, giving the don’t-make-any-further-move look. The look drained my energy. I felt like I had said the wrong line. I should have asked whether the matatu was hot or it was just her, then ask her to open the window. Ian, you messed this one! I thought.

I regretted for a minute.

“I’m Ian, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ian.” She said, her voice sounding more raspy like someone who had been screaming all night. She seemed to stretch her hand for a handshake but then changed her mind. The thought ‘no handshake, no hugs, one meter away, wash your hands, sanitize, wear your mask…’ must have crossed her mind.

I waited for her to tell me her name, but where (lakini wapi.)

“And you?” I asked.

“And me what?” Came her reply.

I felt my heart sink into my stomach.

“I mean, what’s your name?”
“I don’t talk to strangers, sorry.” That came out funny, even though she said it with a straight face.

“But good friendships start from people not knowing each other – strangers? Or?” I asked, hoping that it would make sense to her.

“What do you think?” She replied, with a question.

This felt like a debacle. I was losing in my own game. She was either playing hard to get, or she was just not interested. I still don’t know which.

“I think it would be best if I grab your number then familiarize with each other day by day.” I inquired.

She opened her purse’s zipper, rummaged for her phone and fished it out. My hopes went up. I started wondering why she made it look hard if at all she was going to give me her number that easily.

She dug in her purse again, and pulled out earphones. She connected them to her phone, fixed them comfortably on her ears then minded her business.

I have never been so confused.

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