One Sunday in October, after a week of swallowing antibiotics, the dose ended. I rushed to the wines duka and ordered Kimani to sell me the most toxic bottle of affordable whisky. Minutes later, tipsy like a nosy fish, I sauntered home tunefully whistling wanyaboro wanyaboro, behaving like my bank was otuch. I even bought sweet ya fimbo for my caretaker’s grandchild and yelled an exaggerated goodwill greeting to mama Leshan, my neighbour who beats stories with the mboch from second floor till their stories rudely break into my ka house and slap me out of sleep.
So, there was I, in my house and tumbling fast into the pit of intoxication. I needed food. Meat. Not rice or minji, those things remind me of a short teacher of biology in high school. Fellow drew fun from thrashing his students. He never gave my stomach peace, talk of anxiety, always looking over your shoulder, wondering if you had wrongly spelled salmonella typhi (it means typhoid for those who went to Maranda, by the way). I staggered to the kitchen and lo!
Crates of soda borrowed from the caretaker’s shop were all over. Three years into campus and I’m yet to get HELB (so I haven’t bought seats. Crates do the honours). Visitors were around. All my utensils, three sufurias, two plates, one mwiko and my haggard looking spoons told the story of an ‘Escape from Sobibo’ gone badly. They were dirty. Violated. Used. My eyes darted to the upper cabin on the wall. In earnest search for the smoked beef mama sent from shags and which I’d picked from Easy Coach the previous day. I’d saved the beef for such a moment, after clearing my antibiotics dose.
Another look at the utensils in the sink and my fears were confirmed. The smoker, my roommate, had invited his walevi friends and feasted on my beef. Imagine! They didn’t even leave behind a stranded piece. Very mean. Very inconsiderate.
Years ago, I was chasing this sweet luo-luhya girl who was in high school whilst I was a campo man. Her waist was 24. Her hips were 42. She was fine! Fine! She’d have made me chop my money! So, like the good mannered boy I became after lots of Sunday school lessons. I let her grow up. Finish her war with chemistry upon which she’d land into my open hands. And I’d wipe her wounds with my tongue. Drink her tears. Look into her eyes and like Enrique Iglesias sung, sing to her, ‘…I can be your hero babie, I can kiss away the pain, I will stand by your forever…’
To cut the short story short. She, like my preserved smoked beef was eaten, just when I was ready to prepare her for a nice meal. And guess by who. One of those (bad man seeming) young boys who dance to that panda panda hiphop song, who put on tight jeans trousers that squeeze the air out of their testicles and beckon impotence. I’m certain she is searching for tonsils in his post teenage mouth at this very moment.
You guys will recluse me from sharing Matiang’i jokes. Because last year’s results announcement heralded the loss of my smoked beef. For those campo men who have been zero grazing high school chilles, the war is on. Some funny fellow, with a baby face, might just eat her now.