All Waf’s Exes Are Crazy VI
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Thank you for your time.
If you must look back, do so forgivingly. If you must look forward, do so prayerfully. However, the wisest thing you can do is be present in the present…gratefully. -Maya Angelou
Chapter VI: Peace Be With You (Winona Michaels)
“Did you see Peace? How is she?” I stared into blank, expectant eyes. “She must be older now. Prettier too, I bet. She always had glorious skin, you know? Like Asians–glass-like, but dark. I always thought it was stunning. Black as night. I hope she has grown to love it as well, has she?” I didn’t know where to start. I couldn’t divulge any information to Winona, but the way she asked, the genuine longing in her voice, confirmed her deep care.
“Peace is well,” was all I could give. I was here to hear from her.
I could see she was jumpy, excited. I doubted she found people to chat with often. Seeing that I didn’t add anything, she calmed herself a little. “You can’t tell me. I know. It’s rough, being here. Sometimes I just want someone to tell stuff but everyone else is just so glum and I can’t handle it. Today’s a great day, though. When Penny mentioned you I knew I just had to come. So, about Peace. Wow, where to start. Peace and I were friends literally from the womb. Our moms were besties. They met at the maternity clinic in PGH.”
“You mean the Provincial General Hospital?” I interrupted her. “It was renamed.”
“Really? To what? Don’t tell me a politician’s name because I will cry and pull all my hair out I promise you–” Instantly, I regretted interrupting her flow.
“It’s now the Nakuru Level 6 Hospital.”
“Oh,” she placed her index finger on her chin, feigning deep thought. “I guess that works. What’s the other levels?”
“Health care facilities are classified in levels now. From level one to–”
“Our beloved PGH. Sorry, I mean Nakuru Level 6 Hospital. Well deserved too. I can’t tell you how many times we walked down that road to the Showground from Milimani and back simply because we were bored out of our damn minds.”
“Winona.”
“Yes?” I allowed the silence to fill the air and return us back into the story. “Right. Me and Peace. Besties.”
Peace and I. I corrected her in my mind to avoid another tirade.
“So we grew up together. Same schools. Deskmates. Walked home together. Till I joined boarding school and Peace didn’t, because, and hear this, her father refused her wishes. That’s what she told me when I was being shipped off, well, I joined the same school we were in. It still stung when she would pick her backpack at four and leave me at school. Boarding school was her idea in the first place. She said she was going and I had to go. It was obviously easy to get my mom to agree to it. Then Peace picks her bag on the first day of Class Four, after I had enrolled the previous day to her absence, claiming she would join the next week, then the next term, then Waf said she wasn’t even planning on it, hadn’t broached the subject with her dad. But he told me this the day of the party so,” she sighs, long and deep. “I hated having to taste the food made at home, the weekend stories, the movies I only got to watch through her telling, and I’ll have you know, that girl can’t tell a story to save her life. We drifted apart a bit. We still sat together, walked together, shared items. We still bought beads for each other’s hair, got our periods at roughly the same time and shared lunches. However, we couldn’t stop the secrets. Well, I’d say the end of it all started with me. I developed a crush.”
She stared into the distance, as if looking at the horizon but not really seeing it. I remained silent, simply because I wanted her to go on. There is no room for deviation when you encounter a rambling brain. You only have to give it grace. Instead, I watched her as she remembered.
“I’m not sure if the crush would have developed if I never went to boarding school. I never wanted to go, you know. But my parents were rarely there and the commute was insanely long and there was no time to start teaching me routes to take and which public means to choose because everyone was busy at home. It was always something about the election.”
Her mother was either planning for it, recovering from it, thinking of plans to take when the electioneering period approached. “There were campaigns, travel plans, issues with political opponents, which strategies to use and how did they compare to what the other parties were doing, post campaign meetings, pre-campaign periods. I had to stay in school, and I did, despite hating it. I hated being away from Peace. We had made our lives one from childhood. It would be easy to just say doing that was hard. Sometimes, before boarding, we even slept in each other’s bedrooms on school nights,” she shifts the conversation. “Waf only came home during the holidays and he was always so serious looking so we rarely bothered him. However, at school, my parents asked him to take care of me when I joined. My mattress was still folded, the metal box beside it as sweat covered my palms, my mother made him promise to take care of me. He was in class six and had spent all six years in boarding school, so he joked about being a true expert in the field. I remember all his jokes because they were the most corny shit you ever heard.”
“Most people join boarding school at class four or five. How old were you?” “I was nine. I guess my parents were normal. Peace said Waf went to boarding school because their parents didn’t want him damaged by their divorce. He was five. I don’t know about that.”
Winona’s eyes, still fixed on a distant memory, softened further. “Parents do things to kids, whether they know it or not. The crush, it was Waf. Of course. He was in Class Six, so much older, so much cooler. At school, he was different. Not like the serious Waf at home. He’d spend time with me in the library, talking about Harry Potter, even though I knew he probably thought it was childish. He’d help me with my math homework, his patience a surprising contrast to his usual dismissiveness. I’d try to make him laugh, to impress him with my quick wit, but he’d just give that small, knowing smile that made my stomach flutter. I knew he was just being nice because my mom asked him to look out for me, but a girl can dream, right?”
She paused, a wistful smile playing on her lips, then leaned in conspiratorially, as if sharing a sacred secret. “Peace and I were still close then, before… everything. I remember one afternoon, we were sitting on my bed, flipping through a fashion magazine. I was telling her about Waf, probably for the hundredth time, and I said, ‘You know, if I ever married him, my name would be Winona Wafula. Winona Wafula! It’s written by the gods in alliteration! It’s meant to be, right?’ Peace just stared at me, then rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. ‘You’re insufferable, Winona,’ she muttered, then snatched the magazines and started flipping through each one aggressively, pretending to be engrossed. From my window, we could see Lucas in the yard, leashing the guard dogs for their evening run, their barks echoing faintly. Peace didn’t even glance up. But I knew. I always knew she hated it, even then.”
A shadow crossed her face, and her gaze shifted, a flicker of genuine worry. “But then Peace… she changed. It started slowly, after she got involved with that Dr. Owuor’s congregation. Her clothes… they just kept getting longer, more layers. Her hair was always covered, even when she came to visit. She started looking at me differently. Like my clothes, my music, my jokes… they were all wrong. Unholy. I remember one time, I was wearing a new pair of jeans, and she just looked at me, her eyes so cold, and said, ‘You look like a man, Winona. God doesn’t want women to dress like men.’ It hurt, you know? We used to share everything. Now, she just… judges. I tried to talk to her, to understand, but she just says I need to find God. It felt like I was slowly losing her, and I didn’t know how to get her back.” A faint tremor touched her voice, a vulnerability that resonated with my own understanding of loss. “She even noticed my crush on Waf. She pretended it didn’t bother her, but I could feel her irritation, like a prickle in the air whenever I brought him up. I think she hated it, actually.”
The party was in full swing when Lucas, Winona, and Wafula arrived, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume and teenage exuberance. The sprawling Upperhill house, usually so quiet, pulsed with a controlled chaos. About twenty kids, mostly from Friends Academy, mingled in the living room of one of the houses in the street and spilled out onto the patio. Music thumped from an unseen speaker, and groups huddled, whispering secrets and sharing laughter. There was soda, crisps, a few awkward attempts at dancing, and the usual teen-appropriate games. Winona, usually so reserved around Wafula, seemed to blossom in the crowd, her laughter a little louder, her movements more fluid. Lucas observed the subtle glances she cast at Waf, the way her eyes lingered on him when he wasn’t looking. Wafula, for his part, seemed to revel in the attention, a casual king holding court, his polished charm on full display.
As the night wore on, the two oldest girls, both Class Eight leavers, announced their departure. “Winona, you coming with us?” one of them called, already halfway out the door.
Before Winona could answer, Wafula stepped forward, a possessive hand lightly on her arm. “She’s with us,” he stated, his voice smooth, leaving no room for argument. “Patricia asked us to look out for her, and that’s what we do.” The girls shrugged, exchanged knowing glances, and left. Lucas felt a familiar prickle of unease. Wafula’s control, even over something as minor as Winona’s departure, was absolute.
Minutes later, an older boy Lucas vaguely recognized from Form One, a known troublemaker, emerged from the kitchen, two dark glass bottles clutched in his hands. Gin. The air in the room seemed to shift, the innocent buzz replaced by a sharper, more dangerous energy. “Got these from… a friend,” he slurred with a triumphant grin.
Wafula took one of the bottles. “It’s fine,” he announced, his voice carrying over the music. “My dad lets me drink with him. We’re cool like that.”
Lucas felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He hesitated, his gaze darting between the bottle and Wafula’s confident smirk. This felt different. This felt wrong. But then Winona, her eyes bright with a dangerous excitement, reached for the second bottle. “Come on, Lucas,” she urged, her voice a little too loud, a little too eager. “It’s a party!” Her support was an unspoken challenge that sealed their fate. Lucas stayed.
The next thing Lucas knew, he was waking up, a jarring jolt into a profound, suffocating darkness. The music was gone. The laughter, the whispers, the very presence of others – all vanished. He was alone. The house, once vibrant, now felt hollow, haunted by the echoes of a party long past. A chilling silence pressed in on him, broken only by the frantic pounding of his own heart. He felt a cold dread as a premonition of something being terribly wrong, seized him. He fumbled for his phone, the screen a dead black. Panic, cold and sharp, began to claw at him. He had to find them. He had to find Winona.
He stumbled out of the house, the night air a shock against his skin. He was naked. The street was empty, eerily so. He walked, then ran, the familiar path home stretching endlessly before him, each step fueled by a growing terror for his friends. His mind raced, replaying fragmented images of the party, of Winona’s eager face, of Wafula’s casual arrogance. What had happened? Where were they? He stayed in the shadows and used the back gate to the servant quarters he shared with his mother.
When he finally walked around the main house to Winona’s gate, his lungs burning, a strange sight greeted him. There were people. Many people. Huddled figures, hushed voices, a sense of urgency in the air. He pushed through the small crowd, his eyes scanning frantically, searching for a familiar face. And then he saw him. Wafula. His face was pale, his eyes puffy, red-rimmed, a mirror of his mother’s on that morning years ago. He was leaning against the gatepost, his usual composure shattered.
Lucas stumbled towards him, a desperate question forming on his lips. Before he could utter a sound, Wafula looked up, his gaze hollow, and the words, thick with a raw, unfamiliar pain, fell from his lips like stones.
“Win is hurt, Luc. Badly.”
And in that moment, as the words hung in the cool night air, Lucas and I feel a chilling resonance echoing of the past and a terrifying premonition of the future. The same darkness that had consumed Penny, that had claimed his own life, now reached for Winona. The threads of their lives, so intricately woven by Wafula’s presence, were beginning to unravel, one by one.
***
Kids, we’re behind schedule, I know. We’ll fix it.
All Waf’s Exes Are Crazy V
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Thank you for your time.
You don’t have to turn this into something. It doesn’t have to upset you. – Marcus Aurelius
Chapter V: Look Again
The tapestry of Wafula’s individualism, Lucas now tells me, was woven from threads spun in the earliest days of childhood. He lays it in a pattern as my vision unravels, a relentless current, pulling me back to a quieter, yet equally pivotal moment in Nakuru. I see mere boys of six, standing on the precipice of Class One.
The Wafula house in Nakuru was a testament to Kenyan moneyed decor. There was plush, slightly oversized furniture, gleaming wooden surfaces, and an air of comfortable, if a little ostentatious, prosperity. A house fit for a mheshimiwa. It was the weekend before school began, the air thick with the scent of new textbooks and the nervous anticipation of first-graders.
Wafula’s mother, her eyes puffy and shadowed, as if she had spent the night wrestling with a fresh, bitter truth, handed the boys their back-to-school items. The faint tremor in her hand almost went unnoticed as she gave them the wrapped bags. Consolata sat in her bedroom, a silent acknowledgment of the secret recently discovered. Wafula’s mother’s burden was a shadow of a past indiscretion now made painfully real.
Upstairs, I sensed Wafula Snr, his movements brisk. I hear the sharp click of suitcase latches echoing faintly. Undeniably, he was packing his things, barely preparing his family for the sudden departure that would reshape their lives.
“Look, Waf!” Lucas exclaimed, his small hand tearing at the wrapping paper, revealing a bright blue backpack adorned with Batman artwork. His eyes, wide with unadulterated joy, turned to his friend. “It’s just like yours!”
Wafula, however, did not share his delight. His own backpack, identical in every detail, lay open on the polished floor. A flicker, quick as a snake’s tongue, crossed his face. He had wanted his backpack. His gift. How dare Lucas have the same? The joy on Lucas’s face, a complete mirror of his own, became an unbearable affront. I see him eye the small, sharp glint of the kitchen scissors, left carelessly on the table. Lucas didn’t notice his friend’s expression, nor when Wafula snatched the pair and carefully placed them in the bag. He forced a smile and thanked his mother, echoing Lucas’s words.
A few minutes later, in the upstairs bathroom, there was a swift, decisive snip. Then another. The blue fabric of the new backpack, moments ago a symbol of shared excitement, was now a jagged, ruined mess, Batman’s face bisected, his cape shredded. Peace stared, her mouth open, staring directly into her brother’s face. Wafula merely dropped the scissors, a faint smirk playing on his lips, and walked past her with the tatters. They did not speak. In fact, until long after both Wafulas had departed into the night, did his mother find the trash can full. Her digging led to a discovery that broke her heart for the millionth time that night.An hour before, the house was a flurry of hushed activity. Wafula Snr, his face a mask of controlled urgency, emerged from upstairs.
“Come on, Waf,” he’d said, his voice clipped. “We’re going to Upperhill.”
Consolata emerged from her room, her own face pale, eyes downcast. A small bag was clutched in her hand. She, too, was leaving with them. She remained a silent passenger in the unfolding drama, her fate inextricably bound to the Wafula family’s secrets.
Years later, in a different kitchen, the air remained charged with the brittle tension of unspoken truths. Lucas was there when Waf first flirted with Consolata, a predatory game thinly veiled as casual banter. He was seated at the kitchen counter, a silent, unwilling audience, as she did the dishes by the sink. Waf walked downstairs with his languid, entitled stride, and straight to the fridge. He stood with the fridge door open for a few moments, the cold air seeping into the room, before turning to him.
“Hey, Luc, what are you in the mood for?”
Consolata had already offered a cup of tea that Lucas had readily accepted. “I’m good, bro. Suit yourself.”
“Come on. I can’t eat alone. She can make us something.” He nodded sideways towards the sink.
“Hey, you. Si you can make us cheese omelettes?”
Lucas watched Consolata at the sink, her back to them. She had her Oraimo airpods in and was humming a tune, oblivious to the hungry teen boys staring at her.
“She can’t hear us?” Wafula whispered, his lips widening to a cheeky grin, a cruel glint in his eyes. “Let’s make this fun.” He let the fridge door close with a soft thud and walked towards the sink.
“Waf.” Lucas started, dreading what was to come. A cold premonition settled in his gut. He was met with an index finger on the lips, a silent command for silence.
Waf turned his back to his friend and continued, prancing like a lion in the Serengeti, a predator surveying his prey. He opened his palms and crouched low, as if trying to catch a hen marked for slaughter on Christmas Day. Moving slowly, deliberately, he approached, trying to avoid his reflection showing in the window in front of her.
“Dude.”
He ignored the unspoken plea. Wafula bent lower when he got to her, his hands already charting a course. Quickly, he decided to make the most of it and divide the tasks between his left and right hands. His left remained high as his right hand went low, lower than Lucas anticipated. By the time Lucas realized what his friend was planning, the alarm stuck in his throat. He tried to call him back, but his mouth forgot what to say, paralyzed by a sickening certainty. He watched in horror as Wafula bent low and snaked his left arm up Consolata’s skirt. Up it went, now his forearm was in uncharted waters. Still, it went. Higher till the piercing scream she let out marred the diabolical laughter he gave.
“What are you doing?!” She screeched, huddled in the corner, legs stuck together, one Oraimo airpod taking a soapy swim in the sink. Lucas watched as his friend fished the airpod and wiped it on his shirt casually, with an almost indifferent gesture.The study room door opened.
“What’s going on?” Wafula’s step-mother, Lucia, asked into the hallway, her voice sharp with annoyance. “Conso? What is it? Why are you yelling?”
If Lucia had left her desk at that moment, walked to her kitchen and asked Consolata to her face, she would have received the truth. But she waited, and sat, and called again.
“Conso?”
“Everything’s fine, Lucia. Conso just saw a gecko in the sink. You know how she gets.” Wafula’s voice, smooth and practiced, filled the silence.
“Okay Waf,” she replied to her step-son, her voice softening, already placated. “Please help take it out. We don’t want any more shrieking.”
“Sure thing.”
“And can you boys keep it down, please. I’m trying to work on my dissertation.”
“Okay Lucia,” the boys said in unison.If Lucia had left her desk for a minute, she would have seen the look Consolata was giving Waf at that moment. She might have noticed how scared the help was, a tear still dangling on her right eye as her hands desperately tried to cover what was already covered. She would have noticed the predatory grin plastered on Waf’s face, the embarrassed expression Lucas wore, and the profound disgust clouding Consolata’s features.
“You know,” Waf said quietly, his voice a low, insidious whisper, leaning in close to Consolata. “You don’t have to pretend. We all know you liked it.”Lucas let out the breath he was holding, gasping with a mix of relief and revulsion.
“Maybe we should go eat out.” Waf turned his attention back to him, the predatory gaze momentarily diverted.
“Yeah,” he agreed, a casual shrug. “Let’s get some wings instead. Conso puts too many onions on her omelette anyway.”
Turning to her, he realized her airpod was still between his thumb and index finger. “Here,” he stretched out his hand to her. “It should work.”
Consolata stared at Wafula, her eyes boring holes into him, a silent scream in their depths. She watched as he took two steps and towered over her. She did not raise her head as he placed the device back in her ear. Nviiri the Storyteller and Bien’s Niko Sawa was on the first chorus. She was not okay.
“Let’s go bud. We can pick some kicks in tao up before the wings.” Wafula walked out of the kitchen through the back door and into the garage. He threw open the passenger seat and settled in.Back in the kitchen,
Lucas pushed himself off the stool by the kitchen counter and walked around the bar into the kitchen. He stopped by Consolata and placed an unsure hand on her forearm.
“You know what he’s like,” he tried to find the right words, his voice a hesitant whisper. “Will you tell on him?” he paused. She looked up at him, and the dangling tear fell from her right eye, tracing a path of silent agony. Lucas wiped her cheek, a gesture of unexpected tenderness, then asked again. “Will you tell his father?”
She hesitated, her lips trembling. “I–”
“I’d advise you not to. His father won’t believe you, or will just brush it off. And you know your situation. It’s easier to keep this to yourself.” Lucas’s voice was low, pragmatic, a chilling echo of the world he was learning to navigate.She remained silent, her gaze fixed on some distant point.“He’s a good guy. He’s my friend. I know him. I’ll talk to him.” He wanted to assure her some more, to offer a comfort he couldn’t truly provide.
Suddenly, he was interrupted with a prolonged hoot from the garage.Lucas hurriedly followed his friend, leaving Consolata to soothe herself, her thoughts gaining heavy weight in the now quiet kitchen. He walked to the passenger door, where Waf was sprawled, the car keys dangling from his pinky finger out the window.
“You’re driving,” he said as soon as Lucas was next to him, a casual command.
“Dude.” They stared at each other until Lucas couldn’t take the blank, unyielding look he was receiving any longer. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that Waf would never truly understand.The narrative he had tried to build all his life shattered once more, pulling me away from the echoes of his memories.