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.