You can probably count the total number of times that I have eaten pineapples in all these [very few] years I have lived. It’s not that I dislike them, because you cannot dislike something that you know where the sweetness lies. See, I like pineapples, but every time I eat a slice, my tongue becomes the Rift Valley. Jack, too, realized a sweetness of his own.
He was always a good boy. The one who sat in a corner and read Goosebumps novels while the rest of his classmates were busy jumping on lockers. He sat still and upright in class while the rest slouched. Always on his best behavior. Always the one to be used as an example. “I never saw the reason for mayhem. Causing trouble was just… not in my DNA” he texts.
I met him during high school, at some holiday tuition that I coincidentally met my best friend at. He was still quiet. Still a mammoth hiding in the snow. He never flossed, never bragged, never boasted about something that wasn’t his. He just…sat in a corner and read. But it was also quiet before it went cuckoo in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
“In that time, I lived by one rule. ‘Live to the standards of my parents’. Only… I don’t really think I was living”. He was caged. Tied to wanting to please his sires that he stopped living his life. /Mom wants you to be at home by 4:30/ Mom expects you to read, Jack/ Dad needs you to pay attention. So pay fucking attention/ Mom would frown upon rolling in the grass/ Come on Jack, Dad wouldn’t think the teacher saying ‘algolithim’ is funny/. And so he simmered. Beneath the surface, like a covered sufuria with boiling milk, until, he could take it no longer and erupted, flowing out of the lid his parents placed on him. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I lost touch with him by our final year. In this time, he kept heating up. “Fulfilling their wishes was my life’s goal. I was going to become an engineer like my father wanted. Marry a girl my mom probably chose by 28, have kids, take care of my parents till they were too old to expect anything from me and then… start living.” I laugh. He continues, “I mean, they say life begins at 40, right? I knew that I could stand up to them by then. That I would be grown. A man. Then I met Lorraine.” [Don’t you just get goosebumps when a story takes a sudden turn like this?]
He first saw her during orientation when he joined university. She walked in the hall, late, with her posse of four girls. Obviously the leader of the pack. “I didn’t think much of her on that day. I just thought she was one of those slay queens who unleash the power of their new found freedom on the campus,” he texts.
Here’s the thing about pineapples. They’re sweet. Real sweet. Natural sweet, not processed like that of sugar. But they are not always this sweet. They start off bitter. A bitterness that cuts the tongue on the first bite. A bitterness that never really leaves, even when the sugar settles on the bottom part of the pineapple. Jack’s pineapple started sweetening soon after classes began.
“I was having supper in the mes hall one evening. And I used to always eat alone, with earphones on and on my phone the whole time. Textbook loner. Then I saw a hand in front of my face. Looked up to see her trying to say something”
He took the left side off and raised his eyebrow.
“Can I have some of your salt?”
“huh?” He didn’t hear her. She was beautiful. Girls like that never even looked in his direction.
She reached out and pinched the salt he had on his tray. He was outraged! The audacity of this goddess of a supernatural being. What nerve she had to just dip her perfectly manicured fingers in his salt? Fingers that he would later that night dream were digging into his back.
The next time they met he was in a vest that he had owned since form one. It would not have been safe to say it was white, or that it still held on to his frame. She was in a yellow dress.
“It was the afternoon of the Fresha’s night. She asked if I was going. I said I would go if she was going. She said she would meet me there and I immediately went to shower” His heartbeat was irregular. There was an excitement in him that his body had never witnessed. He was breaking the rules. His parent’s rules. He did not think about what his mother would say or what would go through his father’s mind when he heard of this atrocity. He followed his heart. And a different part of him was witnessing an awakening.
They made out at the party, and a few nights after. They held hands to class. It was perfect. “Then one night, like a month after they started ‘being together’ [because he says what they did was not dating] she came to his hostel room drunk to her toes. “It surprised me. She was a good girl, to what I had gathered. But here she was, at 11.47pm, unable to utter a sensible sentence. She said she had something for me. A bottle of Best mzinga. Pulled it out from somewhere in her trench coat… that actually had no pockets!”
“Let me guess. You remembered the rules?” I ask.
“I wish,” he replies. “I wish I told her no that first night. Said I was tired. Even broken it off with her. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.” She said if he didn’t drink the alcohol she had bought for him then she would be “very offended”. So he did. [What is it with girls and not wanting to be drunk alone though?]. And so it began.
The two of them would get totally and completely batshit drunk that they forgot the days passed. He forgot about classes, chasing her around campus. “See, she was not my ‘girlfriend’. But she was all I had. I would find her making out with other guys behind classes, in her room, at the library. I would just hear things. Lots of things. People would come to me and say ‘Yoh Jack, your girl is behind the library with Bob’ and I would go, because she actually was my girl. But I wasn’t her guy and she made sure everyone knew that”
“Why didn’t you break it off? Whatever you guys had.”
“She was a good time. She is one of those girls who will make you believe you can hold the world in your palm when you are with her. She’s amazing. I was wrapped around her little finger. Also, remember I had never had any interaction with girls like that. She was most of my firsts, so I held on to her, or she to me.”
When his grades started slipping, his parents found out. They knew someone in the administration who would send them his grades immediately they were out. They came to campus, breathing fire from their nostrils. Why was he getting Ds? What was he lacking? Was the money they were sending him not fitting his needs? They could always increase the amount. Why was he failing? He said nothing. Let them ask their questions then get back home. But before they left, he asked a question. The first he ever posed to his parents. How did they know he was failing?
“My father looked at me like I had asked for a gun. Then he said the same thing I expected him to say, ‘Because we are the parents, and you the child’. But I was no longer a child. Lorraine said I was not a child. And then I plummeted down her path wholly.”
They became the dynamic duo. Clubbing every day of the week. Wearing the stench of alcohol as cologne. Barely eating. He lost so much weight that by the time he was woken up in class by a lecturer, he was just a frail shadow of himself. They had lost track of time.
“Young man, do you know what class this is?” he was asked. He didn’t know.
“What is your name?” He didn’t know.
He was sent to the Dean’s office, then was suspended indefinitely. He was before the disciplinary committee in 2 months, and a decision on his fate was made. He would get a thousand days, not counting holidays and weekends. After this time, if he chose to come back, he would have to resume his classes, repeat the ones to be repeated and do supplementary exams on the rest.
“Where was Lorraine?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen her till today. She changed her number. And I can’t say I have friends in school who I could ask to check on her, because I never had the chance to make friends in school. I wish I never looked up when she took my salt. I wish I never saw that yellow dress.”
“When do the thousand days end?”
“9th September, 2023”
Right now, most of the people I went to school with have kids and families and jobs and some even already own businesses. I think about where these people will be in 2023.
“I don’t know if I’ll make it till then. I don’t think I can wait.”
“What do you want?”
“Honestly? I just want my life back. I want my Goosebumps novels and my corner. I want the hoodies back. To crawl into the shadows and forget that the world exists. I’m done with jumping on lockers.”
A pineapple’s sweetness lies at the bottom. Jack is at his very bottom. There is no sweetness there.
[Still accepting AA stories. Send me an email or dm me on IG [Yes, ill check my DMs from now] Also… I will give priority to someone who enjoys his or her drink. Let’s get out of this sunken place for a while, right]
For some reason, there is this notion that girls do not get along with their moms. I don’t understand it. Not that I haven’t tried, because I have. I simply cannot wrap my head around it. It also doesn’t help that I get along with mine on most days.
But then, as if the universe was sending me a direct message, this one girl sent me a text as I was bingeing on a Netflix series that I felt was trying too hard to be original. See, a story needs not be complicated, or about something you have never seen before, to capture the attention of the audience. It simply needs, and trust me on this, to be a GOOD STORY. ‘Trinkets’ was not common, but I also felt it was not as good as Netflix wanted it to be. Or maybe it is my palate that has become choosy.
It revolves around three girls [like every typical movie with girls…ever] but these girls happen to be kleptomaniacs. Well…in the end we find out one of them was going to Kleptomaniacs Anonymous meetings just for show…but that’s not important right now. Where I am going, with this tale of three girls who steal as therapy for their Hollywood lives, is somewhere in episode six or seven, where one of the girls is complaining about her mother (who posts everything on social media) to the other two, then stops suddenly and looks at the second girl and apologizes. This second girl lost her mother in an accident a few years back and is still dealing with that in her own way [the klepto-way]. But it didn’t hit me what had happened in the scene till the second one says “Don’t mind me. Daughters hate their moms. I know that.” Then my phone lit up.
“Can you write my story without using names?” it reads.
“Sure I can” I text back. “But why don’t you want to pick a name? You get to pick anything YOU want, you know?”
“I don’t want to hide behind an identity that isn’t mine. I embrace reality. My reality”
Now for just a second, I had a personal meeting. An existential crisis for MIRAWU. Have I been creating fake lives for the people whose stories I have told? Was letting them hide behind colors and flowers and cities wrong of me? Did I deny them their “reality”? Did I take away their ability to embrace it? To embrace themselves? But then I thought…what the heck. No one has complained, right? And until I post something here that makes someone say “That MIRAWU blog these days has grown a head”… I’m good.
Her mom enlisted in the army at 20 years old. She always wanted to serve. She was lieutenant on her way to captain when she got pregnant. “It was someone superior. That’s what she always said. Never a name. Even his rank was never mentioned. She only ever said that he was her superior and he ruined her life,” she texts.
She was forced to take a leave of absence, which meant she missed the required exams to advance to become a Captain. On top of this, another problem lay in wait for her at home. “Sometimes I think my mom got in the army to escape my grandma.” The grandma, as she describes, is something from a fairy tale. The evil step mother in Snow White, Cruella de Vil, the evil step mother in Cinderella, the forgotten fairy in Sleeping Beauty, all rolled in one. She is something resembling what Biko called a “Hurricane” in one of his Men and Marriage posts.
The mom had to drop out of the army since there was no one to take care of her baby. She had no siblings and all existing family members had been estranged due to her mother. She had no one and she knew it. Accepted it. Hated it. She loathed her mother for being who she was and she detested her new daughter for steering her life to where it was. She had anger so loud that a hundred thunderstorms could not drown it out.
“I don’t remember much of my childhood. But I recall one incident,” the daughter texts. “I think it was my birthday (which I had to find out by fishing my birth certificate from a back drawer that she had stuffed it into). I asked for a photo. A childish thing really. A simple wish. To remember the day I celebrated being born. I wanted a photo taken of my mother and me, possibly with me sitting on her lap, if it was not asking too much”
She wanted this photo for school. Her classmates kept bringing photographs of how amazing their birthday parties were, with smiling faces and tables strewn with treats that seemed to rain from heaven. She wanted a photo of her own to show, albeit without the endless treats and beautiful birthday clothes. But also, she says, she wanted the photo of herself. To remember the innocent times. When it was just the two of them. Instead, she was thrown across the room.
“Yeah, she just picked me up and threw me aside, literally. It’s the only thing I remember from my childhood. I remember my arm and knee hurt like hell.”
“So you paid an arm and a leg for asking for the photograph?”
She doesn’t get it. I thought it was really funny. And before all you Judgy Cathys start with me, remember that tragedy plus time equals humor. That’s what I was going for here.
“I discovered alcohol at 16. I was young and it made me numb to the things she would say to me as soon as I got home.”
“What would she say?” I ask.
“Wueh. Where to start. She would say I ruined her life. That I was the reason her path turned left. She would blame me for everything that went wrong. If she was cooking and she put a little more salt that intended, it turned out to be my fault. I destroyed everything in her eyes.”
“Was she violent?”
“Was she never? I always think I remember that birthday photo thing because it was when it actually started. There is nothing in the physical abuse handbook that that woman has not done to me.”
I am left in a somber mood. I don’t know what to say. How to even say it. how do you phrase a sentence to make tthis girl feel better about her situation? What kind of text will fix her?
“Don’t pity me,” she texts again. “I know what my situation sounds like. I have lived it. but it is my life, and I came to terms with it long ago. But I am going to get out of it. I will leave this hell hole and never look back.”
“Have you ever tried talking to someone about this?”
“No. im talking to you” this statement leaves a burden on my shoulders that I am not sure I can carry alone. I feel weighed down. What if I say the wrong thing? Something that pushes her over the cliff. What is the right thing to say? “But I’m not telling you this to make you obligated to tell my story. Do what you will. I’m just glad I got through the first step of talking about it”
“Do you hate your mother?”
She reads the texts and goes offline. I sit there, looking at my phone, trying to finish the last episode of Trinkets without thinking of her.
“Hate is such a strong emotion. I don’t think I hate her. But I don’t like her either. She has made my life miserable. But she also managed to give me the strength to work hard enough to get out. So now I have this scholarship, that is taking me out of the country next month. I haven’t told her yet. Maybe I will. Also, maybe one day, she will come home and find her punching bag Thousands of kilometers away. Let’s see what she’ll do then.
[We’re still looking for people wiling to share their AA stories. Send an email on firstname.lastname@example.org if you’ve got one]
“Girls have always gravitated towards me,” he says at one point in our conversation. I am tempted to ask whether this force is naturally occurring or man-made. Does it come as moths flock to a light source or bees to a flower? Instead, I let him go on. “See, I’m a girls’ guy. I’ve lived with girls. Growing up, I was surrounded by them.”
He is cocky and chauvinistic. The kind of millennial that truly believes that the place of a woman is the kitchen and a man enters his house only to bark orders. He is a lost millennial. One that has refused to evolve with the times and knows a man will always rule over all else. I don’t like him one bit. But the minute he says his name is Kevin, everything makes sense. It was either that or Brayo, right? The two lost groups of young men who still live as stereotypically as the people who raised them allow.
“I have 3 sisters. That’s how I learned how to deal with girls,” he continues. “I know when to let them talk and when to talk back. It’s an art I have perfected…and aki it has not been easy”
“Oh? How so”
“You know girls are different,” he says.
“And boys are the same?”
“Hapana. I don’t mean it like that. I mean they are delicate. How you deal with one is different from how you would deal with the next girl. There is no manual”
I laugh. “Where can I get a manual to understand boys?” I ask him. Then, just because I feel like it, I tell him he is coming off as arrogant, or trying too hard to sound tough and “manly”. He gets offended and leaves me on blue ticks. Two days later, I text him, “Hey, you got pissed with me before you gave me your AA story”
“wasn’t pissed. Just busy. text you jioni”
At 7.02pm, he tells me he had finished exams early that semester. It was in April, and the school had communicated that they would close on the 26th, which was the date his parents knew he would also be arriving home. However, the timetable had his last paper on the fifteenth, giving him about 10 days to use as he pleased. “Almost everyone in campus has had an opportunity like this. You finish your exams early and because you don’t want to leave Nairobi for a whole 4 months of long holz in Eldoret without having some fun to compensate at least, you tell a little white lie. You say you still have exams and they pray for you to do well, while you are piling bottles of Bluemoon and Kibao under your bedsitter’s kitchen sink.”
Nothing much happened in the first few days since most of his friends still had exams and he was “respecting their time”. So he waited. Patiently, with the knowledge of how good the weekend would be when all that pent up energy would be released.
On that last Friday, eerily similar to the biblical version, Kevin and his two best friends decided to have a final hurrah before getting ready for home. He tried really hard to not give me the names of these two boys, so I named them Red and Blue. Red came with his girlfriend of then eleven months [they have since broken up] and Blue has never had a girl around him for more than two weeks. Kevin referred to Blue as a “Lone Wolf”. Sometimes, they call him Wolfie “just for fun”.
Kevin’s girl was undetermined by the beginning of the night, but everyone knew the clock would not strike midnight before he had a pretty young thing clung to his arm.
The night began in his bedsitter, with a bottle of Bluemoon. “You always start cheap so you have enough mulla to splurge on the shawties when the night is on full beast mode.” The first order of business, however, was to pick the designated driver of the night. Kevin was out for obvious reasons. He provided the car [borrowed for the night from an uncle of his], which meant he had exclusive getting wasted rights. The tussle remained between Red and Blue where Red argued he had his girl to pick up… and she would get mad at him if she was drinking alone. Red was a gentleman, Kevin says, he couldn’t allow his girl to soar through a drunken stupor alone. [Ah, young love… am I right?]
Blue was the obvious choice, but he was not happy about it. He sulked the whole ride to pick Red’s girlfriend and the whole way to the club. An hour into the night, Kevin realized Blue was not having any fun. He was just seated with his hands crossed, looking so pissed off that he was bumming everyone out. So Kevin went up to him with an idea. For every two shots the other guys would have, Blue would have one. And it worked! Blue was blue no more [see what I did there?]
After a while, they wanted a change of scenery. Different club, different DJ, more “shawties”. They decided to club hop, and went into about 10 clubs in between Juja and Nairobi CBD. “By this time, I had made out with so many shawties I couldn’t keep count. Si I told you I’m smooth with the ladies. Hata Red and Blue salute me for that night to date. In tao is where shit got real sasa. Nairobi sio ya mtu. I took mulla from my wallet and stuffed it in my socks because I couldn’t even see straight. Red’s girl had blacked out in the car. Then I find this nigga Blue with a Best mzinga, drinking from the bottle.”
“Your designated driver got wasted?”
“Yeah man. Can I call you man? This dude decided he was done being responsible for us and our safety and just said “F it” to all of us”
“How did he get his hands on the mzinga? Weren’t you keeping an eye on him?”
“I wish. But girls can confuse a guy, man. I had my hands full and I just forgot about him. Remember I had promised him a shot for every two we had? Totally slipped my mind. He later said ati he felt left out on all the fun we were having so he decided to take matters into his own hands. But that’s not even the crazy part. Let me tell you about what happened when it was time to leave for Juja.”
When the clock struck 4.00 am, Kevin started freaking out about how they would get home. Blue could not speak a coherent sentence let alone allow his neck to hold his head upright. He found Red blacked out in the back seat next to his girl. He managed to partly lift Blue to the car and pry away the girl that had stuck to his side [because he is smooth and can’t let us forget it].
I asked what you’re thinking. Why didn’t they Uber, right? Kevin says he thought about it. but they were in a borrowed car. What would he tell his uncle…who needed the car back at 8.00 am? He had to soldier on. Be a man. So he forced the girl to remain behind [he doesn’t recall her name], and promised to call her as soon as he was able to [he is still not “able”]. Then he bought a liter of ice cold water, washed his face, poured it over his head, got behind the wheel and started out of the parking lot.
“Everything was going great. I was going at 30 kmph and since there was little to no traffic, it was easy. We got on to the highway and then all hell broke loose.”
Red’s girl woke up to find them leaving and started causing a ruckus about them letting her sleep while they had all the fun. But Kevin managed to tell her that they didn’t do much, that they just got drunk and blacked out…and that he had just woken up and decided to drive them back. She seemed to calm down after that and he continued to focus all his concentration on the road.
But then, the devil does not sleep. From the driver’s seat, he heard what sounded like a tire burst and a moan from Red. “What the fuck!”
“What is this?” asked Red’s girl. She had his phone, open to his gallery.
“What?” a groggy Red. “Did you fucking slap me?”
“This, Red! What the fuck is this”
“I…uh” Pause. “I don’t feel so good”
“HUH?WHAT the hell is THIS?”
Then he heard a belch, and the girl scream, and the sound of chunky soup spilling on the floor and he waited. He says he does not know what he was waiting for but he knew once it was there. He was waiting for the smell, to confirm that it was just water. That liquor had spilled on the back seat. That someone, anyone, had bought a bucket of chunky water. But as the smell of Red’s puke reached him, his heart sank. “WHAT THE FUCK MAN!” he said… more like shouted, and turned to look at the mess. He saw the look of the girl’s face first before he realized he had just fucked up. His foot searched for the brake pedal in the time that it took him to bring his head to face the road and when his toe touched something, he pressed with all his might, praying to the God of his mother that he did not hold the accelerator pedal.
There was a screeching sound, and a long honk from the truck in front of them. He remembers the number plate. It floats to his mind anytime he sees a steering wheel. He sees it in his dreams. He could be dreaming of Amish people but the number plate would still be there, on a carriage, on a horse, on a goddamn swing set. When the truck passed them, Blue opened his eyes just long enough to ask, “Was that a sewage truck? Damn, imagine if we crashed and our bodies would smell of both Nairobi’s poop and Red’s puke”
“We were face-to-face with death,” Kevin says on his final text.
Maybe he saw death, complete with the black-hooded robe and scythe. Maybe he saw nothing. He can’t say. What he can say, however, is that he went home that morning.
Some of you do not know that Railways was actually a train station first before it was stage ya Ronga. You have only seen it filled with buses to Ngong and Kitengela and Easy Coach. That inasmuch as it is the most common stage in this Nairobi CBD, it brought as many people to town even in the olden days. and you may think you knew this, but think about it. did you really? I know this because I was among you until I was enlightened. Brought to the light by the person who told me this story. Now, you must have figured out already that this is not a story a millennial. And you may sit down in a corner and ask yourself, “Didn’t this MIRAWU person say she would give us stories by millennials? Didn’t she say that she would not lie to us?” I know how you feel. But allow me to digress a little with this one story, told to me by someone who lived the life of the famous 70s and dressed the fashion of the 80s, but saw the same problems we face today.
I am made to understand that the houses that were provided for Railways employees were extremely big. In that time, you could walk in Nairobi without rubbing shoulders and holding on to your purse anytime someone bumps into you. There was space, and space here means you could do cartwheels in the CBD without bumping into anyone. In fact, I think they would just do somersaults around town on Sunday afternoons for the sake of it. Just because they could. Must’ve been nice. The people who designed these Railway houses had spent enough time in the streets that they thought the curtains should match the drapes. This, I was told, had both its positives and negatives. We will focus on the positives first. After all, who receives the bad news before the good?
He had five children. I’m not sure how many were girls and how many boys. They were children. They played together, lived and laughed in their father’s house. They were “Railways kids” [pronounced ‘RELWE’]. They were happy, as children from large households ought to be. No kid with more than two siblings ever says they had a dull childhood because children are cunning and stubborn and ruthless when it comes to having fun with each other. Plus, they had a big enough house to play in. They were happy children.
He, however, was not as joyous as his household. It was not that he was discontent with all he had achieved. I mean, he had laughter in his house. Any man whose walls vibrate with the laughter of his children is a happy man, to say the least. He could provide for his family –meaning he was happy with himself as well. His life was good. Almost perfect. People in ushago used him as a benchmark. A man would hit a calf on the back and think to himself “One day, I will be like So-and-so, with a big family and a big house in Narobi,” his dreams flooded by a time of no cow dung at the hem of his trousers.
This man’s children would set trends when they went to their visit their ushago relatives during the Christmas holidays. He would meet people in the streets filled with praises for his well-behaved children.
“Aah, Mr. So-and-so, this is you?”
“Ha-ha” he would smile coyly “This is me”
“You have come to visit us. Ei! that is good. The kids also need to know their home”
“How long are you staying? My Akech should meet with your youngest. You know they are age mates eh?”
The smile is wiped off his face. “That child is not mine”
“Aah, So-and-so, you play too much”
But he didn’t play. He was never one to mince his words and he did this, a lot. He said it to friends, colleagues, even relatives during holidays and family gatherings. He would be seated on a bench near the jiko that slowly roasted nyama choma when the wife would send one of the children to ask their father where he placed his socks because she wanted to do laundry. The child would come and whisper in his ear, since you do not speak of dirty socks near roasting meat, lest the hypothetical stench shifts gears. He would listen intently, as his face did things without his knowledge. A frown here, a scowl there. Tiny things that made no difference to someone who did not pay attention to a man whose belly was filled with kong’o. But for those who judged not and held no importance to a wig and gavel, conversations after one of his five children passed by him went a different way.
“That’s my oldest. Aah, I love this child. He is very smart too. You know he was number one again? He has remained in the position since class two. The brains on that child are like mine. Copyright!”
The second child passes: “That child is not mine. I don’t know where their mother got that child from but he is not mine.”
To this, someone would say, “Ah Buana, how do you know?” And he would reply, “A man knows his children”. But does he? Can a man say, without a sliver of doubt, that a child is truly his and no one else’s? How does he know? Is it the glistening of the child’s shaved head that he looks at and goes “that head glistens like my grandfather’s, hence that child is mine”? Or is it the child’s cough. Or his hands, in the way they grasp a cup at breakfast. It’s not black and white for a man. A woman can know. She has the possibility of having enough reason to believe a child is of a specific man… As a child is the mother’s before he is given to the father
[don’t fight me on this, I spoke to the elders first before I came to you with
When the wife started asking for another child, he was at a lack of words. He could not openly say no, because they had space for it
[notice we have began the negatives]
and his job was paying well enough that he could afford it. He just did not want to have another kid whose paternity he would have to worry about. But he could not tell his wife this, so he hid in alcohol.
He began drinking at about the same time Railways employees were suddenly retrenched. Some would say he did this because he lost his job. He could no longer provide and hence he felt like less of a man. That he drank to mask this pain. But people close to him know. The person telling me this story knows. He drank because of his paternity wrangles.
“What does the wife say?” I asked.
She said the kids are his. That no other man has gone where her husband has ventured. But in-laws always doubt these things. They have a way to assume everything you claim is a lie.
It did not help when he relocated his family to ushago at around this time. There was already so much going on that this one move seemed to tip the pile over. a normal person would have put up a house just enough for his family. The kids could have even shared a room in this said household. But you don’t come here for stories about normal people and because he was mtu wa Relwe, he built a mud bungalow. Talk of spare rooms that were never moved into (because they had to sell half their belongings to move upcountry) and a house so massive that people came over just to marvel at its size.
When it rains, they say, it pours. His drinking got so bad over the months and with his diminishing funds, he started seeking alternative sources to pay for his mug of froth. One evening, while sitting under a tree outside his house, he was looking at the roofing, and at the spare rooms that nobody used and he realized he was housing nothing when that effort could be taken elsewhere. So he got a hammer and a ladder, climbed up the latter and pounded with the former, then took his “spare” roofing material to pay for his drink. His wife tried to protest but at this point in their marriage, she had become white noise to his ears.
“He has been doing that for a while now. The house remains halfway roofless. Last I heard, he wanted the kids to share rooms so there could be more dues for his beer.”
I used to believe in love.
In two hearts becoming one
To hold and to have
I used to believe in together as one
I use past tense because my reality took a shaking
I was robbed of what I held dear
I stopped believing
My heart filled with fear
I am afraid
To hurt so bad once more
To touch pain with my fingertips
To shake again to my core
I used to believe in love
But the makings of today’s love is deceit
Lies to honest hearts and knives to trusting backs
I still believe in love.
It often happens that I meet people I never thought I would again when I am totally zoned out while walking, thinking about pancakes or a cute puppy that I just discovered on Instagram, or trying to remember a new word I just read and forgot to write down so it slipped my mind. It happens a lot [everything from meeting these folks to recalling that bedlam means chaos] and most times, it is a huge pain, mostly because after the meeting and exchanging numbers, we will most definitely never talk. But sometimes, and very rarely, it morphs into a beautiful friendship that knocks my socks off [and you should know how much I love socks].
I feel like the second time we met was Heaven-sent, because that was the moment we became friends again. Before that, she was just someone in my past. I can confidently say that after my last K.C.P.E paper, she never crossed my mind. But one day, four years later, fate came into the picture [Ha-ha, I’m making this sound like a soap opera, right?] I was going for computer classes in April 2015, dreaming of going to Multimedia University of Kenya in September that same year [Yes, I actually wanted to go to MMU]. I was adamant. If they did not call me, I would go on self-sponsored program. I had told my dad this, countless times, but each time he just blew air out of his nose [same way you do before sending the four laughing emojis] and looked at me, probably thinking “does this one know university costs money? And SSP programs’ fees are much, much higher than where the university calls you”, but he still let me dream.
After classes (computer) I would walk with two of the people I was in class with to town then get a matatu home. On this day, as fate would have it [I brought up the fate thing so I could say this], I forgot something in the classroom (let’s say keys because my memory evades me). We were already in the CBD and if I remember correctly, the classes would be closed immediately the last person was out. But I needed those keys (if that’s what I had actually left behind) because how the hell would I get in the house otherwise? A girl had to go back and beg the cleaning guy to open the door so I could get my keys. And a girl had to go fast.
I wasn’t seeing what was in front of me. My brain was preoccupied with getting to the class and the keys then straight home before I got drenched in the rain. The world around me had faded to a blur, as it does most times, and I had not seen her until I was about two feet from bumping into her. I immediately knew who she was, but not exactly who she was. I don’t think you actually get that. I mean I knew where I knew her from…just not her name, or her face. It was her skin color. Ginger [that’s what she wants you to know her as] has always had skin that is almost yellow. She is the proverbial lightskin. And immediately I saw that shade of yellow I knew, without a doubt who she was, but her name evaded me. I didn’t tell her this, mainly because she called me by name which meant I would have hurt her feelings asking hers. She told me she was going to MMU, and even though I still had not received the nod from my dad, I told her I too would join her in a few months. I knew I wanted to go there, I just needed to convince him [which I did]. We exchanged numbers, and for reasons of my security, I will not tell you what I saved her as.
I’ve tried writing about her before, but it never felt right. The words did not move in the correct sequence and I just knew, in the way only I would, that it wasn’t the right time. There are a lot of things to write about when it comes to her, but this is AA, and she had a story on it, so that’s what we will read about today.
Ginger was in second year at the time. It was Friday afternoon and class was dragging as usual. I don’t know how the most boring of lecturers get the Friday afternoon class, but the government needs to set up a comittee that will be tasked with investigating the root cause of this problem. These classes drain you of your life force and leave you in desperate need of air and life, so it is only understandable that most campus students need to unwind come Friday night, and our sweet Ginger was one of them on this night. She got her posse together and after a fun time getting ready [because getting ready is the best part of going out], they went to a club that was frequented by students from all campuses around Rongai. It was one of these hip new places that have just opened and where students go because they need the selfies to prove how hip and up to date they are.
“Ey, you guy [I never understand why anyone would call someone this], did you go to ABC club last weekend?” asks random dude 1 on Monday.
“Yea man, I was there Friday. It was maad” says random dude 2.
“Really man? Coz I was there on Friday with kina Ginger and I didn’t spot you. Kwani who were you with?”
RD2: Aah, si you know me you guy my guy. I just chunguliad and left
RD1: Oh, heh, si Ginger killed manze, that dress my guy wooosh [because onomatopoeia was something they learnt in school]
RD2: I saw her snap man
RD1: By tha lemme see your pics on Friday. You must have been there when I wasn’t. Were there bad chilles?
RD2: Uh…Yeah man. So bad…uh…so bad that I forgot to take pics. You have to live in the moment sometimes G
Ginger was being totally “bad” this night [please don’t mistake being bad with being irresponsible, though a girl can do both in this era]. She was dancing. Ginger loves to dance. Anytime music plays you will find her bobbing her head or whining her waist polepole. She loves to move to music. In the midst of this unwinding, there was the taking of shots, the whining of waists, the bumping of heads and the dancing on tables, all her.
It will be important to make clear that I was not surprised, especially with the dancing on tables. Because if I was to make a bet on any of the people I know, the bet on ‘most likely to dance on a table on a Friday night in a club’ [and I probably need to find better names for these bets] would most definitely go to her. If some random person came to me and said “Hey, Mirriam, I saw your friend dancing on tables” and I asked “are you sure it was a friend of mine?” and they said yes… I know what I would say. I would say “Oh, that must be Ginger”. Not that my other two friends don’t have the DOT (Dancing on tables) gene…but the best bet would be her. She is the most upbeat person I know, meaning in a place with louder beats, she will definitely be up, literally. At some point, she blacked out. The times I heard someone blacked out because of alcohol consumption was at a house party and they had too much of it but were not active enough, ergo sitting down trying to figure out the meaning of life, and the alcohol got the best of them. But this? This was new to me. She doesn’t remember blacking out, just waking up next to a girl she did not know, in a house she did not recognize and… to top it all off, in Karen.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. What is it with Karen and these girls? Last week’s house without food had the same location. Right? Because me too! And I promise Stormi and Ginger are different people. Maybe this is the storytelling version of Déjà vu. You know? How all this is just too eerily familiar and all that. Maybe today’s story is last week’s déjà vu. Or last week’s is today’s? aargh I’m muddled [that just means confused, but there is this book I’m reading has me going back to the dictionary like I did not learn any English, so I thought why not throw that in there? Have us be a couple of muddled people. Muddlers Ha-ha] Want to know what she did? Well… she got her ass home and vowed to never go out clubbing on top of tables ever again. That’s what she did.
Also, I know what her name is. Please don’t think I have had her as a friend all these years without knowing her name. I am no boy.
[Send me an email on email@example.com if you have an AA story that you want to tell here. Remember, you get to pick any name you want. Isn’t that cool?]
The girl telling me this story has a cat. A beautiful dark grey feline with silver tips named Stormi. Like all cats, he is playful and fun and poops in the bathroom. But I was allergic to him [my first experience ever of being allergic to a furry] and it broke my heart. We had to throw Stormi out while she told me this story, and it may have been his sad meows at the door or my nose slowly blocking and my throat choking up that made this story a little difficult to follow. Some parts may be fabricated and some may have holes that the human brain may not be able to explain, but I thought it was a good story, and I hope you do too.
When I asked how she preferred to be referred to, she said I should “use something close to her name (wink emoji) something interesting” and in that moment, I wanted to call her Stormi. If I can’t hold the cat, I could at least use its name for something bigger than that. Stormi [the owner, not the cat. Try to keep up] had to tell this story twice to me, the first time in full- while my sinuses acted up in a way I have never seen before, and the second time- when I had her text me the first part of the story that led them to where the real story took place.
She and her friends (B, T, L and S) work hard during the week. They are all ladies in their twenties who are doing businesses to keep themselves afloat. For their hard work, they like to take themselves out, you know, just the ladies. See some nice sh*t, touch some wild sh*t and eat some good sh*t [I know someone who writes ‘isht’. Makes me chuckle every time].
“So my friends and I decided to go unwind and do something fun,” she texts on WhatsApp. “We were five girls [mentions names but says I should change them, hence the letters above]. After an afternoon at Giraffe Center we decided to go get cocktails at Galleria mall.”
While there, they were invited by T’s friend – Brian – to go out. They said they wanted to eat first before going out but Brian was having none of it. After all, here was 5 girls on a Saturday evening ready for an evening to remember. No Brian will pass that up. He told them to get an Uber to Westlands, to Djavu [a club, I gathered]. He would take care of the bills; alcohol, food, even the Uber. What bevy of girls is going to refuse an all-expense paid evening of food and alcohol? [PS. I’ve always wanted to use this ‘bevy’ word in real life. Can you see my dreams coming true or is it just me?]. They went for what Stormi calls a “G walk” behind the mall, and I am going to let you decipher what that is on your own rather than spoon feeding you my hunches. Then they got an Uber to Westy. “On getting there, this guy was so friendly, invited us in, ordered a bigger table so we could all sit, and got drinks and food. We had so much fun.”
Brian lives in Karen. He started hinting at going back to his place as soon as they were all tipsy. L and S, who are sisters, opted out. They claimed to have some work still left to do at home, so they had to go. Stormi, B and T however could stay out a little longer. They went to Brian’s place after the club. When this house was described to me, it felt like the White House. Serene and big on the outside, chaotic and cluttered on the inside. “It’s a big house,” Stormi said. “Big enough to look like a family lived there. Large gate, own compound. You know, the kind of houses you expect to find in Karen.
In the house was a couple, mzungu girl and her Kenyan king. She specified that it was a mzungu so I feel you too need to be told this. Counting them, there was now 6 people in this house – Her, B, T, Brian, and the couple. Now by this time, T and Brian had coupled up as well, which makes me think that this was the reason the girls were invited out in the first place. The table was laden with bottles of alcohol, “everything from gin to whiskey and vodka”. The kitchen had paper cups all over. The kitchen is brought up because B and Stormi, the only two people without cuddle heat, were looking for food to warm themselves up.
“Wait,” I interrupt. “There was no food?”
“Yes! Imagine there was no food”
I cannot imagine it. What house with human beings has all this alcohol and no food? No. scratch that. What house in Karen has no food? Where are people’s priorities? My M-PESA balance could be 0.03 but I will find a way to have food in the house! Call a parent, befriend the mama mboga, send a smoke signal for goodness sake. I was still stuck on the ‘No Food Phenomenon’ when the story suddenly transformed to where everyone was in bed. Three bedrooms were used; the mzungu couple in one, Brian and T in another and Stormi and B in the last one. Stormi too only remembers turning at night and finding B in bed beside her [I think she passed out with the shock of not finding food].
The next part of this story had me worried about a number of things, and laughing through the rest. This may also be the reason that parts of it are vague and some parts really stick out. Morning came, [and I am tempted to say birds were chirping and to give a description of a beautiful sunrise]. We wake up with T first, who slept with Brian. When she opened her eyes, she saw a girl, in her twenties, sitting on the bed just staring at her. I don’t know what goes on in your head when you wake up to a strange face looking right at you. No one can know this feeling, unless you go through it. and I could not find T to have her explain it to me. So we’ll assume she was freaked out, for lack of a better expression.
The new girl started arguing with Brian, she saying he was cheating on her and him that they had broken up. This went on for a while, with T and Brian still naked and the girl still on the bed. There was already a commotion, which got everyone in the house up and listening at the door. Seeing that it was not going to end any time soon, T got dressed while the two were still going at it and left the room to tell Stormi what had happened. She was hurt. Brian was a jerk. He had a girlfriend and still made a pass at her. She felt lied to. As T was pouring her heart out, the door to Brian’s room was slammed open and they came out to the common room, with things still heated up [This was a whole lot to absorb on an empty stomach, right].
“You still didn’t get food?” I ask.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you? Brian ordered some pizzas at night”
[Phew! We can now breathe through the fight] which went on for a long time. At one point, the girl, who Stormi refers to as “The psycho girlfriend” came out with a knife, claiming she would “katakata kila mtu”. Now you know you are where you are not supposed to be when something happens and the first thing you think of is “what will my mom think when she is called ati I was katakatwad in Karen and she pays rent for Rongai?” and that thought scared the sh*t out of you, because if you survive that hospital bed, your mom will hold it over your head for as long as she lives. She may even haunt you with it. Imagine it: you are a grandma of 68, your grandkids are out on the backyard playing and you see an apparition of your mother saying “You remember when I got a call that you were hurt in Karen? Yet I had called the previous night and you said you were in Rongai? Those were the days huh?” Now you are the grandma who poops her pants every time because your mother haunts you with a situation you had no control over.
Anyway, this psycho girlfriend and Brian were an on and off couple. The girl is the jealous type. Like crazy jealous. The boy says he has had enough, but still seems to go back. I guess everyone knows their poison. Also… did you notice they didn’t have breakfast?
I just think that house needs food. Blood sugar is dangerous when low.
[Hey you. Yes, you. Do you have an Alcoholics Anonymous story? Any experience with alcohol counts. Send me an email on firstname.lastname@example.org and we’ll work on telling your story. Cheerio]
[Remember to subscribe to MIRAWU]
I met Fred a few weeks ago while I was staying with an aunt. They go to the same church. We had not shared a total of seven words before the day he came over and I was alone in the house. There had not been an earlier warning, so I did not let him in until I had confirmed with mwenye nyumba that Fred was expected. He was. He needed to use the internet and the electricity in his apartment were lost [is that direct translation?]… or so he told me. We sat in the common room, me on the couch and him on the dining table. It was quiet. A kind of quiet that can only be held by strangers who know not what to say to each other. A silence that picks on your thoughts, turning them over until you are left bare. It felt too quiet to get up for a cup of water. Too quiet for a cough. So we sat. I watched two episodes of The Handmaid’s Tale with earphones on because I was afraid to disturb the peace that the silence had established.
There is a saying about habits. That if you spend a specific number of minutes or seconds doing something, it becomes a habit. Alcoholics Anonymous has become my habit. I look at people with alcoholic eyes now [perhaps I can frame that statement better]. My conversations have developed into alcohol-related experiences. I find myself slipping alcohol into a sentence and before you know it, I am being told about people in their ten-year-old pants looking for sips of alcohol, of fathers who restricted their wives from taking alcohol and of mothers who drank in the presence of their children. I have also become a somewhat better conversationalist… or so I think…because I have had more conversations in the last six months than I had in 2017 and 2018 combined.
At some point, in the quiet, the power followed the example of Fred’s place. He sighed, the first sound I had heard from him since he asked if I had been told he was coming. I took this sigh as an opening, because the only available buffer to the silence (a neighbor’s blasting Kenyan obscenities from his woofer) had now joined in the sovereign stillness.
“Stima imepotea?” I asked, to spark something. He turned. I felt on top of the world. For those two seconds, I was the negotiator on those movies where there is a hostage situation and FBI guys have tried talking to the bank robber to no avail, till a guy in jeans and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up strolls in and talks the bank robber to tears, having him release the hostages. The scene ends applause from onlookers who were afraid for the hostages and the guy [my guy] throwing a toothpick he had in his mouth all this time at the FBI guys’ feet as if to say “F y’all”. They beg him to join the FBI but he is better than that. He refuses and walks into the sunset to a piano playing in the background.
“Eee, na I’m not done with this work. I don’t know what I will do.” He looks at his phone.
“What kind of work is it?” I ask. [Am I crushing this conversation thing or what]
He says it is something for the government. Then turns back to his laptop, assuming the position he has held since he arrived. I feel the quiet threaten to return. It peeps at the door, waiting for an opening. I think about letting it. Slipping back into my comfort zone sounded so good. But then, I think, WWSD. WhatWouldSpongebobDo. He would badger this guy till he got what he wanted. And I wanted a story.
“When is your deadline?”
“Ilikuwa inasupposed kukuwa 12.30” [He said ‘inasupposed’… Would I lie to you?]
I look at the time. 1.03pm. He was way past his deadline. The lights were not back yet. All odds were in my favor. There was no longer a deadline to beat, and there was no electricity to back him up. We had to have this conversation. “What do you do?”
“A couple of things here and there. I dabble in a lot.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Writing…consulting. And other stuff”
His “stuff” sounded so much like ‘staff’. I swear. But I told someone about it and she said that I was probably hearing my own things. I guess you had to be there. I gathered he did not want to talk about what he did for a living…but he had said enough to catch my attention. I asked what he writes.
“These academic stuff [I heard it again]. Writers’ Hub. It pays well.”
Okay, so the writing conversation had run its course before it even started.
“Fred,” I said, because I wanted to rip off the band aid once and for all. “Do you drink? Alcohol.” [You and I both know we needed to be specific here]. He turned, again. Progress! I made a little jump inside.
“Why?” He asked.
I told him about AA, and MIRAWU, and my motivation behind everything. Then I caught myself, because I tend to ramble when I talk about things I actually give a fuck about. He sat there, nodding and staring at me till I felt weird about it and ended with asking the question a second time.
“No.” He said. I waited for accompanying information. I was not sure whether his no was to deny drinking or answering the question. I felt the quiet watching, waiting to stretch ten seconds into forty-five and make it awkward for follow up questions. I had to at quick. WWSD?
“Why not?” I saved it at the eleventh minute.
“It has never interested me.”
I looked at him. He is tall enough. Not the kind of tall that you see and say “damn, that’s tall”, but tall. He never shaves everything on his head, but he also does not have the fuckboy haircut [you know the one I’m talking about, don’t be coy]. His nails are always short, I think he owns a nail cutter and goes to work on them every Friday evening for church the next day. He looks you straight in the eye, either to establish dominance, or to prove he is listening. I am leaning more on the latter. He has watched all behaviorial videos that tell you where to place your hands and when to scratch your head. He wants to seem collected. Approachable. His feet are slightly parted, not to close to seem feminine and not too wide to achieve “male comfort”.
“Have you tasted alcohol?”
I laughed. He was beginning to seem like a modern day unicorn. A late twenties male whose lips have known no alcohol. It was surreal. Straight out of a Barbie’s Dreamhouse episode. So I asked about his father, because, I presumed, it was either he was a messy drunk or was absent all his life. “My dad died when I was in…class…2 or 3” he places two fingers on his chin, thinking. “Class two, yeah. And I’m the firstborn of 6 kids… I had to be responsible.” I point out that taking alcohol does not necessarily make one irresponsible. He agrees, but then he says “You never know where the line is between the two. I didn’t want my siblings to grow up without a father and on top of it have a sibling who was addicted to alcohol. It was a risk I was never going to take.”
“So you’re the Delmonte guy when your friends are hanging out?”
“Ha-ha, yeah. It’s not so bad actually. I get to be the designated driver, and I love driving at night.”
“I guess everyone has their place then” I say.
The time was 1.41pm. the lights were still not back. He asked for the link to MIRAWU. At 1.56 he looks up. “You have a nice font,” he says, looking right at me. I say than you and pretend to watch another episode. This conversation has run its course. He takes his phone and calls three people, asking if their Wi-Fi is still functional. Electricity is out in all three places. “I think all of Kitengela does not have electricity”. I look up. “Huh?” [I should get an acting gig]. “Stima zimepotea kila mahali.” He repeats.
The silence has won. We fought the good fight. We will be given medals of valor. But the enemy had weapons that our will could not tackle. It was two of us against an infinity’s worth of experience in haunting children’s nightmares and creeping into cementeries. We fought the good fight. I admitted it.
Five minutes later, he got up. “I’ll be leaving now”
“Oh?” happy dance in my head “Hii stima sioni ikirudi saa hii”
“Yeah” he hauls his backpack on. “Are you going to write my story? It’s not much to go on” he says with an open door before him.
I smile. “Biko says everything is a story.”
When he was 15 years old, his older brother woke him up at 4.30am to go get their father. The words used were ‘Let’s go pick dad up’ which makes the whole situation sound so mundane, like their father was stuck with his luggage at the airport with no Uber money. He is the middle child, meaning he, too, at some point years into the future of his time, is forced to have this same conversation with the youngest of them.
“To understand my story, I first need to tell you about my household,” his first text reads.
“Alright” I say, mainly because there is no other thing to say.
His parents are what he calls “busy people”. There are never around for a week straight… and if they are, they are cooped up in their respective study rooms [Yes, I too had to wrap my head around this. Each parent has their own study]. His father is a businessman. One of those who instead of using their early twenties to wild out and live by YOLO, were busy strategizing and working out plans to come up with the next big thing. He got into the shipping industry before people were even able to comprehend the potential ships held, other than sinking tens of people while allowing a flower-named woman to emerge with a tragic love story. He envisioned the company from his hostel room on campus and by the time he was graduating, he had secured funding to set everything up.
Business went well, and because it is an undisputed fact that every successful man has a woman at his side, he met a travelling agent when he was 25. She was just starting out, learning the ropes of a business she did not quite understand and he used his entrepreneurial brain to woo her. He helped her secure a promotion and she thanked him by proposing marriage. He said yes. He liked how aggressive she was. How she saw what she wanted and went for it…and she wanted him. What more could he ask for?
By the time he was 31, he had three sons. It was hectic, having to be responsible for four people in a span of just a few years. He had not prepared for it happening so fast and furious-ly, but it did, and he made the best of it. Work had to be his priority now. It was the only way he knew to take care of his suddenly big family. It did not help that his wife’s money remained just that, meaning all his money was what helped run the household. Late hours developed, which then became an issue with the wife.
What was he doing when he stayed out 4 nights out of five in a week? And what was with the going in to work on Saturdays? Sometimes Sundays? It was too much. The family needed him, not just his money.
The long hours were so he could make enough money to cater for the family. For clothes and school fees and groceries. But she would never understand that. She never contributed anything.
Did he just say that? Did he just say that to her when she is the one who takes care of their kids while he is out (mocking air quotes) “working”? The nerve of him. Such a man move. He could never understand what she goes through…
You know what, he is not having this conversation with her. (walks out)
She was a small town girl. Born and raised in Molo. Went to church every Sunday until she left home for university when she threw religion out the window because she was “sick of being forced to worship”.
“We never went to church as a family. Sundays were always family day when I was younger. My mom, and dad on the occasions he was present, always made sure we had family time. They said church was a waste of time. That the families who pack themselves into cars clad in their Sunday best were just pretenders, hiding in the supposedly sacred cloth of the church”
“Would you have wanted to go to church with your family?”
“I don’t know. I think so. Maybe it would have brought us closer…growing up believing in a higher being. You know this meme about fathers threatening to leave their families on Sunday morning?” I think I have seen something like it. “I wish we had that. But we didn’t. Instead, we were guilted to playing charades and monopoly with parents who spoke a total of two words a month to each other”
“Wait, it was that bad?”
It was. the more money they had, the more silent the house became. They talked amongst each other though, and he believes their parents’ failed marriage helped them bond more than they might have if there was a closer relationship. “We never had househelps. We ran our house. The three of us. Not that we wanted to. I remember complaining about it every night before bed. Mom always said that as boys, we were vulnerable. That you never know what strangers want with young boys from a well off family. She preferred that we stay alone than hire help. It was hell…but somewhere between the chores and writing grocery lists for our parents, we became the best of friends, and we have our parents to thank for that.”
One morning, at ungodly hours, his older brother woke him up to go pick their father up, and his view of their father’s constant frowning and solemn state shifted. He saw his father smile for the first time. A genuine smile. One that did not care about anything other than staying on his face.
“Dad has dimples?” he asked his brother.
“Dad is happy here. He is also drunk.” There is a bottle of Blue Label on the table in the airport’s lounge.
“What? But he drinks at home. In his study. I’ve never seen his dimples at home”
“Exactly, his dimples remain here. Do you understand? They remain here because they don’t belong at home.”
“Wow man,” he scratched his head in a confused daze. “What does this mean?”
“Nothing. He brought me here one day and showed me this side of him because he trusted me. And now, I am choosing to trust you. You will tell no one. Do you understand?” He understood. The brothers could be trusted with their father’s dimples, no one else.
“Do you think your mom has seen your father drunk?” I ask.
“No. She calls him a “responsible drunk”. He only has like a glass of whiskey while home. But you know… I have seen him drown half a mzinga on his own, while we wait for the sun to rise at the airport.” They always meet him at the airport, when his business trips end and he comes back home. That is their sacred time. Their church, and they could ask for nothing more. Their youngest turns 17 next month and they plan to wake him to show him their father’s dimples.
“Why does he get to see this at 17 when you did at 15?”
The youngest is their mother’s baby. They are not sure about him. Whether he will keep their secret or he will rat them out. He is unsure of their youngest because he sits with their mother, whispering. But he has never told on them in the times they vowed to keep something secret, and hey hope this too, will be among the brother’s secrets.
He does not know what happened to their parents, because their earlier pictures look happy. But those smiles faded with time. Now, they don’t take pictures anymore. It feels fake to smile when immediately after the flash it is back to business as usual. But he has photos on his phone, of genuine smiles, with his happy drunk of a father and older brother. He sends me one. There is an older man, with a dash of white hairs on his head and his arm placed over the shoulders of a boy of about 20. Their smiles are identical to the boy taking the selfie (the one I am talking to). The photo has the brightness of the first rays of the morning. It is a good picture.
“Don’t you think he is only happy to be with you guys in that time? And it is not the alcohol that makes him happy, but being with his sons, in an empty airport lounge while the sun rises?”
He says it is possible. But in that narrative, his father is unhappy in his life as a husband. He is unhappy to have said yes to their mother when she proposed, and that is something he does not want to believe, because that is still his mother and father, and mommys and daddys are supposed to be together, and be happy. So he is convinced that his father lives in this solemn state. He has embraced this fact. And he wants the world to understand that his father shows his dimples when he is drunk.