He makes a point of ringing the bell, before he slots the
key to open the door, as to warn whoever is in the house of his entry, and
perhaps finish any mischief before he enters. He then straddles in, with a
newspaper and a black plastic bad, places the newspaper on the table and
removes a coca cola bottle from the bag and places it on the table as well. All
this time he doesn’t say a word to anyone, not even a hello. It’s fine. After
all everybody is fine, except street kids and no one bothers to ask them how
they are doing anyway.
The rest of the contents, he goes to the kitchen counter and
drops them like one would do to trash. With this done he heads to his bedroom,
changes into a shuka, then back to
the kitchen where he fetches his ash tray. He proceeds and sits on his usual
place, a designated chair where no one dares to put their bum, not for the fear
but for the reverence he seems to have bestowed on the chair. He reaches out
for the remote and switches to Citizen TV that is if someone switched to other
channels, a rare occurrence.
He lights his cigar and smokes casually, without a hurry in
the world, oblivious of the warning on the packet, SMOKING KILLS. He reads the
newspaper in the process as thin wands of smoke find their way into the air,
choking fresh air into submission.
Once he stops and gives me a lecture on how it’s important
to talk to people. He says its important to talk to people because we learn
from interacting with others.
“Don’t stare at your computer all the time. You could be
hiding valuable information people would use,” he says. “You see, with me, the
computer knowledge I have is archaic.” I nod. Truth is, I don’t find anything
worth sharing about the computer. I am not a wizard. Most times I am just
typing away my thoughts or indulging Pablo Neruda’s poetry.
I thought he was trying to show care. He even rose and gave
me bananas and a bun, which I didn’t need but I remember staring at them and
wishing they’d to be eaten. He was suddenly being too nice, an unusual thing
for him.
But when the doorbell rang and a fine lass entered the room,
I understood the message he had been trying to send to me. She would be the
second girl in a span of week, but less pretty than the first. He orders her to
make tea, and she boldly says hi to me. From the dressing, black tights, a
brown flowered dress that flattered her and a stocking on her head, I deduced
that she wasn’t a sophisticated girl; she could pass either a basic whore or a
mboch.
She made tea, drunk and they went to the bedroom. When the
dawn broke, she was nowhere to be seen. She might have slithered into the
darkness to wherever gave her the most discomfort.
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