FRIENDS AND FOES

We make acquaintances along the road of life. Some we decide that they are going to be our friends without any rational reason as to why, may be because they look good on camera or something related to it. Then you are friends, just like that. And because nature is a good teacher, it brings misfortunes to these people called friends to taste their loyalty, or lack of it, to rid us of inconveniences that comes with the bs that’s friendship. But then again, in the course of our lives, nature tags along people who remain aloof, mysterious and detached from what insane people consider normal. Some of them however reveal a little about themselves, that when we sit in the middle of the night when lovers have decided not to be lovers anymore, and you try to find out why you may deserve that kind of life, you are relunctant to imagine the cards life dealt to some people. Your mind cannot help but conjure unsavoury images such as them waking up from trenches if they ever did anyway…

One such a man is Kipketer.

He often sat alone in a corner, silent. He seemed a man deep in contemplation of course of the inconveniences caused by living. Judging from his nonchalance, a half cut exercise book, or sometimes an upgrade, folded foolscaps that he seemed to have picked from a trash can, I knew he was experienced in matters academics. He knew the uselessness of taking notes in a serious manner, and even more important, he knew the importance of not doing his assignments at all. Sometimes he came to class smelling cheap alcohol. Almost always, he often left with the lecturer, as if they had important matters to attend to. He of course the finish up the bottle of Jebel he left, and the lecturer to silently note the effects.

And because our names share a prefix, people often wanted me to talk to him or rather talk sense into him. I did, and now I am one of his students, the few of them to have ever graduated. Sometimes I do go to the hospital worried why I am not drinking as much as I should. Unlike most people, which no one does anymore, I am completely uninterested in intruding other people’s worlds. People may see chaos in other’s lives but to them there is perfect order. People may see ruins but to others that’s where they thrive. There were many ‘maybes’ to leave him alone, until one day, drunk on cheap alcohol, I ventured into his unchartered world, a world where every sane person wanted to be in and probably make the sun rise from south.

He had just emerged from a brief sojourn into his world of stupor, drunk as a kite. Kipketer was not the type to stagger, and with a loosely hanging pullover, we met by chance; teacher and student. The sun was blistering as if someone had abused it. Drops of sweat gleamed on Kipketer’s forehead, either unsure where to go or because they were waiting to swear in their president then troop down his face. We exchange greetings in our language.

We trudge along Baricho Road, I heading to my shithole, and he to meet a friend at the Baricho-Uhuru roundabout. Because Kipketer had no phone, I assumed that they had devised a language of their own, that they would communicate over long distances without any technological aid. Pride welled in me because Kipketer would teach me that language in the near future. As at then, we were still stuck at basics, like where to get cheap liquor. He carelessly gesture with his hands as he talked, as if words were not just enough. And that’s when I asked him what inspired his lifestyle.

“You need to find what makes your happiness, “ he said curtly.

I looked at him, urging him to go ahead.

“Sometimes, in this world, people will struggle to understand what makes you tick. They want to control the way you live your life. That wasn’t with me,” Kipketer launches his monologue. “When I joined campus, I asked my parents to reserve a room for me when we closed for long holidays. The hustle of getting a room in this part of town is akin to a villager hoping to land in the moon. Even though the rooms dilapidated, they scarcity makes it worrying. For their denial, I vowed to revenge. “

At the roundabout, the guy he was to meet was there waiting. He did not even reprimand him for being late or something, and that was amazing. Or maybe Kipketer was on time. The guy urges him to talk to him, to take education seriously. I think they shared blood. I leave them and head to by sheethole, may be catch some forty winks or type away random words that I would later call poetry. He asks if we have class the following day. I don’t remember if there was. And so we part.

Life goes normal, I stranded with the normal routine and he trying to spice up normalcy. He showed in class rarely, and when he did no one even noticed he was around. Time flies. Before we knew it we were sitting the last paper, a handful of us who had decided that there was still something beautiful in the newspapers. Kipketer was there. I was pretty darn sure that there were missing marks on his name but he showed dutifully. That takes guts, if you ask me.

One time, I met him at the gate. We talk briefly, but in that moment he told me that his friend, the one I had a chance of meeting, was dead. He had been knocked by a speeding car. What was remarkable about the tragic news was the way he said it. He didn’t seem emotional at all. He struck as a man who had made acquaintance with death, and the two would strike a perfectly normal conversation.

‘Aha! My friend,” death would say.

“What’s going on? I can see you are on an errand buddy,’ Kipketer would may be say.

‘Kama kawa. I should keep the world’s population manageable,’

‘Okay. When it’s my turn, do not be sentimental buddy.’ 

‘I have never employed such nonsense since I was born.’

‘By the way when is your birthday? Maybe I can invite you to celebrate your service to humanity. I hear you just took my cousin?”

‘The bastard crossed the road carelessly when I was rushing to take one of your politicians.’

I was really thankful for him. No emotions at all. I don’t know how I would have condoled with him. That’s just not my strength. I can’t stand human emotions, and suffering. Every time I see beggars with indescribable deformities and scars, I feel like shooting them to end their suffering once and for all.

I do not know where Kip is now. But I do hope everything is okay with him. I do hope that he never drowned in one of his drinking expeditions. I do hope that one day he sobers up and goes to fetch his degree, even though it is yet to bring tangible benefits to some us, a year down the line. We are stuck with hawking our credentials from one office to another, hoping that lady luck shall smile upon us one day. She never seems to be in a hurry though. Maybe she’s been bribed by politicians to smile at the first. Here, we hold on to hope.