A Little Girl's Silent Tear

On normal days, I would scan a manyanga first before boarding. It had to meet a tight criterion such as color and design, how loud the engine is when revved, and lastly if I can recognize a tout that once ripped me off. But not that day. I boarded the first and walked straight to the rear, something I wouldn’t do when all by brain cells are in tip top condition.

It was a Saturday. We had unnecessarily binged with a friend the previous day. The things alcohol can make you do are quite terrible. It can make you think you are immune to HIV. But not me. When it comes to women, I draw a line that I do not cross. I had a class that began at 8 am that day. The lecturer was one hell of a woman who considered you late if you check in after she had. And she was always in class ten minutes early.

Having been paid, and having settled all my bills, the next logical course of action would be to grab a drink and then sleep early so that I would wake up refreshed. As I have earlier mentioned, the alcohol in us told us that one was not enough, and we left for the club at one am. We grabbed a mzinga, poured a few shots and left. Dizzily, we maneuvered around the neighbourhood to our keja. And I slept fitfully.

At six am, the alarm began ringing. It felt I had slept for only ten seconds. At first I thought it was not meant for me, but for the ninja we stayed together. I remember cursing him for not rising up to shut the alarm, and head for his day job. But then it occurred to me that the alarm was mine. Guided by alcohol residue, I rose up, washed my face, picked my bag and left for school. I was sure as hell I smelled alcohol. You know how cheap vodkas last for an entire day.

On my way I bought PK to at least mute the smell of alcohol. I made my way to the sixth floor, guided by a heavy head. As usual, I sat at the back and waited for the lecturer to begin the lesson with devotion. It lasted close to ten minutes. It was unfortunate that we were to do a presentation. Luck was not on my side as the people who were to do it decided to abscond the class. It left only me, drunk and unprepared. I tried to plead with the lecturer but she could hear none of it. In fact she turned the class into a motivation one, talking about being prepared a million light years before the actual day.

I think I flouted every single rule she had put in place at the beginning of the semester. When I ended my presentation, the rest of the class was invited to judge it. One dude said I was chewing gum, which was not good. I interpreted this to mean I was disgusting. Another, a lady, spoke of how I had done well, considering the fact that I am an introvert. There being no other business, proceeded to sit. My mind was racing, wanting to another drink to drown the humiliation I had gone through.

Instead of walking t town then catching a mat to my hood, my feet failed to cooperate after receiving classified information from the brain. Ten minutes later, I was at the stage to my hood, where the story actually begins. I am seated at the back, and the touts are shouting: mtu mbili! Wa haraka mtu mbili! At that point some passengers are beginning to alight, and then are paid. How awesome can that be!! Incredibly, passengers filled in and we set off.

Just in front of me sat a couple with two children, a boy and a girl. The man and the woman were separated by the aisle. Both kids sat on the father’s lap, while the big fat woman, whose body spilled on the aisle, sat cozily sipping yoghurt. She was talking to the little girl who I guessed was about seven years old. I didn’t get a word for she was speaking Kikuyu.

The little girl had these really cute eyes that, I guarantee you that, will give men problems when she turns eighteen. The big fat woman sipped her yoghurt, as she talked to the girl. She talked. She talked.

Then, the little girl cried. Not the usual cry. A silent tear cascaded down her chubby cheeks. That tear corroded my heart. It felt like sulphuric acid had been poured on it. At that point, I wanted to know what the fat woman had told her. The father sat quietly, said nothing. I remember the kind of man who wouldn’t defend his children.  

As the journey wore on and people began alighting, a hawker stepped in selling candies. The girls face lit up as he tapped her father, and pointed at the sweets. The father reached into his wallet and retrieved an old fifty shillings note. The little girl picked those chocolate candies. Surprisingly, she shared with the fat lady and her brother. A selfless act. Her father didn’t eat the candies and she had an extra. All the while, the fat old lady spewed her words, words that were silently destroying the little girl’s heart.

But then again I wondered what made the little girl cry. Was she told that she would be slaughtered once they got home? Was she told that she would be adopted by monkeys? Was she told she was as impressive as exotic bacteria? Its never worth it. Kids are beautiful and they are supposed to cry loudly. Not silent tears. I can never understand it for I forgot about her when I sipped my left over vodka.