These succeeding words should have been a recount on the experiences of a new writer–the chronicles_07. They aren’t. They aren’t because I never finished the writing early Saturday. I never finished the writing on account of an unexpected occurrence in the dead of the night. Reader, what follows is a true recount:
My thoughts–expectations rather, like those of other people around the globe, follow an express design. So I contend. When a man sinks into his bed to sleep, he hopes (often to a remarkable level of certitude), to awake, after some hours, all right and fine. This supposition, dear readers, as I reaffirmed during the a-dawning hours of this last Saturday, of 18th (today is 19th June), is shadowy. In response to these caprices of life, faithfuls pronounce, that the reality of breathing on another day, or even in another hour beyond the present, is God’s gracious providence upon woman and his man–the gift of life, in its cardinal manifestation. This view, I hold close. What other human beings might claim, as an attempt at explaining this phenomenon, I don’t speculate.
But what I want to tell you , reader, is a true recount, far from the foregoing fictional recounts (The Chronicles of a new writer…) a-concerning Taifa Mkenya and his attendant characters in Alex Matano, Fred, Shish and so forth. What I recount today, like I said before, suits what you’d call Real Life Experience.
I begin thus:
My memory fails me now, though. I think I slept after 12.05 a.m., that Saturday in question. Hitherto, for several hours, I worked on the fictional Chronicles of a new writer_07, that I should have published on Saturday, a-during day time. Anyway, I hadn’t written much when I slept, I recall.
My bones, my flesh, and my thoughts slept so, for my whole self had overworked itself Friday evening. I never dreamed anything. As a matter of fact, Seldom do I dream. Yet after some hours of intense sleep, I began a-dreaming, I suppose.
Was it 3 a.m.? Was it 4 a.m. when I perceived that voice-of-a-man call my name out, next to my bed? I can’t tell. Anyway, this a-baffling voice said, “D******, Usijaribu kupiga nduru! Tuko na marisai mingi hapa. Baki hivo hivo, usifunue blanketi kwa kichwa.” D******, don’t try to make a sound, we have enough bullets with us. Remain the way you are, DO NOT take the blanket off your head.
Reader, was I a-dreaming? A-hallucinating? I couldn’t tell. Who were they, thugs? Friendly pranksters? I obeyed those menacing directives. Then I firmed my a-wandering thoughts. I lowered and drew out my inhalation. Next, I waited for the upcoming command. If the next command would ever issue, I’d discover, beyond reasonable doubt, that thugs, hooligans, gangsters, camped at my house, some hours after midnight–into that Saturday I mentioned.
“Tumetumwa, unajua J********?” We have been sent, do you know J*******? That voice from hell said. But, reader, how did they unlock my door? How did they pass through the main gate of this our flat? Reader, a crime was a-proceeding. I, not that fictional Taifa Mkenya who talks about experiences of a young writer and all that stuff, I–my real body and flesh, remained under frightening siege of these thugs. Lord, lordy lordy, hand me a cup I can carry! God, lordy! Forsake me not in this nocturnal hour of want. So I prayed.
To that voice’s question I said, “Hapana.” No.
Reader, how the voice of a man, when terrified, metamorphoses into that of a little, petrified child!
“Naskia uko na *********,” we hear you have *******, that voice said.
“Hapana. Hapana mkubwa!” No, no your honor! I exalted that my aggressor.
All this while, I played along, I never uncovered my head. I lay there in my bed, curled into a terrorized mass. Whether they possessed guns or other weapons necessary for such nightmarish operations, I couldn’t tell.
I discerned a second voice. Voice One asked me questions, and ensured I never twitched in my bed, whereas Voice Two ransacked my house. I could hear Voice Two collect and dump objects, MY PROPERTY, into a plastic bag; but I couldn’t catch their footsteps, they must have worn rubber shoes or something, I don’t know.
“Ati hauna ********?!” You say you don’t have ******?! Voice One said.
“Hapana, hapana. Sina,” no, no I don’t.
Collection continued. Meantime, my thoughts wandered everywhere, my breath as still as those robbers’ footsteps. Reader, just imagine they do not find this ******* thing they stated, what would they do to me? You have never met me overwrought. My heart pumped so. My bones froze, and tepid sweat covered my body. Then I waited, and waited, as Voice Two collected and despoiled, and collected more. I tell you reader, from firsthand encounter, and with absolute authority, uncertainty over cynical anticipation is a bitch. I swear.
At length, the two voices from doom agreed they’d collected enough. You couldn’t hear them step their feet; they walked like cats. Nevertheless, I heard a third voice, that had, for all that hostile time, kept guard outside my door. Then, my reader, they vanished. So it occurred.
Why am I a-recounting this firsthand experience?
Previously, I’ve heard few of my friends and some other people tell about the experiences they suffered under death-dealing thugs and robbers. And I could only listen to them as a child listens to a gory story from a father (happy fathers’ day, dads!), but now, I can relate.
Second, I tell this story to remind us all to practice vigilance, in our places of residence, and not to overlook those minute details that might put our personal and property safety at risk.
Third, life, as a gift from God, is precious; while we live, it is important to channel our energies and resources to those things that matter to humanity.
Fourth, God is the ultimate protector; when you live in, and by Him, Saitan has no chance.
Finally, material goods, new and old, come and go. As much as it depends on our individual selves, lets strive to attach worth to human values, as opposed to material belongings.
Having said that, I now go against my final advice, on that a-preceding paragraph. I must admit, I had attached my soul to my laptop (of all the things those thugs carted away). She was divine, I tell you. She served me faithfully. With her aid, I wrote to you, my reader…I wrote the Chronicles. I wrote my now-published book, Tom James, on her. I did a million things with her, this my now-gone laptop, gone with the wind…gone with those ruffians…
Yet, I’ve still managed to post this personal story! Reader, won’t you say Amen?
There is always a way, a third, or tenth way, from God, from that positive, higher power
[To my friends who offered those encouraging thoughts and prayers, thank you. I remain safe and healthy, thank you Lord.]
The fictional chronicles of a new writer will continue.