CHRONICLES OF A NEW WRITER_22
In a marriage, as in any other engagement between male and female, whether formal or come-we-stay-put, it is not always Valentine. I arrived at this conclusion months after Jane Shish had revealed to me her pregnancy, by me. During this period, our relationship had mutated into something else, which drained my emotions and altered my sanity. Since the moment she caught wind from Maili Tisa that the folks there wanted to fetch a wife for me, as they remained opposed to my marrying a Nairobi woman; Jane limited my communication with them. She stayed with my phone, and checked any logs whenever I received a call or message, when she delayed in the bathroom or somewhere else.
Further, she whined that we needed to get more money, in readiness for the baby, who’d come in two months. This meant that I should press Ken, my supervisor, to raise my pay, or hunt for another job, which would pay more, or get an extra gig on the side. This pressure discomfited my life in that house, and I found a way to talk to the folks at home about it, by means of Caren’s phone, which she gave me in secret. Whenever I talked to Joan (Uncle’s last daughter), I told her I didn’t understand how I ended up living with a lunatic, in the name of a wife. And she would tell me that I complicated the whole situation, when the option of walking out of the house at once, existed. In my response, I told her that the wearer of the shoe knows where it pinches most; that I couldn’t walk out, without considering the repercussions. What if the baby was indeed mine? What if Jane should drink rat poison, as she had threatened, should I abandon her?
These worries and thoughts thinned my body, I had to belt my trousers tighter, and wear older shirts, which fitted my reducing frame. These developments I wrote about, and submitted the writings to the lecturer, who in recent months, said I had improved my writing. Other times, when he’d marked my work, he would call me to his house on the third floor of this flat, on Caren’s advice I supposed, and ask me how I did. He would then tell me that if I needed any kind of help, be it counsel or else, I should not delay to consult him. I found him an interesting fellow, despite my initial reservations.
I had mentioned before that Ken, my supervisor, had promoted me to a supervisory role, where I supervised some night-time activities at work? Yes. I had now worked for several months in this position, but he hadn’t raised my pay to match the rise; and so I reminded him one Monday evening. Ken said he would raise the pay, and that I should remain patient, as he reviewed my performance, under that probative period. During these night shifts, which lasted from 7 pm to 11 pm, I recorded the number of goods in small cartons that Peter and Eric and Alex brought in a Probox; which goods we then stored in the room behind the shop.
The following day, Tuesday, Ken allowed me to accompany Peter and crew, to wherever they obtained the goods which they brought in to the shop. Alex drove the vehicle, and I sat by him, while Eric and Alex talked at the back. We left River Road, and headed to Dandora. Alex and I didn’t talk at first, but when Alex did, he asked me why I enrolled for the night shift. For the first time, I shared with him my domestic affairs, and told him how Jane suffocated me, and he pitied me so. However, he said I shouldn’t have chosen the night shift business, however much I needed an extra coin. I asked him why. He raised the volume of the radio, so the men at the back couldn’t hear us, and said, “We are going to bring drugs. Cocaine.”
In college, Alex pulled pranks on me many times that I got immune to them. I told him to stop playing with me, as the reasons which directed my decision, meant something to me. At once he fished a small packet out of his jacket pocket, and dropped on my lap. I lifted the thing, and checked it in a subtle manner, so as the men at the back wouldn’t notice. As certain as my name is Taifa Mkenya, I had inducted myself into a gang of drug dealers, where the odds of catching a bullet, or a knife, or a lot of money, or sleeping in jail, remained high.
We came to a police check point as we neared Dandora, and Alex stopped as instructed. Without being discovered, I unlocked the door, and made a start as to jump out at the feet of the policemen; but Peter—or Eric, stuck a cold metal on the side of my stomach, and I at once knew what it meant.
#To be continued…
A week goes and languages grow; my stories so.
[The typer of these words is a breaker of English. Creator of words. Attempter of waggish things. Marveler of nature. Enjoyer of life. Lover of strangers. Taster of cultures. Author of Tom James. Editor. Snap-shooter. Storyteller. Future husband. Teacher. Learner. Soon a traveler]