Husbandry

 

There is so much that can be learned in tilling land or keeping livestock. Topmost is patience. This story has a character named Patience.

It’s a Saturday. An ordinary Saturday, right off a working week somewhere in March. There are two blocks of houses, all stone, containing twenty houses that are single and double rooms. A couple of the double rooms have a kitchen with piped water; almost bed-sitter in status.

It’s a Saturday and the communal type is starting to fill up, 8am. Water – rationed – visits this plot (and adjacent plots) twice a week: Wednesdays and Saturdays. Saturday water, full tap water unlike Wednesday water with a hint of borehole to it. Meaning that Saturday’s water is much coveted as it is soft to launder and sweet to drink. Hence, the occasional fight as every woman tries to fill their jerry cans before the tap is closed at 6pm.

Patience. Light, petite and with a quick smile. Hair, very soft, like an Indian – says her grandmother has Egyptian ancestry. The womenfolk, jealous, have befriended her and talk to her a lot to secure their lustful husbands.

On Wednesday: “Your clothes never get as clean as they should.” – Patience.

“Mmm… I’ll leave more money you change the washing powder.” – Gich.

Patience sighs. Trust men to always resort to an old solution for a new problem. But she is ready to wear him down. Again, he is running late for work and so he acquiesces easily.

Theirs is a workable arrangement. He is a bachelor. She is single. He has a good job, dresses good and smiles nice. She is single. He is responsible and is easy to talk to. She is single. She wants… she needs a husband. Patience does odd jobs for a living – a washing here, an ironing there, a send there – all above board as she is respectable. She is also a Christian.

“It’s the water. Wednesday water is no good. Saturday water is soft and you can drink it.”

“Ok.” Just like that, Patience has transferred her cleaning duties to Saturday. She is sure he can’t tell whether water is soft or hard as it’s her experience that men are not wired to be subtle.

On Wednesdays, Gich leaves the house key with the immediate neighbor, Mama Boy. Patience and Mama Boy, not exactly the best of friends. There is something to be said of this bachelor – attractive, uses minimal space on the clothesline, sweets for her little ones – much like an adopted, responsible, big child. Desirable, too, in a kind of taboo way.

Saturday. Gich is home. Patience’s plan. Wash clothes, clean rooms, pretend to be hungry and cook for both. And as they eat, she gets to be in his face, commits him to spend time with her as she peels her beauty and character to him. She has been taking his books – fiction, poetry, philosophy, history, politics – home to read.

Gich. He thinks about work. About Sandra. His conclusion being that he keeps off work affairs. Almost cost him his job. Where he lives, pretty ladies that talk nice and smile a lot, inviting him. His principle is to only deal with ladies from farther away. He has an on-off relationship, something casual, with N. When Mama Boy asked, he said that it was a cousin; so, there is conjecture about N.

This Saturday morning, Mama Boy has been rather cross with him. And so is the lady at the end of the block – Wanja or Kamene, he can’t quite remember her name. He is not altogether blind about the ways of women.

Baba Boy, they talk. Football and politics. The country is being run down. Patience is cleaning his rooms and so, he hangs outside, making small talk. Patience told him about Baba Boy. That, he had made a pass at her and she had told him off. Strongly. Even threatening to report him to Mama Boy. Well, she was attractive and he was a man. No jealousy at all from him. This creature called man…

Last month, Gich had a sick day. Spent the whole morning calming down after taking malaria medication. It was a Tuesday, market day, and all the women housewives were away shopping. He went outside to the shared ablution block.

“Hi. Thought you were at work.” Mama Boy.

“Off. Sick.” Said he, followed by reassurances that he would get well soon and so on and so forth. A short while later, she knocked on his door, bringing rice and meat for the invalid so that he could swallow his pills. Usually, the thanks would have started and ended outside the door. Then again, all the other women were away at the market and their men at work. Mama Boy, she adores Patience not.

Patience now comes out, in hand, a bucket of dirty water from cleaning the house. She has on a loose blouse and a leso. A light breeze riffles through the end of her leso, revealing soft, brown thighs. Baba Boy is entranced, lucky that Mama Boy is back inside the house. Something stirs in Gich too.

Last week, he was in the countryside. Gogo – grandma- asked when she is to see her grandchildren. She needs to see them soon before Azrael visits. Perhaps, it’s time he got enslaved in this business of marriage. He is late in the wife and children department and his peers say you just are never ready for marriage.

Now they eat. Pilau and chicken and glasses of orange juice. Really nice pilau, like they make down at the Coast, he thinks. Now they talk. Politics. She really is deep, he is surprised. She argues a contrarian position – a fresh breath for him. She wanted to be a lawyer, she says, and he calculates the cost of law school in his head.

That night, he dreams of her in 4K. The easy smile, the light dimple, the raspy laugh. When he awakes, he understands that he has to make a move. Soon. Gogo’s request might soon be honoured. Blessings spit on their chests; the grandchildren.

(Meanwhile, get my short stories collection at: https://nuriakenya.com/product/a-funeral-dress-for-nyasuguta-by-mark-mwangi/)