Mr. Steven Akumu won the lottery… more appropriately;
he did a deal that netted him a few hundred thousand shillings. The months
preceding this, he had really suffered, become an economic vegetarian. In true
Kenyan fashion, he had to apologise to his body for all this sufferation –
‘kuambia mwili pole’.
Now, Mr. Steven Akumu was a much travelled
man… Mombasa, Lamu, Isiolo, Meru… thus, there was no particular locale that
held awe to him. He nearly went down to the coast, but remembered that time
when Fatuma, the jinn, nearly drowned him. Drawing lots, Nakuru was to be his
destination. Plus, he could always move about there, scouting for
opportunities. Perhaps, sell the folks there cold storage facilities for their
‘warus’.
It was a cold evening when Njoro called
him. Thing was, Grace, his common wife, was mad at him – probably over those
frisky chats on his WhatsApp from one Wanja; really a tragedy as he couldn’t
zero in on who this Wanja was… Ah, the travails of a successful man! Pretending
not to hear Njoro over static, he had him over on speaker mode, really for the
benefit of Grace… assure her that it was a genuine business trip.
A practical man, Mr. Steven Akumu took a
bus… public means of transportation, in his considered opinion, were best when
one was flush with money. Else, the heady rush of new riches was won’t to have
one driving recklessly. He sat next to a Somali lady, probably Borana… anyway,
Halima was fair of skin and the sun smiled on her face. Plus, the hijab she
wore suggested a comely figure… a mystery that screamed to be solved. Mr. Steven
Akumu, he was a man known not to run from a good challenge.
Now in Nakuru, recently gazetted a city,
Mr. Steven Akumu put abode at the 57 Residency, a block of fancy furnished
apartments slightly on the edges of the suburbs. More importantly, he had the
particulars of Halima. This Halima, a nurse apprentice, recently divorced. She
interned at a local public dispensary and was amenable to a dinner… nothing
serious… a light-hearted chat over a simple meal to unwind, etc., etc. Mr.
Steven Akumu, experienced in the ways of the world, was in familiar territory.
The dinner was light, funny… for Halima
chose a spot that had a comedy show, Thursday nights, scheduled. This comedy
show, a platform for both established and upcoming comedians, hence, lots of
drama – the unexpected, the unfunny, the vulgar, the tribal accents and
stereotypes that are a staple of Kenyan comedy, and so on. Mr. Steven Akumu, on
Tusker while Halima sipped on Delmonte.
Plus, there was some slight progress as
Halima’s head was uncovered, revealing a rich head of soft, luxurious,
jet-black, shoulder-height hair that screamed to be caressed and parted and
played with. As a dare from the event’s emcee, Mr. Steven Akumu did a comedy
routine that fetched him a few laughs and earned him admiration from the crowd…
more importantly, again, from Halima. The night seemed promising.
On the interlude, there was a live band
performing. Again, Mr. Steven Akumu had a go at live karaoke, doing a nice
‘ohangla’ rendition that had nearly all the patrons on the dance floor. Near
the end, he beckoned Halima on the stage, crooned to her and was rewarded with
a light peck on the cheek as she playfully disentangled herself from his
embrace. A few pushes and heaven would open for him… it usually did.
Ideally, they should have gone back to the
57 Residency, but no one can adequately prepare for the rapture… on the way to
her place, though, Mr. Steven Akumu had requested the taxi driver to stop at a
chemist, presumably to get some tablets for a headache. Settling in, as Halima
– ever the proper host – heated some pilau for him, he scanned the house… a two
roomed affair with a kitchenette, with a shared tap outside, and a block of
toilets, some metres away from the block of rooms. Specifically, Mr. Steven
Akumu looked for signs of male habitation… the mere fact of being in a woman’s
house was risky enough – ‘dead/divorced/soldier-serving-in-Somalia’ husbands
had been known to resurrect in the dead of nights… but inebriation had made Mr.
Steven Akumu lose focus, plus he needed some compensation for spending on her.
The setting for a slaughter… Mr. Steven
Akumu taking mouthfuls of the pilau, Halima doing some chakacha moves – the
hijab discarded and now in a chemise – to a Taarab tune… the lights switched
off, in their stead, the woofer’s lights, multi-coloured, giving the room
ambience… the shepherd sharpens the knife for the slaughter as the lamb,
meekly, trustingly, seeks him out.
Now, Mr. Steven Akumu had eaten something
that disagreed with his stomach, though he couldn’t exactly pin-point it. A
slight, low rumble… soon turning embarrassingly loud… at one point, he hastily
requested for a roll of tissue paper and was guided, in the same pace, to the
particular toilet that Halima’s house was apportioned to. He opened the door in
great urgency and thrust himself in, letting go a stream of watery waste in
great relief… ‘Eternal damnation without relief’, the thought that came to him
in the small room, one of Rowan Atkinson’s – Mr. Bean’s – comedy sketches.
His stomach was now settled, though he
could feel a few more gatherings that would soon claim to be expelled in a
minute or two. As such, he waited… the night was still now, and dark, perfect
for a murder or a mugging… voices floated over, freezing Mr. Steven Akumu in
his near-foetal position inside the toilet.
“You will be the husband, and I the enraged
best friend…” A scratchy voice piercing the stillness.
“No… I will be the husband…” A husky voice,
almost asthmatic, as though a long-time smoker, replying.
The voices headed in the direction of
Halima’s house. Unfreezing, Mr. Steven Akumu tiptoed out of the toilet to the
gate, which, fortunately for him, was unlocked. He then broke in to a run,
scaring a group of boda boda riders two blocks away. Once they were sufficiently
recovered, he had one rush him to his rented apartment.
As expected, mid-morning the next day when
he traced Halima’s house, now with a couple of armed policemen, the house was
found vacant. On the floor was Mr. Steven Akumu’s discarded SIM card. Later, it
was established that over thirty thousand shillings had been transferred from
his M-Pesa account. It was a more subdued Mr. Steven Akumu that slunk back to
Nairobi.
(Meanwhile, get my short stories collection
at: https://nuriakenya.com/product/a-funeral-dress-for-nyasuguta-by-mark-mwangi/
)
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