Mulama series― Part II
The floodgates of heaven are literally open, now more than ever. It’s been raining nonstop for days. While driving to work this morning, my car, that old junk of a Toyota Premio, was almost carried away by flooding water. Damn these floods! You’d think that just because I live in Milimani Estate, in this gated community, I’m somehow immune to suffering from floods. My next door neighbor is our local MP but even he suffers from the floods and mud just like the rest of us. Good for him, he moves around with his thirty something million shillings Range Rover sport and, he can ―at least― be airlifted with his chopper if the worst comes to the worst. Don’t even mention it. Since the floods started, he moved back to Nairobi, in his Karen home.
I’m back to work, in Meru. I’m in my tiny office at the law firm downtown. My tempers are up in the sky today. My eyes are swollen and red. This morning as I looked at myself in the mirror doing my makeup, I could not recognize the person staring back. I can easily pass off as a weed addict. Thank God I don’t have a day in court! Woiy, I don’t want to imagine what would have happened to anyone crossing me the wrong way there. Screaming objection would have really been fun today.
‘I want to be left alone’ is all I can scream to my colleagues who are certainly wondering what the hell is wrong with me.
My mobile has been off for some days now. I’m not sure I can handle any private business at all. I have been on water for days now. No food, no nothing. Today I at least drank some yoghurt in the morning. I need a cookie for that. I know it’s what my body needs. I can tell from the lack of concentration that I have, even my boss claims ‘Nafula, you’re not here!’ I wonder where he thinks I am.
My body is frail― both physically, and emotionally― though much better than yesterday and my heart is fragile as well.
But I have to be here, at work, working my ass off to forget about my problems and eventually pay my bills. Is it working for the former? I don’t have the slightest idea.
Hours later, I leave the office to go home. I switch on my phone finally after days. I’m sure anyone who tried to call me within the last four days was met with that ‘sorry, the mobile subscriber, cannot be reached’ tone. Messages are cluttering in but I don’t look at them. My phone is on silent; the only alert is the light. I’m not yet ready to look at anything or hear from anybody. Maybe I’ll return those attempted calls and respond to messages, maybe not. All in due time people.
I take a quick shower, change into my grey sweats and heavy socks and curl myself on the sofa. There’s a soap opera coming up; my favorite one actually. I sometimes wonder why Mulama or anyone else is not like the star of the show Alejandro. I envy Romina, the heroine who has her man fighting for her like crazy. Why can’t I just get any of that? Why must this whole love business be too difficult for me?
No, I’m done.
I’m never watching those stupid deceptive soap operas again. You know why, I’ve been doing it for years and every single one runs for over a year and the heroine and hero always end up together, just that. All the drama ends in a year. So why can’t I have that with Mulama?
No, this is daft. Now I don’t even believe in love anymore. I don’t care about all those sermons on having faith and shit from friends and other well-wishers. It’s impossible to really find love. And this is not like I don’t meet young eligible men, far from it, they just don’t suite my taste.
I move to my study desk and switch on my computer. Maybe an email has come through for me within the last two hours or maybe not. Whatever! Maybe what I really want is to check Facebook? You know what? To hell with emails! There’s nothing.
I go to Facebook and check out Mulama’s profile. He is not my friend for the simple reason that we unfriended each other two years ago when we broke up the first time. Relationships plus Facebook is just a grand fiasco. Since then, I’ve never seen any need to add him as a friend― even after we mended our differences― because what does it matter? Facebook is just that; a face and a book. People put up stuff that they want seen, photos taken on backgrounds of their choice to impress people they don’t even know. They well know that that’s not truly what’s inside them. So I have since preferred the other side to people, shit that’s not up on their walls like calling strangers ‘honey’ and ‘babe’ and ‘dear’ whereas the ones who truly deserve those names are left in reckless abandon.
Having logged in there’s no turning back. I clink the link to Nathan Mulama’s timeline. I am more curious than ever to spy on his activity online. I’ll have to be all CID about this. Who the hell does he think he is? Does he think that I won’t do it? Wait a minute! And what was the name of that chic again? The one who nearly strangled me to death last Thursday?
Evelyn. I scroll down Mulama’s friend list meticulously. I’m sure there can only be one Evelyn and if not, then two tops. You don’t just accumulate a list of people around you with similar names unless you’re Chinese where your older brother is Ying Yow, your smaller sister Ying Yo and your next door neighbor Yinmg Yoww or whatever.
Anyway, back to Evelyn.
Right, we have her. On Facebook of course, thank God not her physical presence! I click the link. She’s the one; that maniac who nearly killed me last week. Truly pictures hide a lot. Seeing her on the profile picture, like a harmless statute pausing and looking so calm and poised makes me think ―for just a moment― that she’s harmless and can’t even harm a fly. Except that I know better. I know better than to be fooled by that sweet little innocent face she’s putting up, trust me.
Come to think of it, her name rings a bell. He full name that is. She had been calling for weeks. Whenever I’d pick, she’d keep quiet on the other end of the line. My Truecaller application recorded some Evelyn Owuor; more than once. The first time I saw that number is close to four months ago! Of course she’s the one. Wait a minute! Crap! She actually called me last week on Tuesday and even sent me money via MPESA worth 50 bob. The kind of prank you pull to know someone’s true identity. That bitch!
I find myself scrolling further down her timeline. She’s posted pictures of her in this long Brazilian weave cascading down her back all the way to her arse. Coupled with the honey-fair complexion, ha! That’s some serious mama over there. She’s posing in these tiny denim minis right below her hips. Looks like the pictures were taken a while back, way before she became pregnant. I can’t see any of her recent pictures; when she was expecting that is. Anyway, moving on!
I’d rather go to bed. I haven’t checked my phone yet. It’s now on, but on silent. I saw several messages on the notification window but then what do I care? I’ll look at them tomorrow. Nobody’s life is depended on my speedy response to those messages, and even if they were, I don’t care. The thing is I’m not a heart surgeon; I’m not any surgeon for that matter. Nobody is going to die because I failed to operate on them. Even better is that I’m not a cop rushing to a terror scene. I’m just a simple lawyer for Christ’s sake! Who would have known that I’d be shortchanged this way by Mulama, a docy, and yet everyone insists that us lawyers are the most dishonest and unscrupulous of beings! How ironical right? That I can pinpoint a criminal or liar during cross examination in court within minutes of our encounter yet I can’t pick out the deep seated liar inside Mulama for the last four years! Two of which he was fully in my life! ha!
I’ll read the messages tomorrow or return the calls.
I go to bed and all I can see is light on the phone that’s now resting on my bedside table. Who cares? I better sleep already.
________________
I woke up the next morning at four. I had a day in court. Reports on my desk couldn’t review themselves. Considering how absent minded I had been the previous day, it was urgent to bring myself up to speed with the case involving incest between a young boy of nine and his biological uncle, presented to our firm three months before. I had to bring myself back to the reality of my life if I ever intent on having a steady legal profession.
I still hadn’t checked any messages or anything. Maybe I just didn’t want to face my demons yet. Here is the thing; this was no longer just about Mulama and me. That was the least of my problems or worries.
Mulama can do whatever and whomever he wants.
Thursday last week after Mulama drove that woman to the hospital, I took a taxi to Kibos Hotel― a hotel recommended by the taxi driver.
“Take me anywhere!” I piped out in this shaky teary voice.
“Where madam?” he uttered in his Luo accent with a slur on the last two letters of madam
“I need a hotel, somewhere to spend the night.”
“Everything ok? Madam?” he paused then, “we are very peaceful people; here at the Lakeside. People say that oh, we Luos are arrogant and loud, but that’s only because they don’t understand us. We usually are a happy people, and we want everyone else to be just as happy.” He said, finally, his command of the English language― impeccable. I said nothing to that.
He drove about 500 meters from where we were and told me to peep out and see if I liked the place; this Kibos. It was not a matter of liking the place. I needed a roof over my head like yesterday, and there I had it.
At the lobby I paid for a night’s accommodation, dinner and a full 750ml of Southern comfort to be delivered in my room.
I had never been this humiliated before; ok I had, but this shit felt worse than ever. I had been one hell of a drunk back in law school. Booze seemed to have been my only salvation whenever I was struggling with issues. It was not easy for me to quit. But I did it, somehow. I was locked up in a rehab for a whole month just to kick the habit. I don’t know a single drug I haven’t used. Name it, from crack to weed to fag. I’ve been there done that. I never sank deep into them, but I have tasted them more than once or twice. Alcohol was the most addictive of drugs for me. Sometimes I can’t believe I survived and finished law school. After the successful completion of my pupilage last year and securing my first job, I vowed to never take a single drop of booze again, it has been difficult, but thanks to my sober mentors, not as bad.
I could barely touch the mouth watering spiced lamb chops and fries on my plate. One glass of the gold-brown whiskey later and I was as excited as a puppy wagging its tail for its master. I could pull this one off. The whole mzinga!
I decided I wanted company. I dialed-drunk several numbers, oblivious of how late it was. First I called Pam, she didn’t pick. Maybe she was asleep already. Then I called Peter; Maybe by mistake, because he is right below Pam on my phone book.
After the initial pleasantries, he asked where I was. I told him the name of the hotel and owing to the fact that he lives in Kisumu town, he was in my suite within no time.
It’s now three glasses of whiskey later.
“Why are you here Nafula? Why aren’t you with Mulama?”
Yes, Peter and Mulama know each other. No, they’re actually friends and good ones as such. I met peter for the first time four and half years ago in Nairobi, at a bar, when i was still a student at the University of Nairobi School of Law. He was with Mulama. They two men go way back. After Mulama and I became an item, the three of us were inseparable but Peter and I haven't been in touch for the last two years. You don't go on being a friend to your best friend's ex you know. I have since made peace with the fact that the two men came in a pair; you know and I either had them both or none at all.
I lie to him that I was in town for a business meeting and that I was just bored and needed company. Inasmuch as I’m feeling drowsy and helpless, confiding in someone about my issues is the one thing I’m not going to do tonight, why? Booze is enough. Booze will take care of soothing me.
And with booze, say five or so glasses later, I start crying. Peter wants to know why I’m here. Exactly why. I tell him what happened tonight. Everything!
“You see I don’t care for his stupid explanations! Mulama has fucked my life up! He made me come all the way here, for what? To flaunt that ugly bitch in my face? To have her strangle me to death? Trust me Peter, I’m never gonna give him a chance to explain his lies to me. Ever!”
We all know that that honey-fair with a long Brazilian weave is not ugly, but what does it matter? Peter is quiet listening with keen intent. He takes the almost empty glass of Southern Comfort from my arms and places on the table. He then murmurs that he is sorry. More tears are now cascading down my cheeks. There’s no stopping them. There’s no sound of crying anymore, just tears.
“Can I?” he asks titling his head on the left a little and back, a signal as to whether or not he should place my phone on the table as well. I get it from the bed, under my legs crossed Swahili style during a pilau meal, and switch it off before handing it to him.
He comes to embrace me. None of us says anything. All I need now is the comfort of his embrace. I cry on his shoulder for a moment there before he pushes me back and wipes my tears now spread all over my face with his bare hands, stroking them from side to side towards the ears. Peter looks at me, and then kisses me. He is breathing deeply now. Then he kisses me for the second time, and the third. I don’t stop him. I’m in it with him. He quickly unbuttons his shirt and throws it on the floor.
His hands are now behind me; unzipping my caramel brown dress.
to be continued……
Part III, the final part continues on Monday June 1st.
Catherine Amayi is a Scientist, an author and a fiction writer.
Follow on Twitter @catherine_amayi
Facebook Catherine M Amayi
Email: ccamayi@yahoo.com
The above piece is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are a work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.