He
wavered drunkenly along the dim lit street. A dog crossed in front of him, “Kwenda, mbwa hii” he hurled at the
unconcerned dog which scurried away. Pausing, he scanned the street and watched
as the dog unceremoniously scavenged on the pile of filth by the roadside. He
raised his left hand on which balanced the four gizzards, tightly wrapped in a newspaper
and customarily put in a clear manila paper. He suspiciously glanced at the dog
then keenly scrutinized his package as if to confirm he still had it.
Satisfied, he continued to waddle on the street his shoes squelching and
sloshing in the mud.
The
rain was lightly drizzling; the wind chilly and cold was fiercely biting at
him. Alcohol and water are not the best of friends so he increased his
staggering pace. He had not drunk for the rain to spoil his fun way before he
reached home. He used to defend his habit of drinking daily on his wife
naggings. He could not stand the deluge of nagging questions, demands and
ultimatums from his wife and her daughters when sober. As an excuse, he took
caution to avoid them as much as he could and that meant heading straight to
the bar after work and coming home late. His children could not even remember
how their father behaved when sober.
“Pesa
tu, pesa tu kila siku,” he impetuously muttered, “They think I work at De La
Rue?”
He
was deeply in thoughts; his slumbering brain revolving around one idea,
calculating where he went wrong. His wife rarely uttered a word to him not
unless she was asking for money; money for breakfast, money for medicine, rent,
salon… money, money, always! He felt as
if she was always trying to scourge money out of him, like he was paying for
the marriage. To her he was an ATM, a cash minting machine which was never
supposed to drain. He remembered the time when his work had taken him to a
remote distance and somehow he was short on cash and his daughter feel ill. She
had adamantly refused to pay for the medical bill, arguing that the husband was
shirking. It took the intervention of neighbours and friends
They
had been married for seventeen years yet it felt like just the other day. The
only thing he could see of that marriage was only the four daughters though
even those he was not sure they were all his. Daughters for that matter made
him feel less of a man among his peers. He always harboured the strong longings
of holding his own son, a son who stubbornly failed to materialize even in his
side hustle. There he had made three attempts with twice the outcome ending in
the toilet. The other one he knew existed but where or how she looked was not
his concern. Thinking of her now reminded him on how he had bolted on the
thought of a child outside marriage; may be it was the fear of his wife which
raised shivers in his spine but whatever the case that was a secret he didn’t
wish to open.
Marrah
sat sprawled on the sofa glued on the TV but her mind was in another world. No
matter how she tried somehow she knew she had failed in life and the thought
was scary. This morning she had noticed a strand of white hair on her head and
she scrutinized it with alarm. Grey hair where she comes from signifies old
age; an expiry dates which she thought and felt was ages away. She had thought
of her old age but somehow it had remained in the back of her mind like
something which could not happen to her. By all means she regarded herself
attractive and young and by keeping the company of young women in her salon
business time was something she had not noticed pass.
“No,
no I can’t be this old,” She peremptorily retorted as she counted her age for
the second time, ‘fifty one!” She could not believe how the concept of time had
eluded her. She felt short changed and trapped by her marriage - dawning on her
- she was married to someone who was also blind to time. Their peers had bought
or built their own houses yet they were still to buy a plot. She was certain between
her and her husband, their savings could not buy a plot. Their oldest child was
still in high school while the rest were in primary school and the husband was
headed for retirement.
There
was a knock at the door followed by the all too familiar guttural “fungua” from her husband. Without giving
his wife time to open the door, Wachira decided she was taking too long and banged
even more heavily.
“Get
in you devil and stop banging on the door like it’s a brothel.” Marrah’s anger
had boiled over. She was angry at herself and the universe for conspiring to
make her a failure in life. She blamed everyone for not telling her that time
was running out and more so she resented her husband for not taking the
initiative to take control of their stalled ship.
Wachira
timidly staggered in the house, his little precious package still tightly held,
took a sweeping tired look across the room before eventually planting himself
on the sofa.
“Mum,”
he shook awake his youngest daughter, “what did you eat, umeshiba?”
“Did
you leave any money?” Marrah snapped scornfully. “What did you expect them to
eat, your smelly socks?
He
didn’t respond. Time had taught him to trend carefully around enraged Marrah
even when intoxicated. Instead he blankly stared at her. As if the mention of
socks was a reminder of something he had forgotten, he abruptly kicked off his
shoes engulfing the room with rotten stench from his socks. Then he slowly with
dexterity inept in drunkards he lowered his frail frame, removed his socks and
to confirm the stench was to his liking he sniffed and inhaled before throwing
them under the table.
“Wapi
chakula?” he asked to no one in particular though he could not have been
addressing anyone else but his wife. Without waiting for the answer which was
not forthcoming, he planted his smelly feet on the table, just next to the
gizzards, reached for a cigarette and blessed the tiny confinement with wisps
of smoke. The child sleeping on the sofa coughed and sneezed but he could not
connect why. No one spoke in the room, the three daughters who were awake just
watched their father go through his usual drill. The atmosphere was decidedly
frosty this evening but dozing off on the sofa Wachira did not notice the
aggression and regrets in Marrah’s eyes. She sat there critically scrutinizing
her lifetime mistake as if she was seeing him for the first time. He too looked
old and frail not the man she fell in love with. He had several strands of grey
hair and his receding baldness had taken nearly half his hair.
She
wondered if he was aware of the progress his peers had made. She wondered what
he talked with his peers in their drinking dens. She pitied him and hated his
friends for failing their peer. What are friends for if they cannot correct you
where you ere? What about herself, as a wife what had she done to build her
family? Bile boiled in her, she thought of her children and tears streaked
across her cheeks washing away the make-up which she had applied religiously
from as far back as she could remember. She wiped the tears took a plate and
poured her husband food and laid just next to his scented feet and nudged him
from sleep. She took a knife and started dissecting the gizzards.
He
ate with relish, powerfully munching mechanically though he was sleepy. He
could open his eyes when he was scooping and then munch while his eyes closed.
The whole room was silent exempt the small TV. The late night news were being
aired which was a message of hope by showing all those who are suffering that
they are not suffering alone. Tonight was no exemption, the news were the usual rhetoric; a teacher
arrested for impregnating his pupil, a sheikh lynched after sodomising small
boys, wife hacking her husband to death, politicians salary increments,
embezzlements of funds meant to fight HIVs and all other vices which counted as
news. As an icing, the stories of poor
wallowing in suffering were wrapped by profiles of prominent individuals; the
who own what of the land.
“Wow,
there are men who have money.” Warrah
observed.
“Get
married to them then,” retorted Wachira, “you love money like a prostitute.”
“You
call me a prostitute; you dare call me a prostitute?” Marrah was fired up. Here
was the man who had ruined her knife yet he still had the temerity to insult
her. That was something she was not prepared to take lightly. She had been
patient with him for so long to a point he thought her a fool. Not her. She
just could not take it anymore.
“You
are the one who is a prostitute,” she yelled back “and stink like a dead dog.
Do you think I don’t know what you do in those bars you visit every day?”
“In
his inebriated state Wachira thought he could contain the situation by one
slap. He shakily stood up; span his hand but Marrah duct just in time for the
hand to brush over her cheek, hurling the wobble man off balance. He was soon
on his feet with a vengeance, grabbed at the woman’s neck and clang on it with
magnetic tenacity. Even when the sharp pain seared his stomach he did not
connect where it was coming from or loosen his grip. He felt another jab of
pain on his chest followed by the screaming of his children, looked and his
chest to see a knife wedged there. He hurled at the breathless torso of his
wife who fell backward, her head connecting with the edge of a stool.
He
kneeled on the floor, squeamish with his own blood, pain gorging at his chest
and stomach. He looked in horror at his terrified children, who were now
orphans.
Steve Karathi, 2012.
