Love is Patient. Love is impure

Taint me with your love
I’m yours if you’ll have me
This face is a facade
It’s blemish that decorates thee
And my heart feels old from all this callousness
The wind blew past me today
Its destination felt promising
So let’s get lost for awhile
Let this reckless feeling lead the way
And you know my mind has had its share of malice
And you’re the same handsome devil I remember
So I won’t try and stop my heart from beating in this rhapsodic manner it has known
It screams caution to my ears
But the years have made me reckless
And there is no hiding how flushed you leave me
By all means hold my hand
Your lips on mine is the torture I know
And when you finally fling me aside
I won’t drown in this salty tears
I’ll relish in the shared sunset
Your hands on my waist as we danced the conga
Your blazing eyes as they pierced through mine
And the beautiful scar you sketched across my heart.

Nancy sat on her bed pondering the man that had motivated the poem ages before. Back when she was still a good college kid with worries about fashion and music and love. Space in her mind for that now had been replaced by concerns about her young son’s medical check ups, bills and legal write ups. Her son would turn two in a month, her baby daddy had witnessed very little of those two years. He wasn’t the text book example of a dead-beat dad but he was quite elusive in presence. As a legal secretary for an N.G.O situate on David Osieli rd in Westlands, her work included interviews with citizens who’d claimed they had been subjected to torture. In this regard she had become quite good at learning truth in people’s stories. Inferring backgrounds from the way they talked and acted, but where her baby daddy was concerned she could never figure him out. Nonetheless he had her. It was almost 7 months since the last time she saw him and her skin was tingling to have his touch on her. Her heart rate wasfaat and her beathing was irregular, sporadic even. She’d received a call from him early in the morning saying that he’d drop by if she could have him. She didn’t think twice to cancel the date she had with Steve from finance. The timid guy had been heartbroken by the news, he’d been expecting a lot it being the fourth date and all. By five she was already home, her red lacey bikini on under the tight little back dress. Dry fry beef was in the hotpot waiting for the baby daddy to get home. The lack of a ring on her finger was not because of her being a mum or the lack of eligible suitors, it was because of how much she treasured these perennial visits from her son’s dad. Stuff from a telenovela right? Not even the half of it. She remembered the first day they’d met like it was yesterday.
She was a 2nd year law student at  University of Nairobi Law Campus in Parklands, out to get herself noodles on a boring Thursday night because the hostel food was crap on that particular day. While at the till she noticed two boys about two or three years older than her in line with a bottle of what had the lookings of extremely bitter liquor. She gave them no mind, though it was obvious that the shorter one had his sights trained on her. While walking down the steps of Chandarana Supermarket with a FoodPlus paper bag in her hand she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. “Excuse me. Halo.” The young man with glasses and a scruffy beard said. “Hi.” She answered back, her face wrinkling up in both concern and curiosity. She wasn’t used to strangers walking up to her with such blatant confidence. ” I know this will sound weird to you but ,” he paused, his eyes fixed on hers, almost like he was trying to impose a hypnotic stance on her with his eyes. “Do you believe in love at first sight?” Did this nigga just ask me that?! She thought to herself. “Uumm…” She stammered scratching her brains for an answer that wasn’t rude but blunt enough to get the guy away from her. She didn’t get the chance to do that. “Well your answer won’t really matter but I’m sure by the time I get you to fifty metres to your hostel you’ll be curious enough to want to find out whether love at first sight is real.” He went on. At this juncture she got concerned. She had heard stories of such stalkers before. Her hands instinctively crossed before her chest bringing the paperbag to the side the young man was. “Relax, no harm will come to you. I’m not a stalker or anything close to it. You are wearing slippers, your age is probably fit for first year or second year. You are not Indian so in this neighborhood you must be either a college kid or a hooker. You don’t have the attire for the latter so I’m guessing you are a college kid trying to avoid your crappyass hostel food. I’m I right?” At this she smiled and started the slow stroll towards her hostel. He was right at her side with the usual ‘ where you from where you school what music you like’ types of questions with the occasional joke being thrown in the mix. True to his word about 50m from her aboard he had her curious enough to let him have her number. He politely said that she was the hottest thing he’d ever seen and wanted to get to know her better. Naughtily biting the corner of his lips he said bye and slowed down to wait for his skinny tall friend with the big bottle. After that the guy that had introduced himself as Maleek Juma would be a constant though sometimes perennial feature on Nancy’s WhatsApp application and texts. Every once or twice in a rare unannounced fate, he’d call and drop off a quick hi. This went on all through her second and third year of campus. While she was on her long vacation before her final year he made a surprise visit to her in her parents home. It was quite a surprise to her and such a gesture that she grew even fonder of him.
She was stooped over a pile of dishes relentlessly scrubbing them. Her father was on the front porch of their house that stood on the slopes of the magnificent Cherangany Hills deep in Trans nzoia county. She heard the sound of a vehicle from a far but didn’t bother to look. The honk came when the Isuzu Pick Up truck was at the gate, about 50 m from where she was.”Sasa huyu ni Chambasi kanii tena?” Her father muttered after carefully examining the truck and not recognizing it or the driver. A farm hand quickly slid the gate open and it rolled in. Then Malik jumped out of it and walked towards the man on the porch with a round godfather kind of hat and a nylon jacket. All this ranchers in this county had the same stylist, Malik thought as he shook hands respectfully with the man. “Habari mzee?” He said. “Hapari yako kichana. Weh ndio nani ?” The man answered, his Kalenjin heritage evident in his accent and the stare of authority he gave the young man that was obviously an outsider. His name was Kipkelion Koech, a resident big fish in these parts of the hills. “Mimi ni Malik, classmate wa Nancy toka Nairobi. Nimeona nimsalamie kabla ya kurudi Nairobi.”
By now Nancy was already standing next to Malik, her amazement written in bold ink on her face. “What the hell Malik, you never said you were coming. How did you even get here?!” Her hand was outstretched for a sober handshake, hugs and pecks did not fly on these slopes. “Well I thought I’d surprise you. And your GPS locater on your phone brought me right to the gate!” He answered, his eyes curiously sizing her upcountry outfit. He wasnt surprised but rather turned on by her look. He said he’d drove overnight from Uasin Gishu County to see her. When it was time to see him off he managed to convince her to pull a Prison Break later in the night. They spent the night in Chebarus, a small township 20kms away from her home. It was bliss and Nancy found herself in that same room in Chebarus every night for a fortnight. When they said their goodbyes she couldn’t wait to get back to Nairobi to be with him. The month remaining on her vacation seemed like eternity, but by the time she got to Nairobi she found out she was expecting. She told him about it and the man was elated. She moved in with him when  she was four months expectant. The baby would come a month after her final exams. Three months after it was born Malik told her about a job he’d been called to in Mombasa, he was very sketchy on the details. She didn’t mind it, half the time she never knew what he was up to , all that mattered is that he knew he’d do anything for her and the bundle of joy they’d christened Shakur Juma Kipkelion. When he left for the job he became very secretive. He’d talk to her via email mostly from different accounts each time. Every end of the month she would find money on her M-Pesa Acc from unrecognizable agents, except for once when the sender’s name had shown Hassan Muchiri. She had a feeling it was him. She tried to call hoping to hear his voice but the number was off. Then whenever she’d least expect it, he’d call to say he was coming to see his queen and his son, with wild declarations of how bad he’d missed them. And she always believed him,why she would never know. He always stayed a few days , three being the longest. “Hey love?” He’d fondly wake her in the middle of the night. “Yes baby” she’d respond waking to find him holding their kid, an exact replica of himself. “I gotta go. It was great seeing you guys and I wish I didn’t have to leave you yet again. But duty calls.” He’d say,sadness loud in his kind eyes. She always tried to protest, but at this he would put the baby back in the crib, turn to Nancy and passionately kiss her. An hour later she’d be subdued and content with waiting for the next time he’d call. “I hate your boss!” She’d always say. With a grin he’d reply,”You sure? You voted for him if I remember correctly! ” And that is as much as she knew about his job. And today as she lay there waiting for knock on the day, she hoped wholeheartedly that the script would be different. She wanted him to stay, for her and for Shak her son.

Meanwhile..

The Toyota Fielder with the inscriptions Pewin Cabs on the side took a left turn off  Waiyaki Way through a gas station and on to a dirt road. The Kikuyu driver with the green company shirt hadn’t shut up about Arsenal since the cab left Harambee Avenue in town. Farouk Fattah sat at the passenger watching the guy’s mouth blubber on. His yellow gums and teeth  from constant smoking weren’t visible to Farouk’s,oh wait, Malik’s eyes cause his mind was already in the tiny one bedroomed apartment tucked away somewhere in the extensive Mountain View Estate. When the fielder started to battle with the dirt road is when the driver realised that his passenger wasn’t paying attention to his woes about Arsene Wenger and whom he should buy come next season. His mind was on the occupants of the house where the taxi would leave him. The only true thing in his life, his family. When the cab came to a halt Malik shoved two crispy 1,000/- notes in the hands of the cab driver. And was out. “Oya hutaki change?” He looked back at him for a second. “Nikupee hadi jina yangu?” He almost said to the guy. He smiled and walked into the gate, wishing that he could so easily give away the tag ‘Farouk’ as he had the 500/- balance. “Home sweet home” he thought as he rushed up the stairs, three at a time. The phone in his breast pocket had two unread messages. He knew the numbers to belong to Kassim Pinji Omar, national security was persuasion to read them. He looked at the screen before knocking the door. “Not today Satan,not today!” He thought to himself as he switched it off and knocked the door gleefully…

End of Part 3.

Credits to my dear friend Lucy for the beautiful poem and the motivation 😛

To all readers that have taken the time to read these wild rantings, Thanks a Millie yoh, I can’t come close to how grateful I am for the feedback. All said, valentine ibambe wenye watu, wengine tutakua tukicheki game ka weekendy yoyote tu

These streets don’t love you.

He was born some twenty odd years ago. His mum and siblings was all he knew. Them plus the streets. A low clogged culvert was what they called home in his formative years. When the rainy season came they immigrated to the steps in front of Kirinyaga Millers. That was a roof over their heads but it dealt them a bad hand. Here they could be harassed by Kanjo askaris, and the occasional rape by bigger older street boys. He couldn’t recall how many times his mum had been raped as he watched when he was younger. But time flies, on the steps or in the culvert. By the time he was sixteen Michael was a don in his own right. He ran a ten-man gang. He had Intel on all intended swoops by both Kanjo and central police station. His mum was off the streets, but still within earshot if he needed advice and the occasional spot for exile. He’d rented her a mabati shanty in Kariowa B, a small linear shanty near Makini Herbal Clinic tucked between a biscuit factory and a garage. Here she ran a successful Changaa outlet. On the side she sold fat-finger Marijuana joints to matatu operators and college kids. It wasnt Park Avenue or Argwings Kodhek drive but shit, she could avoid the kanjos and her last born daughter wouldn’t be subject to predators on Globe round-about and Grogon mechanics. Michael, or Pinji as he was called had done right by her mum in all ways.
His crew was bad. All were street boys hailing from Machakos country bus through town to Globe where the kingpin grew. His word was law on these streets. His crew and everyone knew better than to cross him, or his turf. If you dealt blow on his streets you had to pony up his cut, that’s 50% for ‘license’ to operate there and security of your person and product. If you snatched anything from the University Way- Uhuru highway round about down to the Pangani exit you had to sell it to him. If you didn’t then you better know what nickname you want for that tombstone, that is if your body would be found. How about the cops you ask? Yeah he didn’t deal with just anybody,especially not those fresh-face rookies from kiganjo. He dealt with Biggy, the head of criminal investigations at Central. Fate had brought them together when he helped the pig to recover an I-phone that meant something to the powers that be. His lieutenant had spent three days in the cells before Pinji gave a package to Biggy that contained the phone and a 20 grand token. The soldier was in the street by nightfall and Pinji was in bed with Biggy ever since. A grand a week was the token he gave after that. It was a working relationship that actually worked for everyone, but as they say, all good things must come to an end.
Trouble came to paradise on one eerie Friday night. His team went to Kariowa to say hi to the ‘godmother’ as the crew fondly referred to his mum. She was more than happy to see them. Fat-finger blunts were blazed, 40bob tots downed and by six they were back to work. Site of activity on this Friday night was Ngara, slightly past the footbridge but before the entrance to Kenya Institute of Education. There had been an accident involving three vehicles and traffic was standstill. “Leo ni kuweka weka sio braza?” One of his guys whispered into his ear, his hand over his shoulder. He shook off the hand, lest it dirties his brand new Liverpool jersey. “Unauliza? Hapa tumekuja jikoni mtu yangu!” He replied, his hand absentmindedly tucking in the revolver sitting in his belt. It was a tiny piece, even the tightness of his pipe jeans couldn’t betray its presence. At the worst it would be construed as well-endowment. Everything happens for a reason,he thought. The piece was meant to be used to hold up a mini-bus headed for Kenyatta University later in the night. On that route they’d get bountiful harvests. Hawa watoi wa kidato huanga na malaptop na matab na matenje mkia mbaya, that was the rationale for holding up a matatu with campus kids. But not today. Accident equals traffic, traffic equals mafala kadhaa wanasurf kama dirisha iko open. Easy pickings with zero risk. Ten minutes into the endeavour  they’d bagged  three hot phones, a tablet and a purse. But to be the King Pinji you had to be more than hungry, greed was an element that could not, must not lack from your general pysche. He wanted more, and they wanted to be more like him. Always on the lookout for a bigger payday. So when he saw the Subaru Impreza sandwiched between two Maranatha buses he couldn’t avoid the pull it had on him. He switched glances with his lieutenant and he knew what to do. They flanked the Subaru on both sides, his lieutenant a step or two behind him. Preliminary inspection told them there was only one occupant, a lady. Her handbag was on the passenger seat. Pinji walked to that side. His man stood at the right,his hand a foot over the brake lights. When Pinji was ready he winked at him and a  deafening sound came to life when his hand slapped the cars side. The lady was startled and instinctively turned to see who had rear-ended her. She saw the young man casually start to cross the street. Before she could turn her head back around,Pinji had opened the passenger door,fetched the bag and was on his way.
A ten minute ride in Rt 6/9 matatu found him later at Mlango Kubwa. His crew members trickled in later in quick succession. They counted their loot while the stereo blasted Berress Hamond’s Come Down Father. It was a good day for the hustle. Only the handbag remained uninspected. When he opened it the crew fell silent. The youngest one seated near the door rocking a Juventus FC jersey robotically rushed to the door and bolted it shut. There was a bundle of notes with a yellow tape around them. The tape had CrC 135/2012 on it. Next to the notes was a gun, government-issue Ceska pistol. “Kuma nina!” Pinji cursed under his breathe. He had no idea that the inscriptions on the tape was a court case number and that the notes were exhibits for a criminal case but after a lifetime in the streets he knew when he’d fucked up. The Ceska was evidence that they’d robbed the wrong person. “Uyo bitch alikua cop??!” His lieutenant asked. He’d been so greedy he hadn’t noticed the bold GKB plates on the Subaru.
“Ni hivi sasa, kila mtu atadive chini ya maji hadi tugathe Intel venye kutaenda.” He started totally ignoring the question by his right hand man.” Djeko utarudi ile yard usome radar ka ni safi. Me ntategea Biggy anicall kutafuta hii mambo. Asiponicall tutaipea week mbili ikiisha tugawane maisha iendelee.” He was barely done when the boys stood up. Fists bumping with “Tutachekiana githaa,strong.” They shuffled out of the room with nods of acknowledgment to Pinji. He too didn’t stay,he stashed the day’s loot and headed to Pumwani. He had an old friend there where he could lay low.
Two days later he got word that Djeko had been shot in cold blood by Biggy. The rest of the crew dove deeper in hiding. Word was there was a bounty on his head. The bosses at Vigilance House had found out about Biggy had been in bed with crooks from the Globe-gully crew. Now Biggy was on a rampage to clean the streets with gully blood and Pinji was the top prize. He had to get out of town before he wound up dead on a side-walk with a Bonoko laying next to him. It was embarrassing to say the least when cops retained the real gun to lease it out later and claimed to have recovered a fake pistol. That aside,he had to get out. For the first time in his life he wished he had an Ocha/ushago to run to. But he didn’t. He told his friend about his troubles and Abdi had a ready solution. “Kuna Sheik flani wa Pumwani Riyadh mosque anaorganize wasee majob huko Som. Unaezadai ?”
“Kisee, sahii ata kwa shetani naenda bora Biggy asikue huko.”
A meeting with the Sheik was set up and 3 days later he was at Omar-jillo, a few kilometers from Somalia. A month later he was in an undisclosed location deep in the Somali desert, legs crossed listening to Sharia teachings and the philosophy of Jihad. When they were not reading the Quran , they’d be jogging in green nylon tracksuits with their Kalashnikov 47s raised high above their heads. Grenade use and concoctions that make improvised explosive devices was the epitome of their study. And of course, hatred for the Kafirs.

Three years later

Kassim Omar lay on his bed deep in thought. He pondered his former days as Pinji. A smile almost crept into his face but he shoved it down.Allahu Akbar, God is great. He muttered remembering the dark days in the culvert at Grogon. Now his life had a purpose, a purpose more noble than those clean-as-a-bitch football jersey days. More than the Eastleigh silver rings that donned his fingers in his thug-life days. He had Allah. And it was his duty and purpose to punish the enemies of Islam. He fondly pictured the day when the cache of arms under his bed would go up in flames with the cries of infidels and enemies of Allah the most gracious,the most merciful as the great boxer Mohamed Ali once put it. He stood up and walked past the bed belonging to his lieutenant Farouk Fattah. He drew the curtain and peeked at the loud green and yellow Forward Travelers matatus wheezing past the apartment he was in. Any day now the fight would be on. In the next room his 3-man army of mujahedeens prayed and listened to motivational songs.” Tena ni mashujaa, shujaa!, tena ni mashujaa,shujaa!” The song went on and on. He couldn’t have asked the Sheik to afford him a better kill squad. The boys were ready and his lieutenant Farouk was more than capable. “Speaking of Farouk, where the hell is he?” He thought hastily grabbing one of the many phones on his desk…