UNFINISHED MURDER

Before you read, I need to know that you are okay with my voice explaining to you the murder scene I witnessed. If you are not good with this kind of stuff, I have tried to soften my voice as much as possible, so you won’t feel like you are actually reading about a murder scene. Before you change your mind, READ the last 5 sentences.

This one is not like the ones you see in the movies, or in real life. It’s out of this world of mine but could be real in yours. I love to be adventurous: outdoorsy like in mountaineering; intellectually like in solving puzzles or the Rubik’s cube; spiritually like in manifesting and daily affirmations; financially like in experimenting with new restaurants in Westlands with my last KES1500; physically like somersaulting in my bedsitter; and emotionally like in ignoring red flags and awaiting premium tears. Now that you know how much of a risk-taker I am, you can guess something about my murder adage.


If you have never been robbed in Nairobi (I have), you’re probably not a risk-taker. You have trust issues and you don’t even have the slightest mercy to talk to a stranger. I don’t talk to those impulse strangers in the streets either, my case is different. I like friendly strangers. Those who keep a distance, but keep smiling at me. Those who seem aggressive at first, then as the Super-Metro queue progresses, they keep helping drag your suitcase till the two hours of waiting at Archives are over. Then they seem nice, by requesting to sit next to you to help hold your extra luggage because I have never seen a Supermetro with a luggage compartment. These are the kind of strangers I am attracted to. Those who make it look like they value the first impressions mantra. But I am not a fool, Nairobi thugs can take you to Kempinski, and buy your tickets to Ibiza, before robbing you and your entire village of all your generational savings. I, therefore, keep watch before my supposed “Samaritan” suddenly alights with my possessions. But I guess I’m too paranoid. He’s a good guy. He asks where I live and I just give a one-word answer. I like to keep these convos like that because I still don’t trust him.


Much time has passed and I am in love with a stranger. I am now going to speak to the stranger while you listen.


First, I want to stop dreaming about you. Because dreams with you are scary. I have resented you in reality, and even in my dreams, I don’t have the strength to talk to you. The past days have been a roller coaster. The last time I saw you I had a quick rush of anger that faded away sooner than I had felt it. I reached for my phone to call 911 but the emergency response in my country is not for emergencies. If you are in danger you better pray that your assailant went to Sunday school and is still scared of hell. So I just stood there and let all the memories, of that moment when you tore me up, replay in my head. Since that day, I have not found peace. I went through solitude that gave me anxiety attacks, anxiety poop, and anxiety vomit.


Those nights were long when I couldn’t sleep. When my heart was anxious and weary. When my throat would itch with the urge to cry. I locked myself up and let the sorrow eat me up. I let the agony torment me and consume every beautiful inch of me. I let fear scare the hell out of my bones. I let myself fight the mental battle feebly. My feet were cold at noon time, my eyes were soaked all the time and my nose was hurt by the hot fluid flowing every time. I skipped the bath because I feared the solitude in the bathroom while cold water mocked my existence. I wanted to wake up to the days when I didn’t know you. Or the days when you acted like the version of you that I created in my head.


I vividly recall the day of the supposed murder. Why are you so reckless? Why didn’t you check whether I was completely dead? Or clear the murder scene? Dispose of the body? Why did you leave your proof all over me? I still see your face in a crowd of people. And the smell of the last cologne you wore is still fresh on my breath. My phone still has all these texts that I sent you and all the unanswered calls to your phone. Every day I want to walk up to the police station and record this statement, but nobody will believe that I had just survived the hands of this serial killer. Because that is what you do. You torment your victims. You make them feel helpless even when they’re not tied up.


You first tied me up nicely. I trusted you. You gave me pleasure at first. Then more pleasure. And I was helpless, and desperate for you. And I finally fell in love with you. I knew you were the person I had been waiting for all my life. And I created this version of you that earnestly loved me to death and I fell in love with it. I didn’t know the death part was true. Even though I was tied up, you still fed me and warmed me up. You frequently called me when you ‘missed’ me. I didn’t know that you had been secretly sharpening the knife that would take my life.


On this day, you didn’t return. You returned the day that followed, with a shiny dagger. It was cold on my skin and sent a gush of fear into my entire being. A thin stream of blood formed on my neck but it was not painful. You still smiled at me and assured me that you loved me. You wiped my tears and said that everything was okay. But you didn’t return on the day that followed or the next. I got anxious, but then you returned. You apologized and I loved you even more. Then you disappeared again and returned with a stainless surgical blade. Its cutting felt like just a prickle of a thorn on the skin. You scarred my face and let the blood flow like tears. It was salty on my tongue. And then you kissed me. You took in my blood. And I trusted you with my life. I could feel that my face was destroyed, but everything I wanted was for you to be happy. To suck my blood dry, and love me like I did.


It had been a while since you came to check on me. I hadn’t seen the sunlight. My body was weak. Another week passed, and the anxiety returned. I feared that you were gone forever. The blood on my face had dried up but the tears still tasted of blood. I was agonizing in abandonment and vulnerability. I didn’t understand why you didn’t give me a bed instead of this makeshift chair that sometimes failed to adjust when I wanted to sleep. But even on the days when it adjusted, I couldn’t sleep. I kept looking for your signs at the door. I longed to see you. All the ignored phone calls brought along panic attacks. Every moment when you delayed your reply my insides crushed and I rushed to the bathroom with diarrhea again.


You then came back with more zeal. Nursed my wounds, cleaned me up, and even watched the stars with me that night. I didn’t even see you disappear. I was lost in the moment. I thought we were special. But this is who you are. A monster. The fictional monster pretends to have good intentions and lures a character into believing them before finally betraying them and preying on them. I couldn’t bring myself to the fact that you are that kind of a person. A selfish being that let me attach myself only to suddenly leave me fixed in your absence. Mourning your shadows. Creeping to get hold of your cold embrace, and your loose smile. Crawling to reach for your attention, and your warmth. I was fighting the fact that somebody could lose interest in someone in such a short time. I couldn’t believe that heartless people like you exist. You intentionally let me feel your hurt while you watched and killed me slowly.


You held the knife and slowly dipped it into my flesh, letting me feel every cut. You watched me bleed from a distance, while I begged you to rescue me. I didn’t know I was begging my assailant. I got accustomed to the feeling of pain. A feeling of someone hanging on a dying cliff. The feeling of drowning in a dark brutal storm. The feeling of losing your own soul. I can’t compare this pain with anything. It is worse than death. Dealing with death seemed easier because I knew the answers to the absence of my loved one. But here I was, feeling a loss of someone I know exists, someone who knows where to find me, but themselves don’t want to be found. . I couldn’t bring myself to believe that I was watching you slowly drift away from me. All the times I said I loved you, you didn’t respond. I was timid enough to let you in again when you enticed me once again like a lamb before it’s slaughtered. Again you made me trust you, but this time, I had some fear within. My gut was right but I didn’t want to believe it. I desperately hoped that it was wrong because I was desperate for you.


In my desperation, you came again. This time, your knife was sharper, double-edged. You aimed right at the center of my being. I lay there petrified, watching as it descended upon my flesh and dug into my heart. A red spring jetted out my chest while you repeatedly struck my existence into lifelessness. I lost my voice. I couldn’t save myself from you. I trusted that you would find the littlest warmth in your cold heart to salvage me, but I was dead to you.


And you walked right out. Trampled on me, like a rose on the ground. Left me writhing in that pool of your mess. I wanted you to say a word as if one word mattered. Yes. One word was all I wanted at that time, “bye”. I would get the assurance that my tormentor had some courtesy. The courtesy to let its victim experience a finality. A sign of an end to the dreadful days of affliction. But there you were, gone, probably to prey on another soul like mine, God forbid. But since you didn’t say a word, I keep dreading your return, to finish me completely.


My wounds are open and smelling. The cuts are deep and still bleeding. The knife trail in my chest is prominent and my colossal heart is gaping out ready to fall out because the stitches are too loose to hold it in place. My hands are still numb, right there where you tied them up on my back. My fingers are cold and grey. I cannot reach out to shoo the flies away, so I just lay here and let them have a festive feast on me. My strength is gone and I just lay here feeding on the diffused nutrients in the air that I struggle to take into my damaged lungs. All that is left in me is my voice. This voice that I raise so high to scare the flies away when they suck my wounds too deep. This voice calls you in my dreams, where you are always walking away. This voice blows cold air on my wounds when they hurt a little too much. This voice keeps me sane when I crave insanity. This voice is telling me that you are nonchalant and a psycho; and that I am just a lucky survivor in the hands of a serial murderer.

My Beholder.

I connect with your voice,

It is the music to my aching heart.

Your eyes are the ocean that my soul belongs to.

I’m pouring my heart to you because you are its owner.

You’re the element that combines with my mind to give me an overflowing river.

Your scent is like the craving of the smell of soil when it rains.

You are home.

erne.stie.

Random

When you’re here my mind’s absent,

When absent my mind’s present,

When you are warm I’m cold,

When cold I’m warm,

So real yet,

Surreal.

Some days feel just fine,

Some just numb,

Some perfect,

Some not,

Beautiful,

Blank.

Our bond is not as tight,

Our bond is just fair,

Our love is weak,

Our love is ill,

Fragile,

Frail.

You aren’t like a switch,

You aren’t off and,

You aren’t on,

You’re a lie.

Tricking,

Twisty.

I don’t want to try so hard,

I don’t want to beg for it,

I want to receive,

I want it freely,

Generously,

Genuinely.

I want to see you when I sleep,

I want to feel you flow in me,

I want to drink you,

I want you now,

Dangerously,

Drafting.

This is my last desperation,

This is my declaration,

This is my word and,

This is my calling,

Let me answer,

Let me write.

Let me write about my sobbing,

Let me scribble my own hurt,

Let me just jot my pain and,

Let me lay my fear in,

Paragraphs and in,

Parts.

Always dreamt about doing this,

Always dreamt even bigger,

Always felt it inside but,

Always didn’t act,

Regretting and,

Repenting.

I have new discoveries,

I have new power,

I have talent,

I have gifts,

To write,

To tell.

To tell stories about our escapades,

To narrate about our beliefs,

To write about our values,

To reclaim ourselves,

From improsenment,

From foreign art.

For the sake of our children and grandchildren,

For the sake of our generations,

For the sake of our climate,

For mother earth through,

Conservation and,

Construction.

Please come. Let me experience your entire complexity and learn your language. Let me out of this block

Circumstantiality

My first time typing on a MacBook. It feels like I’m in some Ivy League College in Boston taking notes in one of the most complex classes of  Computer Science. It feels like I’m writing some sort of code that I’ve been wanting to write for the longest time. It’s like I’m in a dream. I dream of existing in a virtual world, pursuing my dream career in a world-class institution using the most advanced devices on the planet. I have navigated every app I can see, tried every feature that led me to uncover the complexity and ease of this machine. It’s my first time so if I say that I am fascinated, I hope you will understand. It’s like the childhood dream of going to KICC the building on the old a-hundred Kenya shilling note I admired. I always envisioned it to be sophistication of round beams of concrete lying on top of each to form the tallest building in my country’s capital, Nairobi. The day I saw it, I was disappointed because it was such a daunting task to unleash my childhood fantasy hidden between the tallest skyscrapers. I felt like a loser. I always knew that no building would ever surpass my adored KICC. I feel the same right now, just that this is a different kind of loss. I have always wanted to use a MacBook. The ten minutes I’ve been holding it just disapproved me of all the things I ever imagined about it. It’s like ordering some crunchy chicken wings on a hungry afternoon, instead, some soggy pieces are delivered and now your appetite is gone. Were my expectations too high or is Macbook overrated? A deep feeling of it is like a combination of all the features I have experienced from all other devices. Of course, there’s that accomplished feeling of running your fingers on it for a minute, but my dream is to fly over the moon. To write beautiful pieces that warm hearts. To bless souls with a minute of escape from this world.

All these have led me to this page: the heart of all my thoughts. 

This is the place where I feel most alive. 

Everything stops. 

The world quits spinning and I see the North Pole on my right with the sun setting on the horizon right in front of me. 

I feel like the owner of this small world yet so powerful and influential. 

I see everyone adoring my craft. 

I want to touch the stars and be one, but I don’t want to let you know. 

I keep thinking that you don’t deserve to be in this space. 

That you don’t deserve to see me through my thoughts. 

But the more I keep it the more it’s burning my insides. 

You deserve to be mesmerized by my abilities, 

my prowess in bringing you to live in my thoughts. 

You deserve the graceful pieces of art that I compose once for a very long time. 

You deserve the work of my invisible brain cells. 

I know you still want to hear my MacBook story, but see, we’ve got one problem. Two. Tangentiality and circumstantiality. I finally found the words for my condition. Tangentiality refers to a disturbance in the thought process that causes the individual to relate excessive or irrelevant detail that never reaches the essential point of a conversation or the desired answer to a question. A circumstantial thought process is also known as circumstantiality. It’s when you include a lot of unnecessary and insignificant details in your conversation or writing.

I can’t choose what to write because I don’t know the point I want to pass. So I will leave this one here for my future reference of the first document I made on a MacBook. I don’t know what message I’m sending by continuously referring to the MacBook, but I guess it’s a sign of good things about to happen so hang in there. See you in my next article/poem/thoughts/piece/book/song/dance/video/podcast/talk/performance/whatever for me.

IF WE EVER FALL IN LOVE 💛

If we ever fall in love, let’s never tell the world.

The world tends to ruin beautiful things.

So let it be our little secret.🤗

If we ever fall in love, let’s always keep our promises.

I have broken way too many promises like cookies, to know that’s how relationships crumble.

If we ever fall in love, let it be everyday.

I want to learn to love you in new ways with new days.

If we ever fall in love, let’s never be scared.

I know love is a fall of trust, and I don’t want to fear falling.

I know I will be held.

If we ever fall in love, let’s sleep our problems away.

The only thing we should take to bed should be each other, nothing else.

If we fall in love, let’s cry together.

I know we’ll always laugh together and dance together,

But tears are just fears waiting to be dissolved.

If we ever fall in love, and we may never fall in love.

But if we ever do, love me with all your heart.

And if you have to, if you absolutely have to- then you can break my heart.😭💔

-Poetsphere -💢

3. Monkey Puzzle

Scientific name – Araucaria araucana

It is a prehistoric conifer with spiny scale-like leaves that evolves to wardoff hungry dinasaurs. It’s native is the Andes of Chile and Argentina

This tree is considered primitive today and Pehuenche people of Chile consider it sacred by paying tribute to it as a source food and spiritual wisdom.

It’s seeds are edible, the resin is a source of medicine while it’s wood is used for building.

In the recent past, this tree has been at the verge of extinction due to forest fires, volcanoes and logging.

#plantonetree

Save Earth

2. Bristlecone Pine

Scientific name- Pinus Longaeva

The grandfather of all trees.

In case you haven’t heard about it, Bristlecone is the oldest tree that dates 5062 years back. The most famous tree which is considered the oldest, is Methuselah. However Bristlecone is quite older and is the grandfather of the existing tree species. This tree is very rare and can only be found in dry mountains around Eastern California, Nevada and Utah.

Bristlecone Pine grows on windswept rocky spots in the mountain with very little access to water. Despite the harsh conditions, it still survives for thousands of years with amazingly gnarled and twisted branches. Every year, a thin strip of it’s bark is swept by the wind while it’s trunk if twisted as if it is a cloth being wrung out.

The tree has been used by scientists to study various climate changes many years back and us therefore an important part of climate dating. However, our generations might not get the opportunity to learn or even see such gifts of nature if such plants go extinct.

Plant one tree. It will go a long way.

1. Pau Brasil

Scientific name- Caesalpinia chinata

Do you like music? I think I should probably be asking about a violin. If you do, then you must read this!!!

Pau Brasil is an endangered species of plants with a very fascinating story but at the verge of extinction. This majestic tree is only found in Brasil. For centuries, it’s wood has been used to make the adorable musical instruments such as violins, violas and cellos. The future of this great music is at risk because the material from Pau Brasil is the only one that can make top quality strings valued for it’s flexibility, high resonance and beauty.

Can’t imagine a world without violins, Viola’s or cellos!! It’s definitely a world with no music! A world with no taste! A world that needs Pau Brasil!

Let’s remember to plant a tree on our birthdays to enable our generations celebrate more birthdays in a beautiful universe.

Fight for Pau Brasil! Fight for music! Fight for a musical world!

#Plantmorepaubrasils

Anna 💐Bella 🧸

Aunt Annabell sat on the bench next to her balcony on a Saturday morning. It was 8:00 a.m and she was enjoying the rising orange sun from the East as she watched her blooming flowers. She stretched her toes out of her flip flops before looking up at the atmosphere. The sky was clear and blue, the blue was brighter than the normal sky blue. She felt the air fresher than the ocean breeze. The wind was slow and calming. She could see colorful butterflies moving from one flower to the next. She knew ‘her summer’ was approaching. She began to crawl towards the flower vases after realizing that the flowers had multiple colors. After every blink of the eye, the flowers changed from one colour to the next in a rainbow sequence. From red to violet to orange to indigo to yellow to blue to green. The leaves were curling in different ways forming shapes that resembled horns, vases and trumpets. The green grass in her yard began to split into rectangles with crisscrossing paths like those in a tea farm. She also saw charcoal black and snow white beings alternating on each parallel side of the quadrangles in her compound.The rectangular blocks rotated in a musical manner and the black and white beings bowed and danced to it’s musical rotation.

Aunt Annabell was staring and smiling at the beauty that clothed her compound that morning, when her son Vickie came running with her mug of coffee that he had prepared. She quickly crawled over near the hedge wanting to jump over the fence. Vickie put the mug down and began to help her mum get up. ” I am anxious about what’s going to happen to me. I think I need to jump over the fence to escape the sudden feeling of insecurity.” Vickie didn’t want to leave her mom at that point and he shouted out for his dad who was in the bathroom. Mike arrived in a fraction of a second with patches and smears of lotion on his skin. They helped Annabell to sit down on her bench. Vickie reached for the coffee mug that was already pouring its contents while Mike supported my aunt’s shoulders while she sat. Annabell hadn’t talked all this time after my uncle arrived. Uncle Mike squatted in front of my aunt and cupped her chin in his palms. He looked deep into Annabell’s blue shining eyes while Vickie checked her pulse rate on her neck.

Before coming, Uncle Mike had already called her doctor and an ambulance. Annabelle had been fighting breast cancer for the past ten years and had gone through multiple surgeries and therapies. Everyday, She hoped the pain would lessen with the help of her pain killers. However, with every setting of the sun,her lumps grew fuller and sore, and her pain intensified. She longed for a break, a summer. Whenever it was sunny, she basked. When it rained she stayed in her balcony watching the beauty of the flowers she had spent many years tending. Her son and her husband had been the closest care givers for those ten years. Everyday before bed, she would perform a song on her saxophone for her two helpers as a form of gratitude. Mike would sing along with her while most of the times Vickie would sob at the solemn tunes. He silently wished that her mom would one day be set free from the chains of pain and the agonizing entanglement of her cheerful soul and heart.

In the ambulance, Annabelle was all smiles and laughter as she explained to her husband and her son about the beautiful compound she had seen. She was pleased with the playing music and dancing of the angelic beings. She had found the sequencial changing of colours in her flower bed breathtaking. Mike, on her right, only smiled in desperation while Vickie, on her left couldn’t control his tears. The nurse kept on checking Annabell’s temperature and pulse rate. When they finally got into the main road leading to the Cancer Center, Annabell’s breathing intensified and her pulse rate increased. She started to cough in an uncontrollable style. The nurse attended to Annabell while her two care givers stuck with her every moment. Mike rubbed his palm on her forehead and ran his fingers through her hair while Vickie massaged her cold fingers. With the soothing of her two angels by her side, Annabell slowly got better and opened her eyes. She smiled at her husband and told him of how much she loved him. She kissed her son on his forehead and then looked back at his husband. She noticed the patches and smears of lotion on his skin and began to spread them rhythmically with her numb fingers. Mike only stared at her beautiful wife as he felt the most comforting hands on his skin. He was still the most handsome man she had ever met even at her last breathing. Annabell spread her arms to the back of her two care givers and stretched out her legs, she recited her last prayers and said goodbye to her two lovers. Mike and Vickie had their last moment with Annabell. The nurse sobbed pitifully as she asked the driver to divert from the hospital lane to the mortuary lane.

Aunt Annabell had lived to tend flowers in her home, sing and dance in the choir, and always visited the sick in hospital and homes. Her last moments while alive were all colored by the works she had lived to do.

Vickie has told me the story for the tenth time now and I still can’t help thinking about the changing colours of flowers, the dancing angels, the paths crisscrossing her compound and the musical rotation of the rectangular blocks of grass. Is this how dying feels? Aunt Annabell was smiling and laughing at the pleasure of the moments she was experiencing. Despite her pain and sores, Aunt Annabell could still afford to spread lotion patches on her darling husband while in her death bed. Is this what we call true love? Being there for our loved ones even when we know we won’t live long? Is it doing good even when we don’t know whether we have a chance to receive it back? Is it telling the people we treasure that we love them even in our lowest moments? Is it? Is love changing our diet for the sake of our loved ones because they can no longer take some recipes? I feel that love is having to adjust our schedules and routines to accommodate the needs of our family and friends. It is the act of creating time to share memorable moments with those we love. It is giving all we can for the advantage of the other person. It is knowing that we don’t have a long time to live and therefore doing good to others. It is being good in all situations. It is appreciating all the small deeds done with love.

On her wedding day, Aunt Annabell cried at the altar. When she took the vows, she swore to love in rain and in sunshine till death did them apart. See even in her death bed, she loved. On her burial, the family members wore coloured dresses and shirts. Because she believed in blooming in the gloom. A lot of flowers were bought and her favorite tunes were constantly played on the burial ceremony. In their tributes, every one attested that Annabell lived every moment of her life. In her remembrance, friends and family members expanded her flower garden and started a giveback organization to help those in need. Every one would like her love to continue for many years even after her death

The Covid 19 pandemic has claimed hundreds and thousands of souls and left millions as orphans, widows, widowers, and even some have lost all their family members. Millions of others are turning in their hospital beds listening to their whistling noses and vibrating ribs. Some are lucky to be with their loved ones who are taking care of them. Others haven’t been affected by the pandemic directly through a friend or a relative, but are suffering from its effects. Most of the economies are declining with millions of people going jobless. Travel restrictions are jeopardizing vital activities such as education, health and religion. Frustrations from the pandemic and the accompanying rules and regulations are posing huge obstacles in our daily lives.

Despite all the challenges, we shouldn’t forget to be good.
To love.
To care.
To cherish.
To share.
To pray.
To play.

It’s been two years now since Aunt Annabell rested. I wasn’t able to attend her burial because of school restrictions. However, I learnt of it one day after she died. I was a computer student at school and therefore was among the few who were lucky to frequently access the internet connection. The first site I would login into was my Facebook page and send a message to my family. On this particular day, however, no one was online at that moment and no one had responded to my previous day’s messages. I decided to go through a few stories and posts in the feed.

Flowers.
Flowers.
Lots.
Lots of flowers with Aunt Annabell’s pretty face beside each flower with RIP messages below. I double clicked the close button on my browser and short pressed the power button of the system unit before leaving the computer lab panting and heaving. I sat on my bed the whole evening looking at the picture in my hands. It was the Christmas after Class eight when aunt Annabell had invited us to his place and had bought my sister and I beautiful flowered dresses and matching shoes. Every moment with Aunt Annabell flashed through my mind that evening leaving a heavy sob in my throat. I remembered the many times Aunt Annabell brought me chicken nuggets on school visiting days and how she wanted me to excel and become a doctor. After consulting with the school administration, an aunt wasn’t considered to be a close relative if at all I was living with my parents. Therefore, that meant that I couldn’t attend the burial ceremony. This was probably one of my lowest moments in my life.

When I went home,Vickie presented the burial album and videos. I cried at every narration of the last moments of my aunt. I cried at how desperate Vickie looked. I wanted to to tell him that it was okay but I knew it wasn’t okay. He had loved her mum and everytime we met, I assured him that she was going to be fine. Now that she was no more, I didn’t know what tell him. At one point I felt that I was rapturing the already healing wounds of loss since it was one month after her demise. However, the red soil was still fresh and Vickie helped me plant more flowers on Annabell’s resting place. Vickie spends most of the time playing the saxophone his mom left him. His favorite hymn is “It is well with my soul” and “Baadaye” by Amos and Josh.

Annabell’s death is just one analogy of how millions of people lose their lives every year around the world. Many of them have died recently from the pandemic. The misery that disturbs me every day is the last moments of those dying with those near them, the desperation of those who died alone recounting on the good moments they had in their lives with no one beside them, the comfort and love felt by those who died with someone holding their hands and caressing their face like Aunt Annabell and the peace of those who died in their sleep, sleeping and never waking up. Sleeping forever.

Baringo Honey 🍯

I don’t know where to start. A cliche right? My answer is yes too. I’m confused. Torn between choosing to type directly on word press or on a word document. I’m sorry to interrupt your reading, I have to serve a customer. He is a short man, in a blue face mask with white elastic straps. I apologize because that is the only thing I noted while trying to focus on his eyes. Part of customer service skills, I recall. He is one of those customers who only want to ask about the price of a product and even start bargaining, but will end the conversation with ” I will come tomorrow, lakini unitengenezee hiyo Bei”. Well, I have done that a lot of times in those secondhand clothing stalls in Githurai 45. I now feel what those stall owners feel. It’s 09:43 a.m, and I haven’t even sold a single tube. A tube? Yes a metal tube. This is my third day at a metal workshop and welding store in a lonely town centre hundreds of kilometres away from the city. I keep looking at the back of the hard cover note book where the stall owner has jotted down the prices and sizes of every metal and sheet. 

Like every one else, the Kenyan education system taught us to measure in metres, centimetres and kilometres, but here every measurement is in inches, feet and gauges. That means I have to frequently convert the measurements here and there. Sounds boring, right? You didn’t expect that I would bring some bit of Math or some random stuff about metal tubes? I didn’t plan to talk about it either. I wanted to write about some beautiful love story. Love story? Yes. Am I reading your mind? Probably not. Do you notice some grammar errors? Well,you should. Do you consider them grammar or punctuation mistakes? Hmmm. Don’t. Don’t go back to check. I am just about to start. 

He is the second customer of the day, at 1:13 p.m. I hope you understand how boring my day is. His motorcycle stops by the door of “Baringo Honey 🍯” the name of my store. He is wearing a black face mask, darker than his melanin endowed shiny skin. His well set deep black eyes are shining in front of his milk white sclera. He is focused on the items on display, but my gaze is on him. As he comes closer, I notice that he is a bodaboda rider, an inflated rugged bumpy black winter jacket with a conical hood which has grey fluffy edges. “Good afternoon.” He adjusts his face mask to speak to me. I marvel at the neatly lying moustache. It is wet from the warmth of breathing in the mask. If it’s not for the face mask, I would have mistaken it for the “gel” that “my baby hair” gifted friends use. His lips are full, in between red and pink. The side buns are perfectly agreeing with the beard cascading down his chin. His barber must have taken a century to do it. Hiking up the slope of his cheeks towards the temple, I can’t help admiring the almond shaped forehead with the well bordered hairline. I am in love with his thick arc shaped eye brows, prettier than mine. Down the valley between his onyx eyes, the skillfully crafted straight nose is perfectly placed. Suddenly, the rough feel of his gloved fingers touch my hand. He has noticed my stare after failing to answer his greeting. 

I look away quickly and then slowly looks back at him with embarrassment. His eyes are on me. I am nervous and my heart is beating faster than on June 6. I don’t know how the words “How are you Star” escape my mouth but I am sure that I wanted to say ” How are you Sir”. To my surprise, he smiles and responds, “Fine thank you honey”. The last part is what stops my pulse for a second, before I smile again at the art and sequence of his snow white dentition. I am trying to figure out how to explain to him that the name of the store “Baringo Honey 🍯” has nothing to do with me, but he holds my hand more firmly. “I know you’re new here. This store used to sell honey. Sweet honey. I was a loyal customer. The honey would run out and I would come back for more. However, today I haven’t come for the temporary honey. Not the short-lived sweetness anymore. I have come for an immortal purpose. My goal is to get the unending taste. The taste of the imperishable honey. The honey whose sweetness will last forever and if I don’t last forever it’s taste will.” 

For two minutes, I have been listening to the most beautiful vocal chords in my life. His words are still echoing in my sub conscious mind and my heart is racing. I can feel the intensity of his eyes on me. I am staring at the grip on my wrist and I notice that my fingers are shaking. I am hesitant to look up lest our eyes meet. His hands move from my wrist to my elbow. I freeze. I can feel his warm mint breath above my forehead. He suddenly removes his hand from me and takes off his gloves. Before, I can jerk from him, he cups my chin in his warm spongy palms and moves his face closer to mine. I smile at him and he smiles back. I fake a whisper and he moves closer. This time around, I can feel his evenly trimmed beard making contact with my lips. I close my eyes and start to imagine of all the possibilities of the thoughts between us. I can feel his breathing, deep but long and seqeunced. I try to open my eyes but I won’t let them open fully. I want to peep through the gaps between my eyelashes but tears block every possibility of vision beyond my eyelids. 

I stare into the dark imagination of a short dark and handsome man wanting to embrace me. I start to feel a hot flow over my cheeks and then a soothing wipe down the trail.

“I am Kim”.

“Kim?”

“Yes.”

“Kimutai? Kimberly? Or Kimani?”

Kim laughs. “I am Kim, short form for Keee-money”.

He says out his name in a strong Kikuyu accent and I can’t control my laughter. My laughter isn’t because of the way he says it, but because my previous thought and his physical attributes that perfectly suited Kimutai especially because of his white shining dentition. Before I can open my eyes wide enough, Kimani quickly pulls away and drops on the floor, blood oozing from his temple. My body freezes in position. I can see a dark figure on my right from the corner of my eye. 

“Maintain your lane” A roaring voice breaks the silence in the air and starts coming towards my direction. Blood is already forming a stream on the rough corridor and Kim is silent but breathing heavily. I move forwards to help Kim but the stranger is fast enough to block my way. I stand in fear, arms wrapped across my shoulders. The stranger hasn’t looked at me for a second.

“Somebody help!” I shout in my throat but words fail to escape my lips. My lips are trembling and tears are welling up my eyes. A strong wind blows from the opposite side of the store clogging my teary eyes with dust and mud. It is at this point that I recall that I hadn’t prayed in the morning. I murmur a few words and hope for salvation.

“Kimani!”

I am not sure of how fast God answers prayers but I can’t contain my excitement at the vibration of my vocal chords. The stranger holding his weapon high ready to finish Kim looks at me. It is worth noting that he hadn’t looked at me the whole time. He lowers his weapon and slowly scrutinizes my presence. My body is frail and shaky. The stranger then lifts his eyes to look at the name of the store and then peeps to look at the merchandise.

From the way he is slowly shaking his head, and the curious eyes, I can tell that he has made a mistake.

He was wrong.

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