I have put off writing this piece for a very long time. I actually intended for it to be a poem. Sadly, the only poems I can conjure are about heartbreaks, unrequited love and longing for love. Like that’s all there is to write about under the sun. This too, is about love, or so I think. It depends on what you define as love. Today, I say love is happiness. Maybe tomorrow, I will change and say, love is pain. It depends on the story…lol! Ain’t love a beautiful thing😌? It filches away everything we have yet we hold it carefully, secure it like a purse. Ah, here I go again, rambling about love. Love is not what this piece is about. This piece is about happiness and pain, so yes, it is about love.
After enjoying a bag of perfectly salted crisps aboard an Orokise Rongai Sacco bus just before it took off and having to endure the hard-to-describe longing stare of the little girl seated beside me, I have finally decided to write this piece. My seatmate has been staring at me unbelievingly for the past five minutes. You must be thinking that I am mean. After all, people who let stranger’s children watch them eat without offering them some food must have black bile in place of a heart. Think of me as you please, I bought these crisps for me. Who knows, the little girl may be allergic to potatoes! I am not taking that risk. In my profession, the golden rule is to do no harm…and I am doing just that. It is a very long commute to Rongai. I may just finish this piece before we get to our destination.
His name was Christopher, but he preferred that I call him Hercules. Hercules was nothing like Hercules should be. See, the Hercules I know, rather the one I imagine in my head, has airs of mystery and is aesthetically pleasing. He is almost like how Kellan Lutz portrayed him but better, at least, with a head full of hair and a ridiculously good hairline. About hairlines…My imaginary Hercules does not have that ubiquitous East African hairline. I know you’re wondering what this East African hairline is. Well, I can tell you what it is not. After all, I have time.
The bus just passed Galleria and for those familiar with the route, this is where the traffic jam bombards you like an unexpected hug from an unfamiliar face in a crowd. Moreover, I have to endure the loudmouth behind me planning his Furahi-day as if the whole bus is invited. He has ordered a few kilos of meat at what seems to be his favorite joint. He has specifically requested for someone called Tony to cut the meat. He insisted that it has to be Tony who cuts the meat. Seemingly Tony’s meat cuts are generous. I wonder what will happen if the meat is not cut by Tony. He is also complaining about the traffic jam. I wish I could see his head. Does he have a good hairline or the East African hairline? A good hairline runs across the forehead like a perfectly manicured golf course…ah! Like the edges of a rugby ball, before taking a short detour at the sides of the head. If your hairline forms a W which resembles the writings of a child learning the alphabet…well, I won’t say more on this.
My Hercules, in real life, has a W of a hairline! Unfortunate. He is plain-looking and only his fascination with expensive red sneakers will make you notice him. He is not a warrior like Hercules of Greece. I doubt if he even knows how to hold a sword…but he doesn’t have to. Swords and warriors are things of movies and we are not in a movie…but we could be. After all, he is Hercules. Like every Omollo or Onyango you know or have heard of, my Hercules is a wordsmith. He garnishes conversation with words such as ‘discombobulated’ and ‘unscrupulous’ like parsley. And like every Omollo or Onyango you know or have heard of, his charm is endless and unrelenting as is his vocabulary of sweet nothings. There is something about being called ‘baby-na’ with the correct accent that simply gets me going.
Our engagement was platonic; sweet and innocent. There was a lot of hand-holding involved. Movie nights too; these were like our thing. You know how some go on road trips, get matching tattoos and make heart-stopping declarations of love and friendship; Hercules and I had movie nights. And he was the designated plug for crisps and popcorns. We would sit on my only couch, which he complained was only comfortable for the first five minutes, after which one would have to keep adjusting their sitting position. He would yell ‘simp behavior’ at strangers on Jack’s internet who were making gestures, romantic or otherwise, simply because these actions were not considered manly, while at the same time helping me fold my laundry. He would complain about my ‘soft and feminine’ music yet listen to it on loop. He would preach about ‘vitu mwanaume hafai kufanya’ then stage a riot if watched an episode of Vikings without him. Flirting with careless abandon, my fallen angel with principles drew the line at committing in relationships.
By now, the bus I am in is approaching Maasai Lodge and the tout is preparing to make away with Mr. Tony’s meat cuts’ money. The guy is on the phone and oblivious to the fact that he hasn’t received back the balance to his fare. He has Tony on the phone now, and is explaining how the meat should be prepared. With potatoes, he insists. Living in this part of Kenya, one has no choice but to embrace potato culture—potatoes in all forms; stewed, fried, crisps, mashed or baked. I finish my bag of potato crisps and fold the wrapping neatly, to drop it inside the bin at the door when I alight. My seatmate blinks like a lazy spotlight, not believing that I did not share my crisps. In my defense, allergies to potatoes exist!
Like my journey to Rongai, my friendship with Hercules was long and short. Long enough for me to write this story and short enough for me to finish a bag of crisps. There was a period of fanfare and movie nights; life and sounds, like the stretch from CBD to Lang’ata. Then there was silence. If you have plied the route to Rongai, you will notice how silent the bus gets from Galleria to Maasal Lodge. Then passengers start getting of the bus in droves and shortly afterwards, the bus is almost empty.
Without cause or explanation, Hercules disappeared from my life. There was silence; no flirtatious jokes, no movie nights, no baby-na.
I did see him one last time though. He came back to move his things out of the apartment complex we lived in. He still wore red expensive sneakers and confused the building manager with heavy English words. I was rested on my balcony enjoying the morning sun when he brought a minitruck to help him move. I retreated from my balcony such that he would not see me. I watched the movers load the truck with his possessions. He looked to my balcony from time to time. When I couldn’t stomach it any longer, I retreated to my house and shut the door behind me.
It was not the first time I watched a friend leave. I knew the end of this song, I had written the song 100 times before. As always, I get the strong urge to balance its sad softness with a gangster line, but I have it not within me. All I have are the chords to an unfinished romance.
Well, here is my stop; Kobil, Rongai. Till next time, Bye.