A STORY

REPOST

Ten years ago, I sat for my French paper 3 KCSE paper. French paper three was sat a few days before the main exam started. Due to the scarcity of French-speaking teachers in Kenya, exams were done from a common center. Different schools used to converge at one school and sit for the paper which was mainly oral exams; listening, writing, and speaking. In our year, the exams were to be taken from Friends School Kamusinga. It was an outing of its own, nonetheless, an academic trip.

On that day, I was on the duty roaster as a classroom sweeper. Satan convinced me not to sweep a classroom in which I was not going to spend the day. Just no way. That is when drama and trouble started following me on that day. At around 8 Am, I left my half-swept classroom to go to my dormitory to prepare for the outing.

While in the bathroom, my class prefect, knocked on the door with a report from the deputy. ‘Collins Depa anakuita,’ he said.

‘For what reasons?’ I asked calmly, taking my time in the bathroom. I was taking a shower for the first time since I had taken one during prayer day, a month earlier.

‘It was your duty to sweep the class today, you didn’t!’ he commanded.

‘Man, I have a KCSE paper to prepare for. I did not have the time to sweep a class I wasn’t going to spend the day in.’ I said jokingly.

‘You will explain this to the deputy.’

‘Okay, mimi naoga!’

‘Alafa sasa?’

‘Ambia depa naoga aningoje,’ I said jokingly. While that was meant to be a joke, Kevin didn’t take it that way. He left immediately to the DP’s office. I was in the bathroom hamming peacefully when a bang on the bathroom door startled me.

‘Mjinga wewe. Acha ujinga’ was the first word that came out of my mouth.

‘Kijana unaita nani mjinga?’ the deputy thundered angrily. I had just called the deputy principal ‘mjinga.’ Unknowingly. That was like treason, homicide, terrorism, human trafficking, drug peddling and money laundering in one sentence. The judge was the deputy principal.

He clicked his lips angrily. ‘sorry, sir. I thought it was......’ I apologized.

‘You thought it was who? A student? Do we teach you to be vulgar to one another in the school?’ he cut me short. I was panicking terribly.

‘No, sir. I am sorry, sir!’ I talked faster.

‘Mjinga wewe. I sent for you, then you sent the prefect back to tell me that you are busy, then you insult me? Get out of there!’ he thundered angrily. I cursed Kevin. Why did he take the joke too far?

I had walked into hell, the only way to survive was to grab the bull by its horns. I opened the bathroom door and pretended to run out naked with soap and soap’s foam smeared all over my body. The deputy didn’t expect that move. ‘Where are you going looking that way without clothes on?’ he asked.

‘To your office, sir!’ I replied with an innocent face as if what I was about to do was socially accepted.

‘Mchawi wewe. Murogi wewe! Go back to the bathroom, clean up, and run to my office as soon as possible!’ the deputy was infuriated. He walked away with long marauding steps, talking to himself with anger. I didn’t care because I had just postponed a big beating, at least for a few more minutes or hours. I took my time in the bathroom and took even longer in the dormitory preparing for the outing.

Twenty minutes later, I walked out of the dormitory towards the deputy’s office. A lot was going through my head, ‘how am I going to receive a beating on the day when I'm supposed to be sitting for my first KCSE paper?’ NO BIG WAY! I concluded. I had to employ all the tricks in my book of treachery to avoid a beating. I knew it was going to be a heavy merciless beating.

I rushed to the slaughterhouse, as we had nicknamed the deputy’s office... He was on my case as soon as I appeared on his door. He grabbed my hand and pushed me into his office. ‘Go down!’ he thundered while groaning with rage. I stood still, unfazed, and stared daringly into his eyes.

‘Go down!’ he ordered again, louder and angrier.

‘You are not beating me today, sir!’ I objected unexpectedly. I don’t know what inspired the courage but it must have sparked from my belief that starting my KCSE on a bad foot would have negatively affected my result. The audacity to talk back to the deputy was insane. You had to carry two extra balls even to say hi to him.

‘What did you say?’ he took a labored breath like he had not heard what I had said. I used to be indisciplined sometimes, but telling on the face of the deputy that he can’t punish me was stupid. It was stupid, but stupid people are the bravest.

‘Sir, I have a KCSE paper today!’ I said, my courage growing every second.

‘And so?’ he asked. I didn’t know what to reply. ‘Go down now or I tear your skin apart!’ he said furiously.

‘You see, sir. I need the best conditions to sit for my exams. The Kitale Diocese bishop is in the square to pray for us. What will you tell him when I fall sick on the day when I am supposed to sit for my first paper? What? What will you say caused my sickness? That you tore my skin?’ I asked daringly. I even dared to take breaks between my words to look him directly into the eyes and let words sink in. What I meant was I was going to feign sickness if he lay his hands on me, an audacious and daring gamble.

He kept quiet for a moment. I knew I was winning. His silence spoke a lot. ‘You think you are smart? Right?’ he asked. I knew he was about to do something sinister, something out of this world like pull an RKO, pedigree, or spear on me. ‘Make sure that you get a Friends School Kamusinga’s school admission. Get admitted in that school, don’t step back in St. Josephs because whatever I will do to you when you come back........... get out!’ he chased me out of his office with curses and spats, his dare left pending.

My heart lit up. I sighed with ecstasy. My deputy never liked being challenged, but I had not only challenged him once but twice. I had postponed the second beating. As much as I was very happy, I knew hell would still creep in in the evening. I didn’t care anyway, of importance was that I had escaped a beating twice in the morning. Nothing was as bad as sitting for an exam on an itching ass. You could not manage an itching brain and ass at the same time.

I walked back to the dormitory and changed into my outing clothes, a kolombo trouser, sharpshooter shoes, an unofficial school shirt. Nothing on my body was a school uniform. Everything was outlawed, outing meant being outlawed. I was late by five minutes when I eventually joined the rest of the French students for the prayer. I ran to St. Joseph’s square and the first thing that the principal noticed was the clothes that I had. He stared at me in disapproval in the middle of prayers and signaled me to go back to where I was coming from. I ignored his non-verbal warning. In less than one hour, I had angered the principal and his deputy.

The bishop prayed for us, all that time, the principal’s eyes were on me like a hawk's eyes on a chick.

‘Sakwah, where are your official school uniforms? What you are dressed in is not our official school uniform. I want our students to dress in our uniform. You are representing the school, so you have to dress like all of us!’ the principal said. ‘I don’t want my students dressed like manamba’s in Kitale town!’ he added. No one liked the official school uniform ‘Go back to your dormitory and put on your school uniform. Hurry up, you are running late!’ the principal ordered.

I ran out of the school’s square garden into my dormitory. Along the way, I picked a dirty torn shirt, a torn pair of trousers, and a pair of torn, laughing, and unpolished shoes. I put them on. I metamorphosed from a ‘makanga’ look to look like a cane-cutter or someone who had resurrected from death, or a walker in The Walking Dead, I looked like a madman.

I ran back to the square in my shambles and the first thing that the principal did was to burst out into a big laughter. Everyone apart from the deputy principal laughed; my classmates, my class teacher, my French teacher, and the principal. I did not laugh back, I pulled a very serious face. ‘Sakwah, rudi uvae zile nguo ulikuwa umevaa!’ the principal said. I turned back and smiled. My gods were not sleeping on that day, they were smiling at me, I was winning all the battles. My deputy principal wanted to burst up. On a normal day, he would have slid my throat with a suspension letter after a merciless beating.

I ran back into the dormitory and dressed in my outing clothes. When I came back, everyone was ready, the six of us, the driver, and our French teacher. I walked onto the bus like a boss, with majestic steps. I could read anger in the deputy’s voice when he wished us success.

Inside the bus, I sat next to Job, a friend of mine. We used to be six French students, Job, Sammy, Olaka, Alex, Joel, and I. Job was a prefect, unlike the rest of us. School prefects had a unique school uniform. They used to dress in black trousers, white shirts and black blazers, the rest of the school used to dress in dark brown trousers, light brown shirts, and brown sweaters. I wanted every attention during that outing. I have always craved attention all the time. I asked Job if I could use his blazer for the day. ‘Sure, bro!’ he said. He was a cool guy, a man of God.

At Friends School Kamusinga, we sat for our exams successfully. French paper three consisted of three sections, listening, speaking and writing, ecrirez, parlant et ecoutez. In the evening, after the exams, we gathered together under the request of the principal of Kamusinga boys. He wanted to address all the schools around; St. Joseph’s, Lugulu girls, St. Cecilia girls, and other schools around. We assembled next to his office. He welcomed us with a short boring speech which of course I was never going to be interested in listening to. My eyes were fixedly staring at a girl from one of the girls’ schools around.

I was minding the girl’s beauty until the principal signaled me out from the group. ‘The boy dressed in a black blazer, are you from St. Joseph’s?’ he asked curiously.

‘Me?’ I asked.

‘Yea, you. Come here, don’t be scared. Just move forward.’ he beckoned. I moved forward. ‘Are you from St. Joseph’s?’ he asked again. I nodded my head.

‘Why are you dressed differently?’

‘I am a school prefect!’ I lied proudly. ‘The school’s captain!’ I added another lie. I watched my schoolmates fight to contain laughter, thank God, they didn’t burst out into a laughter that would have exposed my lies.

‘Mmhh, that is nice. A school captain taking French? Your teacher said that this is the first-class taking French?’

‘Yea!’ I replied.

‘FSK has been offering French for many years but we have never had a school captain take French. What are your names?’

‘Collins Sakwah Ongoma!’

‘Well, Sakwah, we are going to have a joint evening assembly with my boys. Will you address them on behalf of the rest of the visitors?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir!’

At the joint assembly, I moved forward after the principal invited me forward. I had never addressed so many people before, but I was unfazed.

‘Put your hands together as I welcome the school captain of St. Joseph’s- Kitale to address us on behalf of all our visitors.’ the principal addressed the student as they clicked their palms into rapturous welcoming applause. I straightened my borrowed blazer and stepped into the center of their assembly. A devastating silence followed, ears listened expectantly for my wisdom. My schoolmates were dying with laughter, I am glad I never looked their way. When I opened my mouth to talk, I never disappointed my school.

‘The principal Friends School Kamusinga, St. Joseph’s boys’ French teacher and other teachers around, the students of St. Joseph’s and the rest of students around, good evening,’ I greeted with a condescending tone. The Kamusinga minnows murmured a weak good-evening but I cared less. The Lugulu one said nothing, but who cares, who looked at them anyway?

‘It’s a privilege to finally be here. It has always been a dream of every boy in Western Kenya to attend schools like Kamusinga, Lugulu Girls, and ours, and I am happy to have stepped my foot in both,’ I paused to accommodate claps.

‘We came here to take a KCSE French exam, and it’s only fair if I switched and addressed you in French!’ Approval voices filled the air. ‘Vous nous êtes cochon puants. Ton école pue la bouse de vache,’ I said in French. I was not perfect but I said something close to that. Well, since completing my KCSE 10 years ago, the only French word I remember is Bonjour. The French students from other schools fought their laughter, while the Kamusinga French students frowned their faces in anger. The rest of the Kamusinga school applauded me, thinking that I had complimented their school. ‘You are all stingy pigs. Your school stings of cow dung,’ that’s what I told them in French, that’s what earned me heavy applause from the whole school.

I didn’t want to eat most of their time. It was the time of supper and I could see form two’s restlessly turning their faces towards their DH. I was also hungry. After the assembly, we were driven to Kimilili town to take our late lunch or early supper, whichever! Inside the hotel, our teacher, Madam, excused herself to pick a call outside. While she was still outside, a waitress approached us to take orders.

The waitress walked away with our orders just as the sugar inside the sugar-dish disappeared into our bags.

The teacher walked back into the hotel after her call. ‘Eat faster guys, the deputy is waiting for us!’ she announced. ‘He has just called!’ At that juncture, I almost lost my appetite at the mention of the deputy principal.

I had his debt, it is me he wanted back ASAP. Along our way back to school, from Kimilili to Kitale, he barely gave our French teacher’s phone to breathe. At Kamukya, he called, at Sikhendu, at Maliki, at Kiminini, At Kiungani and Kitale Airstrip, he called. Our teacher was so pissed off by his constant phone calls. She deliberately switched off her phone. Barely two minutes after switching off her phone, the school driver’s phone rang. When he picked it on the louder speaker, the DP asked, ‘Charley, mmefikisha wapi wanafunzi sai?’

When the bus drove into our school compound, a gory scene hit my eyes. A parade of well-bodied male teachers lined themselves in the Square with scary pieces of machinery dangling in their hands. In front of them, leading the parade, was our DP marching with a diabolic smile on his face.

Once on the ground, in a Chinua Achebe's style, the DP said, 'a man who swallows a full coconut has immense faith in his an*s!'

BY ANTONY MAINA

#newstory

This babe, my ex now, used to prepare the most delicious homemade meals that I have ever taken. She was a hotelier. After dating her for a few months, I started noting offbeat characters that were toxic. I ignored them because I did not want to go back to eating my poorly prepared meals. She used to do my laundry as well. Her house chore skills were impeccable. I tolerated the toxic trails because she cooked good meals, did laundry, and kept the house in order. While at it, I almost plunged myself into depression. She was a Dholuo. She used to receive late night calls from some Luo guy with whom they would chitchat in Dholuo. She always insisted that the guy was her colleague, a harmless colleague. During those long and daunting calls, I used to hover around social media to kill time or play chess online. I did not understand what they used to talk about because I don't have a grasp of the Dholuo language. One day, while she was on the call with the guy, I received a call of my own. She tried to mouth me to end the call immediately. When I did not read into her gestures and mouthings, (asking me to end the call), she ended hers instead.

Pissed off, she asked 'I asked you to end the call?' I asked why, why should end my call when we could all share the space. She claimed that the guy was her boss at one of the fancier Rusinga Island hotels. They were talking about their job. She explained that there were some clients in Nairobi whom she was supposed to organize their travel logistics to Rusinga Island. And her boss was instructing her how she was to do that.

I asked why I couldn't talk? ‘This space is enough for two phonecalls.’ I argued.

'It is disrespectful talking to my boss with background noise. Let me finish my call then you can call whomever you were talking to.’ I texted my friend that I would call him the following day. Right away, she called her boss and apologized for disrupting their phone call; at 10 PM.

I felt disrespected to my spine. I wanted to count my losses but then, the following day, Jaber came back home in the evening with a bucket of kitchen ingredients, fresh fish, and the Kitchen nitty-gritty that we watch on cooking Youtube channels. She prepared a meal fit to be served in those high-end hotels. After the meal, she said, 'by the way, that guy, the one who calls me from time to time, is the reason why I got this job. I just have to receive his calls because I don’t want to disrespect or hurt his ego. Sometimes he steers our conversations away from our job into personal things. But I have to tolerate his personal chats out of the fear of being sacked from my job. He is married with two kids. He showed interest in me but I declined his advances straight away. I don't date married men, and I can only drop my pants for the person that I love. That is you.'

Even before I reacted to her words, which I presumed she said out of guilt, she asked me, 'by the way, how was the food today?' I don't know if it was the Luhya in me or the poor cook in me, but whatever it was, my weakness for her started and ended with her luscious meals.

Bombasting my stomach friends, kina Ascaris lumbricoides, with steamy meals, were her ways of apologizing or getting back to me. Subconsciously, I ended up complimenting her 5-star-hotel-esque-dish and allowed the phone call conversation to slip without a discussion.

Days slipped by, meals became testier. One day, around a month later, we went out with friends till late into the night. We ubered back home when all of our phones were off. We plugged our phones into power and went ahead to shag before sleeping.

The following day, mid-morning, I woke up to the voices of her whimpers. She had a sullen and lugubrious face. I asked her what was up? Why was she crying? She said that Adan, the man, had called her a whore after unsuccessfully trying to find her through the phone the previous night. ‘He called me a whore and insinuated that the reason why my phone was off was that I was prostituting with my Nairobi men!’ Adan worked in those Rusinga hotels while she worked from their office in Nairobi.

Men, I wondered why a man who was supposed to be a harmless colleague would be so entitled to her availability and time to the extends of getting pissed off when he couldn’t reach her phone late into the night. I wanted to ask her that, but shootie was crying uncontrollably I had to calm her down first. Together, she and I ended up brandishing all manner of sissy names towards Adan in his absentia. I mean, which kind of a man insults a lady through a text message? ‘Ignore him, such an effeminate nincompoop,’ I insulted Alan while calming down my babe.

‘Imagine someone who is not even your boyfriend, not even your husband, someone whom you don’t owe anything, calling you a whore. Inauma, babe!’

‘Ignore him, babe. I, as your boyfriend, knows you. I know you can’t cheat on me. You are not a whore and it is the opinion of your boyfriend that matters, and not someone else’s.’ I simped with much emotional conviction that eventually calmed her down.

When Jaber was done crying after I had helped her fix her tattered self-esteem, she prepared yet another meal that left my brain in a confusing turmoil.

At that time, I knew everything was offbeat. Even if she loved me, as she adamantly purported, that man also existed in her life. I don’t know if she felt indebted to the man for offering her the job, or if she was coying on repaying the debt, or if the man was financing her. After the meal, she retaliated her earlier assertions that I was the only man that she loved and she couldn’t get wet for a man she didn’t love. ‘Mimi kaa sikupendi siezi get wet,’ you must have heard this torturous adage from Jezabel’s descendants. The whole lot of them. Even if you meet a lady at Sabina Joy, she will still tell you that she can’t sleep with someone whom she doesn’t have feelings for. She used to throw phrases of the ilk on my face. I believed her.

For the months that I had dated her, she had accustomed me to a marriage-esque lifestyle that I couldn’t fathom walking away from. I couldn’t imagine going back to my bad meals, to my poorly cleaned or not-cleaned-at-all laundry, to my unkempt bachelor house, and to the unsolicited sex served on her well endowed Luo body. Jaber used to cook for me like a chef and shag me like a whore in the bedroom. In the end, I became a captive of her exemplary culinary and coitus skills. Additionally, I couldn’t imagine the shame that would come with my friends and a few social media followers learning that my relationship had suffered the ‘mtaachana tu’ fate, especially after I had constantly flaunted her beauty on my Whatsapp status.

I was wallowing with depression, or stress maybe. I was stuck in a relationship with an emotionally manipulative partner, a partner who played a victim every time she was supposed to plead guilty or apologize.

My tipping point, the moment when ending the relationship was inevitable came a week later. My babe was back to her good moods after Adan called and apologized; this, she shamelessly reported to me. ‘He called me and apologized. I scolded him and warned him to stop acting overprotective and clingy towards me because I was not his wife.’

It was on a Thursday when Adan called again. She was cooking while talking on the phone. In the background, Prince Idah’s song, Nyar Migori, was serenading their phonecall. She was from Migori. To concentrate on her cooking, she had the call on loudspeaker.

The thing about Luo is that even if you don’t understand Dholuo, you can partially get what they are talking about. They tend to marinate their Luo sentences with an English word at end of the sentence. Something like

Jaberi jhsgh jagsus khsgagy whole weekend.

Hagtshgsb kjuyta ngssh nhgjsg Sunday evening

Khgsfygs jhgags kkgujsg airticket.

Hsgts jhuhga jiysbfn agtsfh gateaway

Aahtsgh jagsygh shftag Rusinga Island. I was particularly suspicious of this phonecall. It stank of infidelity to the high heavens. I ended up doing something so senseless and desperate that I loathed myself for doing it. I secretly recorded her phone call through my phone recorder.

The following morning, on Friday, she stuffed her katravel bag with clothes and other beauty paraphernalia and bombarded me with an ‘I am traveling to Kisumu till Sunday. The boss called me yesternight and asked me to rush to Kisumu to take care of some hotel logistics.’

Just like that, she canceled a weekend plan that we had made. Plans ang’oa? I sipped on the breakfast that she had prepared, took a bite on the state of the art samosas, and miserably said, ‘travel safely!’

That day, I paid one of my Luo friends called Otis an impromptu visit. I explained to Otis that I suspected my Jaber of having an affair with her human resource manager. I had shamelessly recorded her phonecall and wanted him to translate it for me. Otis started listening to the phonecall, each moment laughing. Occasionally, I would ask him to tell the funny bit of the call. ‘Share the jokes, Otis!’ But Otis was adamant that he was only going to translate the call at the end.

At the end of the recording, Otis pulled me to his couch and sat me down. His face had suddenly turned from gay to somber.

‘Otis, start with the jokes, share the jokes!’

‘Jasiala, there was no joke in that phonecall!’

‘But you were laughing, Otis! Why?’

‘I was laughing at you, Omera. You are the joke here, Bwana Sakwah.’

‘Otis, I don’t understand!’

‘Precisely because you are a fool. Jaber has made a fool out of you.’ Otis was visibly mad and I did not understand why. He did not explain anything to me. He scrolled down my phone and handed it back to me and said. ‘I have deleted the recording and I won’t translate it to you.’

‘Why, bro?’ I nagged. I became agitated because Otis had deleted the recording.

‘Semeji, achana na hii sister yangu atamaliza wewe. Wasichana wajaluo ata amesinda sisi wenyewe. She is not traveling to Dala on a work errand. Instead, she is going to have a weekend getaway with her boss on Rusinga Island.Ujinga kaa hii BBI iko maliza!’ He clicked his tongue out of agitation and added a few luo words that I didn’t understand.

It was a painful realization to take. I loved Jaber, so much. I treat relationships with someone from a different tribe with much skepticism, especially towards the ones who insist on using their mother-tongue while talking to their tribe's men.

Since the break-up, I started learning how to cook. I don’t want to be stuck in another toxic relationship in the future, because I am scared of cooking my own meals. Because I did not learn how to prepare simple meals when growing up. Because I thought the kitchen was a woman’s place, as society taught me. My son, if God blesses me with one, will learn how to cook and do laundry and other basic or essential house chores from a tender age.

The moral lesson of this story is: however bad a relationship is, don’t leave it empty-handed. At least I left that relationship with the content for this story.

BY TONY MAINA

#newstory

My landlord uses very unorthodox means when reminding us to pay rent in case a tenant has delayed paying his/her rent. His tactics when doing this ranges from dramatic to buffoonery, to bizarre depending on how long a tenant has delayed settling the monthly rent. Illegal is the word, I guess. When one settles his/her rent on time, he is a generous, wise, and outgoing man. However, failing to pay his house rent on time is where he draws the line between business and friendship.

Three days after moving into this house, I needed to change my shower head. I called the landlord that morning. He came over and okayed the change. He connected me to an electrician who turned out to be his eldest son.

I stay in an apartment whose landlord’s home is a stone throw away. It is a small apartment with 5 tenants. He built the rental apartment on a section of his ancestral land. Because of the close proximity of his home to his rental house, our landlord acts as our caretaker. One of his daughters cleans the apartments, and his son is our electrician. His niece is our mama fua and his uncle is our plumber.

On the day when I needed my shower head changed, I left the spare key with the landlord before leaving for my day’s errands. True to his words, when I came back, I found my shower head changed, my door closed and everything in the house intact as I had left them.

The following morning, he knocked on my door before I left for my errands. He was all smiles and friendly. Apart from returning my spare key, he also asked if I was impressed with the work done by the electrician. I was. He left, but only after reminding me to call him in case I encountered another problem in the house.

‘Sure, I will!’ I assured him. A week later, my kitchen sink blocked. We repeated the same process as before; I left my spare key with him, paid the plumber, and came back to a fixed kitchen sink in the evening. The following morning, he knocked on my door to return my spare key and ask if I was satisfied with the plumbing that was done.

Before leaving, he reminded me that his house was one of the best in the hood. He blamed the constant problems that I was experiencing on the carelessness of the previous tenant. ‘I wish tenants would take care of rental houses as if they were theirs.’ I gave him my word to take care of the house like I owned it.

Barely four days later, my bulb started flickering on and off. I needed my bulb holder fixed or replaced. At that moment, I started wondering why a house that was supposed to be the best in the hood was having constant issues.

When the landlord came, he blamed the bulb holder problems on the former tenant’s kids. ‘He had two very destructive and careless kids, 4 and 7-year-olds,’ he lamented. I grappled with understanding how 4 and 7-year-old kids had destroyed the bulb holder hanging below the ceiling.

‘You can keep the spare key. In case I need a repair in the future while I am not around, you will just come in and repair or rectify the issue.’ I said. I was getting weary of constantly having to leave my key with him. He didn’t have a problem keeping my spare key either.

I rarely spend the weekend in the house. Leaving the key with the landlord also eased the burden of staying around on days when I needed my laundry done. Simply, I would leave my laundry bucket next to my door and instruct my landlord to ask the mama fua (his niece) to clean them.

Months passed by. We had a smooth relationship. I settled my rent on time, while he played his part in making sure the house was in a good condition.

He did this by occasionally inspecting the conditions of the houses. He had a direct connection with all his tenants. For a seventy-year-old retiree, I understood his enthusiasm to be so close to his tenants.

A few weeks before my book launch, I called my landlord and informed him that I would be late with my rent. I banked on the friendship that we had developed to earn his leniency. I gave him reasons behind that; the cost of publishing and launching a book is very high in Kenya. However, I did not specify which date of the month I was going to submit my rent.

After my book launch, I had not raised enough money to pay rent by the 15th of that month. On that day, in the evening, he knocked on my door. He walked in and sat on my chair and started watching Maria on Citizen TV.

We barely exchanged words as had been our custom. There was high tension in the house, like the one that pops up when you unexpectedly meet someone that you owe money. He just watched the TV. When I offered him supper, he declined it simply by raising his finger. He hadn’t said a word beyond the pleasantries. I was edgy and nervous. I anticipated him to raise the issue of rent. I had made up my mind not to bring up the issue until he raised it. For the remainder of his stay, he said nothing. All we did was stare at the TV. From the side of my eye, I would catch him cringing, frowning, smiling, or using facial expressions concerning the scenes playing on TV.

At 9 PM, the first piece of prime-tv news to play was about how Kenya was struggling to repay its debts. He had a comment; ‘I don’t like the culture that the Kenya government is cultivating, an uncouth culture of failing to settle that what it owes to another nation. It has reached a point where the Kenyan citizens are starting to behave like its government.’ His voice was insouciant. His face was indifferent and dispassionate. That was the only thing he said during the stay. He left after the prime time news, leaving me with guilt.

I was still not able to raise house rent. I needed two or more days.

The following day, like the previous one, he paid me a visit. I was preparing supper. He sat on my couch and started watching TV.

I served him chicken, as was the previous day, he declined the meal. We sat side by side. I ate while he watched the TV. During one of the commercial breaks, he turned and started narrating to me a story.

‘In 1971, I was a university student. I had a friend who had borrowed money from me. It should have been ten shillings. One day, I paid him an impromptu visit. I found him eating chicken for supper while he still owed me a lot of money. Back in my hostel, I was eating greens like a chicken while he ate the chicken. Can you imagine that?’

I stopped chewing the chicken in my mouth out of guilt. He turned to watch the last scene of the telenovela on the TV. His face was nonchalant, calm. My conscience was unsettled. I was feeling guilty as he had read my charge sheet.

‘That was inconsiderate of your friend,’ I replied.

‘Very!’ He rose to leave again without asking for his rent or mentioning it. I looked at the chicken on my plate and likened myself to his friend who owed him money and still ate chicken. The following day, I called a friend and borrowed money. I paid the rent. It was on a Saturday. I was about to start watching a football match when he knocked on my door. He had two six-pack cans of Heineken beer. He was happy, visibly.

We drank beers as we watched the game; A Liverpool fan and I was a Manchester United fan. Into our fourth beer, he started narrating his childhood stories to inspire and motivate me to work hard. The typical stories of rags to riches. ‘I was raised in a poor family. All we had was this piece of land. At that time, this place was a village. The value of its land wouldn’t even educate a kid.’ I listened, waiting to hear the inspiring story of how he made his way into the university from a poor family. ‘None of us stepped into a classroom. Up until Nairobi started growing and people started buying land to develop its suburbs, we were poor. All these apartments stand on what used to be coffee plantations and bushes standing on pieces of land with no value.’

‘You never stepped into a classroom?’

‘Me?’ He asked with a drunken voice. ‘ Never. Ignore what I lied to you yesterday. Without telling you the lie, we wouldn’t be drinking together today, would we?’ We laughed at that.

All through December, our relationship was strong. He was aging wisely. His advice was always enriching. However, it was in January that our relationship again soured. I knew I was going to struggle to settle my January rent on time. I traveled back from shags on the 29th of December to work on a project that would materialize around the 15th of January, 10 days past the 5th of January rent submission deadline day. Before then, I had to improvise means of surviving without paying rent. I knew my landlord would be up to some antics if I delayed paying the rent.

My plan was to live in the house unnoticed till then. I used to come back at around 11 PM, past curfew when everyone was asleep. Early in the morning, on the stroke of 4 AM, I would walk unnoticed out of the apartment to spend the rest of the day elsewhere hustling.

On the 4th of January, I called him. The first few minutes of our conversation were lively and zestful. He wished me a happy new year. Our conversation was brimming with joy, humor, and laughter until I told him that I was going to be late with my rent. After that, his replies were ‘okay’, ‘mmhh’, ‘yeah’ ‘sure’ and all those one-worded replies mean replies that we receive from our crushes when we chat with them. He sounded indifferent.

To avoid situations of him visiting my house to emotionally intimidate and manipulate me into paying rent, I lied to him that I was still in shags. ‘I will settle the rent as soon as I am in Nairobi.’

‘As soon as I am in Nairobi!’ was the bait.

By the 10th, I had successfully managed to sneak in and out of the apartment unnoticed. On the morning of the 11th, he called me to ask if I was back. I lied that I would be back in four days with rent. In the evening, I came back as always to a sleepy apartment. I sneaked onto my door, stealthy opened it and walked in. Inside my house, I heard someone snoring loudly from my bed. A snoring person? In my house? I panicked. I closed the door quickly and ran out of the house wondering who could have sneaked into my house while I was away. A burglar falling asleep in my house? No. A girl? A babe that I had left my spare key with? No.

Nothing made sense. The door was not broken into.

Most of the other tenants were not around. Apart from one lady. She was my neighbor whom we had developed bad blood over her habit of playing loud music. I ran around the apartment knocking on people’s doors unsuccessfully. In the end, only one option remained. To call the landlord. We don’t have a caretaker nor a security guard.

To my shock, my landlord’s phone rang from my house. He didn’t pick it. A minute later, my door opened. In a sleepy voice, he said, ‘I am sorry I fell asleep on your bed while I was waiting for you to return. It must have been a long journey from your village today.’

‘Sure, it was!’ I muted.

‘Goodnight. Have a rest!’ He said and walked past me towards his house. I remained rooted on the ground like a statue. The spare key, I thought.

What is your landlord/caretaker's funny, interesting or annoying story?

BY ANTONY MAINA

#newstory

When my then-girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend started getting too cozy and flirty with my then-girlfriend during a trip in Naivasha, I became jittery and caused an unsettling scene. Nancy was the type of girl who traveled to quench her desire to explore the world as well as flaunt it on social media.

The number of vacations that Nancy partook every month were bothersome to my frail heart. My jealousy was inspired by the continuous sight of guys on her trip photos. And so, I complained.

‘You go out on way too many vacations, tours, road trips, or whatever you call the weekend journeys that you make every month,’ it was a complaint, a genuine one. ‘I am never comfortable especially when you go out on these trips with guys!’ I added.

‘There are girls too, but what would you know about trips when you chose to lead a boring lifestyle. It’s irritating to learn that boring people assume that everyone who goes out on group trips is out to engage in some immoral and activities.’

‘The Internet is awash with nauseating unscrupulous stories about group trips in Naivasha, Laikipikia, or whatever.’

‘I am going to take you on a trip if you don’t trust me. If you are the jealous type, and you don’t like traveling, you have no business dating someone who loves traveling like I am. Nothing out of the ordinary fun happens during our travels,’ she assured. I believed her.

Nancy believed in and loved traveling. It was her hobby. She was also gabby. I was precisely the opposite, a reserved introvert who finds comfort and beauty within the confines of my house. Our contrasting personalities made me believe that our relationship was a jackpot, one that was compatible. For relationships, experts argue that people with contrasting personalities make the best couples. And I fell prey to such expert relationship advice.

Whereas Nancy did not have a problem with my quiet nature, I was struggling to accommodate her outgoing and extroverted nature. I would get jealous when I saw her vacation photos next to boys, especially in swimsuits and bikinis.

A month after we had that argument, I never thought Nancy would actualize her threats to drag me from the house into a trip. All in the name of exposing me to what happens in those trips. Plus, one of her friends was planning to propose to his girlfriend. It was supposed to be a Valentine’s week couple outing.

‘My friend is planning to propose to his girlfriend during this year’s Valentines' Day. He has organized a trip for his friends to witness the proposal. I can’t miss this one, as well as I want to spend Valentines’ Day with you.’ I told Nancy that I was too broke to afford the expenses of a trip, especially one within a group of salaried friends.

‘Mavo, the guy who is proposing to his girlfriend, will sponsor the trip. Plus, Kamau has offered one of his safari company’s Landcruisers to take us to Naivasha for the weekend. You won’t spend a dime on the trip,’ she assured.

The famous Naivasha destination, I thought. The one in memes.

On the day of the trip, I was to link up with them at the Bypass, Thika Road. They were six, including my girl.

As I alighted from a motorbike, one guy caught my attention almost immediately. Apart from dangling car keys in his hand in a blatant show-off manner, he was also standing too close to my girlfriend.

Because I expected the trip to be a couple-trip, I expected an 8th person, a girl, to join us to balance the couple equation. That is unless one girl was practicing polyamorous like Willy Smith’s Daughter. I hugged my girl. She whispered that I was late. I was the only person they had been waiting for. I hugged her longer than usual until the car-key guy cleared his voice in what I assumed to be a clear protest against me hugging my girlfriend. I kissed her on her lips. Kama’s moved in discomfiture. Seeing how uncomfortable he was, I made sure the kiss was noisy and messy. It certainly had a casualty.

Ours was a case of hate at first sight. From the word go, I could tell that the guy did not like me, neither did I. He wore expensive outfits.

‘We are late,’ the guy said. ‘Nancy, you will sit next to the drive while the rest of us can fit in the remaining five seats.’ While the rest of the group sat next to their lovers, I was bundled at the back in a three-seater seat. The couple next to me barely stopped kissing and flirting. They were to be engaged during the trip. For a moment, I almost protested at the prospect of sitting far away from my girlfriend while the other couple’s sat next to each other. Nancy’s lack of interest to sit next to me maybe inspired my silence.

For the whole journey, I endured the sight of my girlfriend laughing at Kama’s lame jokes. Occasionally, Nancy would turn back to wink at me probably to buy my comfort. From the start of the journey, Kama played some violent music that I later came to learn its identity as Amapiano. I just wanted him to at least play some Rhumba or Tupac or Eminem. They all sung to Amapiano. When they played John Vuli Gate Nancy kneeled on her chair, raised her hands in the air, and danced like the South Africans as the rest of the lot cheered on her.

I caught Kama peep at the underside of Nancy’s bra from her cropped-top when she raised up her hands. She was happy. I was jealous that outside made her happier than my house. I realized how much I bored her with Rhumba, reading books, and cuddling. She was a wild world child that loved the thrill of the outside air.

An hour after we left Nairobi, Nancy noted that I was bored. She introduced a game where each one of us would suggest a song to be played to accommodate those of us who didn’t enjoy the kind of music that Kama was playing. Maybe to cheer me up. She became the DJ. Each one suggested a song in turn. However, Kama’s song choices were conspicuously provocative.

His first song was Same Girl - R Kelly ft Usher. And he sang loudest to the chorus ‘

Man I can't believe that

We've been messing with the

Same girl, same girl

Thought she was someone I could trust

But she's been doubling up with us

His next song was Loyal - Christ Brown ft Lil Wayne. I noted with a pinch of anger when he sang to the chorus of the song; When a rich nigga wants you, and you nigga can do nothing for you, these girls ain’t loyal.’

His choice of music was disturbing I had to withdraw from that stupid and childish game. I couldn’t stand another guy sending shades and rationing me through songs in front of my girl. I don’t know if anyone else noted his blatant move to attack me through his choice of songs. Nancy noted the same. She took control of the playlist and played some Rhumba, Eminem, and Tupac.

After about three hours, he pulled the wagon in front of a palatial building. He hooted. The gate was opened to lead into what seemed like a private residential home. It was. The owner had rented it out to them through the Airbnb arrangement, I came to learn. A three-bedroom house.

In the evening, the girls prepared supper while we the men had chitchat. Of all the topics in the world, Kama decided to introduce the topic of bitcoins.

I know nothing about bitcoins, therefore, I contributed nothing. Well, until Kama asked me what I thought about investing in bitcoins, in the presence of the girls. We were sitting at the dining table with Nancy sandwiched between Kama and me I. Nancy was quick to change the topic before I started fumbling.

After supper, they decided that we should go clubbing in a club that was a walk from the house that we had rented. Mysterious, totally unprovoked, totally unnecessary, Kama suggested that because Mavo was footing other bills, we should buy the alcohol. And he suggested a merry-go-round type of alcohol buying. Me, I, left my house with nothing else but my bag, body, and God-will-help-in-case-of-anything-else attitude.

Kama went first. He ordered 3 bottles of alcohol named after people in the Bible like Jack Daniel, Johnnie Walker, and Jose Cuervo. He also ordered 4 beers because I don’t take any other type of alcohol other than beer. The total was 9,500, I heard the waitress tell Kama. After Kama’s round, the other guy called Kenny ordered the same. I was increasingly becoming edgy. The next round was mine. I had no shilling in my pocket.

‘Check your M-Pesa account,’ Nancy whispered into my ears and perked me. She saved me from the shame that would have befallen me had I not managed to buy the alcohol. One of the girls suggested that we should carry the alcohol that I bought to drink from the house. We were getting more woozy.

I was the least drunk of the four men. Outside the club, I walked carrying the beer pack in my hand while my other hand was holding Nancy. The other three guys were carrying each a bottle of whisky or rum. The two other guys were holding their girlfriend. Each one of us was holding his girlfriend until Kama thought it was perfectly okay to hold my girlfriend’s waist. Hell broke loose. I pushed him away into the pavement and stormed off the scene.

Nancy followed me, calling my name to stop walking. ‘Let me explain, Sakwah.’ I loved her drunk voice, I wanted to stop. But a cocktail of anger and jealous emotions had overwhelmed me and cogged my thinking. As soon as I entered our bedroom, Nancy followed soon after.

‘Kama is my ex-boyfriend and a friend of my friends. He was my friend before we dated and broke up. I moved on, he hasn’t. I explained to him that I have you,’ Nancy was emotional.

‘If he can hold you in my presence, what else does he do during your trips? When I am not around?’

‘He was drunk, my love.’

‘But you guys get drunk on all your trips, don’t you?’ I asked. Nancy fumbled with her words.

‘Please, Sakwah, it is you I love. Kama is my ex, a clingy-ex.’

While having our couple argument, we heard a faint knock on the door. Then the doorknob moved and Kama was there standing on the door. He was wasted and inebriated, and physically unstable. He could barely stand upright.

‘What do you want, Kamau?’

‘I came to check if you are fine, my dear.’

‘Leave us alone, Kamau. I am talking to my boyfriend.’ The fact that she called him Kamau instead of Kama bothered as well.

‘I still…’ I moved across the bedroom and banged the door on his face. The next thing I heard was the Jack Daniel’s bottle breaking into pieces. The friends came to talk to him, whisky him away, to beg him to go back and sleep in the sitting room.

‘Why should I sleep in the sitting room when I guy who contributed nothing is sleeping in the bedroom. Mavo, I am your brother, you can’t do this…Listen to me, Mavo,’ Kama complained.

‘Elewa ni boyfriend ya Nancy,’ Mavo said. And their voices disappeared in the corridors yonder. Nancy and I had an argument, and she seemed to convince me of her love, and that she had moved on from Kama and it was Kama who had refused to move on. I believed her, and we had sex, great drunk sex.

The following morning, I woke up late and walked to the sink next to the kitchen to brush my teeth and wash my face. Nancy was in the kitchen talking to Stella, the soon-to-be engaged girl. They were discussing yesternight’s incidence. The 3 guys and 1of the girls were in the sitting room listening to Amapiano, loud. Nancy was telling Stella that she was confused while I eavesdropped on their conversation.

‘Kama is arrogant, rude, he shows off a lot and sometimes he is violent. Sakwah is calm. He just writes and reads books and listens to Rhumba. Plus, Kamaa cheats a lot, he flirts with many girls. Sakwah is good in bed.’

‘But poor. Kama can afford to take you out on trips. Before you broke up, he was about to take you Zanzibar.’

‘I am confused.’ Nancy said. I was hurt. Clearly, my girlfriend was still in love with her ex. They went on talking while I listened. I also learned that Nancy had previewed Stella about the engagement proposal while Mavo thought it would be a surprise to her. I heard then discuss how initially Stella wanted to say no to Mavo’s engagement proposal because she loved someone else. And how Nancy had convinced her to just say yes, save Mavo from embarrassment in front of his friends and call off the engagement after two weeks.

It was a sad world for me and Mavo.

I went back to my room, packed my things, prepared, and left the room ready to leave. On the corridor, I met Nancy on her way to fetch me. Breakfast was ready. She was shocked to meet me with my bag. So was everyone when I appeared in the sitting room. Kama looked regretful and contrite, or maybe that was his impassive face.

‘I am leaving, guys,’ my face was deadpan. I was deliberately expressionless. Mavo was the most shocked.

‘Why, bro? We were to leave together in the evening.’

‘I would have hanged around till evening, but the event that would have inspired my stay seems fake Afterall.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mavo asked.

‘Sakwah,’ Nancy seemed to stop me from talking.

‘Stella knows that you are planning to propose to her.’

‘She knows?’ Mavo was shocked, maybe angry at his friends. It was supposed to be a secret.

‘And she was planning to say no. But she will only say yes to save you from embarrassment. Then she will call off the engagement weeks later because she loves someone else.’ I said, and muted, ‘thank me for saving you from future embarrassments.’ I walked out of my crime scene leaving them with a muddle of different emotions.

BY ANTONY MAINA

ordSpnetos957 032882ta24,090021h2c7u11J77uug e00h7ut2gm6815n ·

#NewStory

My girlfriend believes that all executive barbershops with female barbers are fitted with massage rooms and brothels that offer their customers aftershave steamy massages and sex. One day I came back home with a scrubbed face. She asked me if I had had a cut in such a barbershop. I denied kipetero kiyesu. To acknowledge that I visited a barbershop of the ilk would have been an admission equivalent to confessing that I had visited a brothel. More often, the mention of an executive barbershop arouses moral contempt and aversion in the minds of wives and girlfriends.

Mariana and I once walked past an executive barbershop of such inclination in Ruaka. The barbershop was famed for its happy-ending after-shave services. Inside, a beautiful barber was shaving a man. The man was sitting on the executive shaving chair while the lady stood with her legs spread between the man’s laps. The lady’s V-Shaped cropped top exposed her rich cleavage too close to the man’s face. From afar, one would have thought the man’s face was downcast between her breasts while she shaved him. Mariana frowned at the sight. I coveted the sight.

‘You want a cut as well?’ Mariana asked when she caught me covetously staring at the other man.

I had read complimentary customer experience stories from men who had cuts in such barbershops, and to say that I wasn’t tempted by the desire of a woman shaving my head would be a lie. ‘Me? A cut in such a barbershop, never! These ladies cannot pull a beautiful cut like the Congolese barber who owns the Kinyozi shanty next to our apartment pulls.’

‘Are you sure you have never shaved in these kinds of barbershops?’ She asked as if she was unsatisfied by my reply.

‘Me?’ I asked her again with my hand on my chest. I bent forward, scooped a nailful of soil, and licked it, ‘Mh, I swear by the name of my dead grandfather, I have never set a foot in such a barbershop. As a matter of fact,’ I lied, ‘It is a taboo in our culture for a lady to shave a man’s head.’

As much as I had never shaved in a barbershop of the ilk, I constantly kept thoughts of the experience that would come with a woman’s sleek fingers on my head. My girlfriend dismissed the discussed but I could detect pure dissatisfaction with my reply in her tone. To prove my honesty, I picked a route that passed next to the Congolese’s kinyozi. This, to prove to her that I was a loyal customer to the Congolese Kinyozi.

We found him sitting lazily on a crudely made bench outside his shanty. As soon as he spotted me, he rose to his feet. ‘Long time no see, braza!’ he said.

I intended to prove to the disgruntled Mariana that I constantly shaved at Lokonga's kinyozi, then he welcomed me with a Long-time-no-see-braza pleasantry? ‘Are you back for a shave?’

Mariana stared at me. I am sure questions were stringing in her mind, choking her with accusations. If indeed I constantly shaved at my Congolese kinyozi, why then did he greet me with the long-time-no-see-braza phrase? I imagined her string of thoughts. She had a habit of magnifying her thoughts unnecessarily. Where I shaved was a bid deal to her. No woman would find comfort in her man shaving in a place where she perceived brothels existed.

‘Since COVID struck us, I have been working from home, braza. With limited mobility, I cut down on shaving as well,’ I explained. I had no intentions of shaving. Nonetheless, I walked into the shanty to prove a point against Mariana’s insecurities. All this came because I covetously starred at a man being shaved by a woman?

‘Long time ago, one had to queue to be shaved here. Sometimes we used to book an appointment. It is strange to find you idling. Has Covid affected your business as well?’ I asked my Congolese berbar.

‘Braza, Covid does not affect one’s growth of hair, or does it?’ He asked. From the mirror’s reflection, I spotted Mariana smile at the lameness of my question. ‘Ever since those scantily clad, lecentious and customer-snatching ladies launched the executive barbershop a few blocks from here, all my loyal male customers have since migrated to their barbershop.’ Lokonga’s voice was hurt. His cry was paged on the fact that he didn’t possess the beauty and sophisticated bodies that attracted his male customers to the ladies’ barbershop. Left alone, he would have lamented the unfairness achieved by women’s empowerment in his industry.

A short silence followed. Then he cracked the whip. ‘Before I saw you, I was thinking about you.’ He said.

‘Thinking about me?’ I wondered loudly at the inspiration behind another man thinking about me.

‘It has been a while since you visited my place. I thought you were among the perverse customers that ditched me for the ladies!’

That was a vile accusation to bring up in the presence of my girlfriend. I thought. I twitched with uneasiness. Mariana’s eye transfixed on me, I could tell through the Kinyozi’s cracked wall mirror. Our eyes met through the mirror. They awaited my defense against the accusations.

‘Augh! I have never been there. Those ladies can’t shave as beautifully as you do, man.’

‘True,’ Lokonga beamed with delight at the compliment. ‘Those bedroom after-shave services are the reasons why Adams, your neighbor, had a quarrel with his wife a week ago. I heard his wife found him in the barbershop with one of the girls gliding her breast on his back.’

Mariana’s eyes shuddered. Why was Lokonga mentioning prurient stories in the presence of my girlfriend? He was confirming Mariana's fears. She was keen on the story, her eyes agreed with what Lokonga was saying. ‘You know, Adams stopped shaving here. Out of guilt, whenever he shaved in that bedroom, he wears a mavin or a hood on his head to hide the fact that he has shaved elsewhere. He feels guilty for ditching me in favor of those voluptuous ladies. Recently, he has been wearing mavins every day.’ Lokonga, just like most barbers was jealous that one of his customers had developed a relationship with another barber. He went on lamenting and cursing the new barbershop.

On our way home, perhaps inspired by the assurance that I indeed shaved at Lokonga’s barbershop, Mariana walked while holding my hand. ‘Sometimes, just like women, barbers exhibit jealous and insecure tendencies towards their customers, just like Lokonga is jealous that Adams is now shaving elsewhere,’ I said. Mariana pulled her hand away. We walked in silence for a few seconds.

Two months later, I received an interview invitation by Pulse Kenya at their offices in Kilimani. The interview was initially scheduled at 9 AM. A friend, Ken, who works at Safaricom, offered to offer me a lift in his car to ABC Place along Waiyaki Way from where I would have taken a taxi to Pulse Kenya’s office behind Valley Arcade. On our way to ABC, I received a call from Pulse Kenya requesting if it was fine with me to push the interview to noon from 9 AM. I was fine with it. I shared with Ken the same development. He sighed. ‘I wondered how you were to attend the interview with your hair and beards.’

‘It is nothing. Authors are known for their ragged grooming.’

‘There is a barbershop in Westlands where I get really nice cuts.’ Ken offered. ‘You should sample it before the interview.’

He drove to Westlands. At the established, we were met by enviable ambiance and beauty. A barbershop and spa facade with beautiful women on the billboard enticed my eyes.

At the entrance, Ken was welcomed with the familiarity and warmth of the beautiful damsels. The smiles on their faces made me understand why Ken’s hair had mysteriously stopped growing a few months ago. For months, I had been sympathetic to him.

‘My friend has a media interview with Pulse Kenya,’ Ken said. ‘Chezeni kinyinyi!’ I was welcomed into the room. It was cozy. As soon as I sat, two of the ladies stood beside the chair. One was holding a shaving machine that did not buzz as annoyingly loud as Lokonga’s machines.

‘I am Cate,’ she said. ‘I will be your barber today.’

I cleared my voice. ‘I am Sakwah,’ I said.

‘How would you like shaved, Mr. Sakwah?’ The second girl asked, maintaining their smile. I skimmed around the room to locate those posters with celebrity pictures synonymous with my hood’s kinyozi. At Lokonga’s kinyozi, there were posters stuck on his wall with Bow Wow, Pogba, Neymar, and other celebrities’ favorite haircuts photos. With no pictures to pick from, I described how I wanted to be shaved.

‘Relax, Collins. I am about to start shaving. In case of any discomfort, let me know!’ Cate said. She sounded like an airplane attendant preparing me for a plane flight to cloud nine. Then she lay her hands on my head. Wee. The jazz music, her hands on my head, her colleagues’ chitchats created a haven with a lullaby tune. I was only awakened from it by a phone call. ‘Would you like to pick that?’ Cate asked. I pulled my phone from my pocket. It was Mariana.

‘No!’ I said. I chose to ignore her call. Picking her call in one of the places that made her more insecure was like picking her call next to my side dish.

The second lady washed my head and face after the shave.

I was asked to follow two of the ladies to another room. A massage room, just like Mariana had said. I was led to a changing chamber where I pulled my clothes off and wrapped a towel on my body. It was going down, I thought.

‘How would you like your message, Mr. Sakwah?’

‘Body to body, wet, oily, and slippery.’ I thought to say. I lay on my back and the masseuses started massaging my body. The feeling sent me to cloud-9 next to brother Ocholla. The expertise of their hands on my body felt like they were squeezing my born marrows from my borns and melting my body with mindblowing pleasure.

At the end of the shave, I felt like I had a new skin, and brain as well. Ken asked for the bill. As they processed the bill from the counter Ken said that he will pay, a little bit louder than he ought to pronounce his offer.

After my interview with Pulse Kenya, I called Mariana. I lied that she had called when I was being readied for the interview. I got home and the first thing that she noted was how bright and moisturized my face was, as well as the cut. For a lady who frequently scrubbed her face, it was easy to tell that my face had been scrubbed. Definitely, I did not buy my new face from Lokonga’s kinyozi. I would have needed to take a shower to wash away the after-shave hair off my face had I shaved at Lokonga’s kinyozi.

‘Nice shave,’ she said. ‘I see Lokonga is now scrubbing faces after the shave to attract more customers? I see.’ I treated that as a statement rather than a question. I mumbled a thank you. Mariana could barely stop staring at my face. I imagined a lot was going through her head, that overthinker. I was determined to ignore all her ‘Where I had shaved?’ questions.

In the evening, she requested that we have a walk around our hood. It was not a unique request because we used to have evening walks together. I walked to the closet to pick my hood and mavin. One, it was cold, two, just in case I met Lokonga on the way and he started behaving as f I had dumped him for a new kinyozi.

‘Babe, it is a walk. We are exercising. You don’t need a hood or a mavin,’ Mariana said.

‘It is very cold,’ I insisted on wearing the hood on my head.

MaryAnne went by changing her clothes without fussing about my insistence on covering my head. Then she dropped the guilty-inducing statement. ‘I met Adams yesterday. He was wearing a hood on his head. As soon as I saw him, I grinned. Thank God I had a mask on. He did not note that I was laughing.’

‘Why were you laughing?’ I asked.

‘I remembered when Lokonga accused Adams that he wore hoods and mavin whenever he shaved at the brothel.’ She laughed. Her laughter was more provocative more than genuine. We had spent the whole afternoon together. Why was she bringing up the story about Adams wearing a hood at a time when I was about to pull on my hood? Suddenly, I felt guilt. I decided against it.

While stepping out, she suddenly changed our usual evening route and took a road that passed next to Lokonga’s barbershop. I knew very well not to protest or ask why she had picked the lane. I prayed and hoped not to find Lokonga around.

As if fate was working against me, we found Lokonga sitting on his usual bench. When he spotted me, his eyes downcast, his shoulders dropped melancholically. He was saddened by the prospect of having lost yet another loyal customer. I wondered what I had done to deserve an insecure girlfriend and a jealousy barber.

‘Braza, nice cut.’ He said with forced cheerfulness.

‘Thanks.’ I said.

‘I would not have trimmed your beards that way. Whoever gave your beards a cut is a novice in the game.’ Lokonga said while Mariana cast her eyes on my side. That was like it, confirmation that I had not shaved at Lokonga’s barbershop.

Mariana stopped talking to me until we came back to the house. Her fears had been confirmed. Her boyfriend had shaved in the executive barbershop with a fitted brothel. I was forced to tell her the truth when she prolonged her talking protest.

‘And they scrubbed your face?’

‘Yes.’

‘And massage you?’

‘Yes.’

‘By a man or woman.’

‘Ladies.’

‘Women then. And?’

‘And what else? That was all, love. If you don’t believe, ask Ken.’

‘Who? Ken? The guy whose girlfriend left him two weeks for cheating on her?’ She paused. ‘To imagine that I wasted my energy calling you to wish you luck! You ignored my call because of why? Because of those whores?’ She asked and answered her question.

On my birthday last month, she came back home with shaving machines and face scrubbing creams. She spent a week watching Youtube videos to learn how to shave and scrub faces. And now, she shaves and scrubs my face after two weeks.