BY ANTONY MAINA

oeodrstnSp8llhgl25 ghc31862a5fmi4tac0808yfJui9m1 f2lg922t,i0 ·

#newstory

A very beautiful lady entered the same shuttle that I was to travel with. Instantly, I imagined the possibilities that sitting next to her for a long-distance journey would present me. Maybe I would have convinced her to date me, or get her number. 8 hours sitting together promised a lot. To actualize the possibilities, I increased my pace to ensure that no one else sat next to her.

Just as I increased my pace, another man appeared from the opposite direction. His destination was the same shuttle that I was headed to. I imagined him having spotted the woman and having the same ambitions as mine. Rattled, I increased my pace again. Luckily, the man was walking sluggishly, like he was being forced to travel. I took advantage of his sluggishness and squeezed myself just ahead of him

‘Where would you like to sit?’ the tout asked me. I quickly peeped through the shuttle’s windows and spotted where she was sitting.

‘3B,’ I said, delighted. She was occupying seat 3A.

Elated, I bounced towards the door. Before I boarded the shuttle, the tout called me back. Had I paid less fare? I wondered. I walked back, angry that he was wasting the precious time that I would spend wooing the girl.

‘This man,’ the tout said while pointing towards the man whose life seemed to be succumbing to his mid-life crisis, ‘ is requesting if you can exchange your seat with his? He doesn’t like sitting by the window.’

‘Is he mad or what?’ I muted to myself, turned, and decided to social distance myself away from them. I wondered why such a man would want to sit next to such a beautiful girl? What chance did he stand winning the lady’s attention?

At the shuttle’s door, I was served with a rude shock. The lady had a kid on her lap. My heart ached slightly. She was alone, though, and that is what mattered.

The man’s laborious breathing behind me forced me into the shuttle. The lady moved slightly and pulled her baby firmly on her lap to create more room for me.

We held our gaze for a moment. Her eyes were restless, her lips were full-blown like a mature mushroom, her hair was neatly knitted into thick braids that resembled a black rope, and her baby hair curled on her face luxuriously.

She pouted her lips to offer me a warm grin, the one that people who are going to spend the better part of the day together exchange. I muted a “Thank You”.

Shortly after, the man, whose jacked smelled like burning chicken feathers, sat on his seat. His seat was on the same row as ours but separated by the alley.

His face looked like he wished to swallow me alive. I ignored him and readied myself to officially announce myself to the queen. To gain the mother’s trust, I winked at her kid. The kid responded by smiling. I made other funny facial expressions that earned a wicked smile from the baby.

I remembered a piece of advice I once received from a Wiseman. That the road to a mother’s heart is through the happiness of her child. The kid kept on smiling wickedly, and I thought I was doing it right. I made different faces to ensure that he laughed more and more. However, the harder I made the funny facial expressions, the more I realized that the kid was not amused by my face. I followed the gaze of his eyes, which led me to the man’s face.

Indeed, his face was funny. His forehead resembled the appearance of SpongeBob SquarePants characters. His nose was large and ugly as the character of Patrick Star of SpongeBob SquarePants. He made me understand why animation creators gave animations ugly virtual bodies.

To win over the baby’s attention, I downloaded the Baby shark doo doo dooo song. Immediately, the baby got baited and started making dancing moves to the songs. The man frowned. His hairline receded deeper onto his head, giving him a look of a low-budget Pres. Mwai Kibaki.

I wondered why he didn’t travel with his wife if he desired to sit and have the attention of a woman. When I turned my attention back to the kids, he was singing along the song. He even gestured to his mother that he wanted to sit on my lap to watch the video as well.

‘That is his favorite cartoon,’ the lady said. The intonation of her voice made me wonder if the god that gave her such a beautiful voice is the same God that gave my ex-girlfriend a voice that made her sound like Henry Desagu. The boy moved onto my laps, took my phone, and started watching the baby shark video.

The shuttle was just one passenger away from leaving. I was taking my time, just waiting for the appropriate time to announce my intention to the beauty. The man bought a newspaper and started reading it. Meanwhile, I initiated my initiative to build a bridge to her heart. While the baby watched the video, I readied myself to introduce myself. When I turned to say, ‘hi, I am Sakwah’, I lost my confidence and realized how hard it was to initiate a chat with a lady in a shuttle or a matatu. I postponed the initiative.

At around 8 AM, we left the shuttle’s stage. The baby fell asleep on my lap. To earn more admiration from the mother, I pulled off my trench coat and wrapped it around the baby to shield him from the ravaging Nairobi’s morning breeze. At the expense of winning the mum’s attention, I risked contracting pneumonia. The lady appreciated my gesture by muting a “Thank You”.

The shuttle moved like a turtle because of the morning traffic jam. In the jam, my head was burdened with thoughts about how to keep the lady engaged with endless talks. I wondered why suddenly I had lost the courage to talk to a woman. I kept on encouraging myself that I was not intimidated by her looks. Then an idea hit me; someone must have written a blog or an article on how to strike a lasting conversation with a woman in a bus. The lady was scrolling on her phone.

I skimmed through several blogs on the topic. About thirty minutes later, the shuttle had moved as far as the Koja rounder-about. At that point, I thought I had gained enough knowledge and courage to approach her. I created scenarios inside my head on how the conversation was going to play out.

Brain Cell 1: Hi (smile), I am Sakwah Ongoma, and you? What is your name?’ Most of the blogs had advised to keep the conversation simple and to start with a greeting and the name. I turned to face her eventually. I met her eyes staring at me as if she was anticipating that move. Her eyes were sharp, I felt intimidated but quickly shrugged the fear off to talk to her. I pouted my lips to finally make my move.

‘By the way, it is very dangerous to operate your phone in Nairobi while sitting by the window of a matatu. Haven’t you watched the famous videos that captured Nairobi’s phone snatchers on camera?’

She muted another “Thank you” and hid her phone in one of her pockets. I lost a great chance to introduce myself. I rued the missed chance. I went back to the drawing board to gain my courage again.

One of my arms was hurting because the kid’s head was resting on it. I endured the weight of the baby just to impress the mother. After we left Nairobi into Kiambu county, she pulled out her phone and started watching TikTok videos. Meanwhile, I was burdened by the weight of a sleeping baby on my arms and building my composure before attempting to introduce myself again.

At Kimende, Limuru, one of the coldest places in Kenya, I decided to strike again. My mind was brimming with courage. On this occasion, I intended to go hard with my introduction.

‘Hi. I am Sakwah Ongoma. Do you love reading books? I am a published author. I am an author like Ngugi Wa Thiong’o with two titles under my name.’ I thought this introduction was going to move her head.

I cocked my head on her side. She stopped scrolling on her phone and faced me as if she was anticipating me to say something.

‘Say it, tell her your name,’ my brain rallied me on.

‘I have been wondering, why is Kiminde this cold? How do people who stay around Kimende, Limuru, and Lari survive the freezing all year long?’ I felt my brains click and curse at my cowardice antics.

‘I guess they are used to it. They have an extra layer of skin to protect them from the cold, probably,’ she shrugged.

‘You have her attention, now introduce yourself, you coward,’ my brain scolded me. When I opened my lips to speak again, her attention was back on TikTok, smiling at a funny clip. Her attention had crawled away from me, again.

I cocked my head on the man’s side. He quickly lowered his eyes to pretend like he was busy reading his newspaper. He must have been watching me struggle to introduce myself to the beautiful girl. He had a wicked smile on his face. Were my woes amusing to him, or was he reading an amusing article in the newspaper?

The shuttle moved slower than I would have wished. My mind was in turmoil. When the baby woke up, he grabbed my phone to continue watching his video. He started crying when I tried to resist. Such an entitled little spoiled brat! I was forced to play the baby shark song for a long time until my phone went off.

I resigned myself to my cowardly spot. Sometimes as a man, you have to accept defeat. Going head-on collision to introduce yourself to a lady to impress her is not as easy as people think. But, there was one way, get her number.

For the better part of the journey, I conceived means of getting her number. Eventually, an idea struck me.

‘I would like to call someone, but my phone is off,’ I told the woman. ‘Can I use your phone, please?’ My idea was to use her phone to call my phone. On reaching home, I would have retrieved her number from the ‘I tried to call you!’ text from her number.

While the lady was reaching for her purse to give me her phone, the man decided to kill my vibe. ‘Here,’ he said with an extended hand. ‘You can use mine. I have storo bonus talk time from Safaricom.’ His phone was already in my hands before he was done spelling out his offer. I called my number. It was off.

‘He is off. Thanks!’ I handed him back his phone. My face was lugubrious at that time. I wanted to swallow him for taking away that chance. Because of why was he doing this to me? Is it because I denied him the chance to sit next to the lady?

When I looked at the man, he had another devilish smile on his face. He was enjoying my agony.

Still, I did not give up. I thought I still had one chance to get her number. When we touched down at our destination, I felt pressed. While everyone was retrieving their belonging from the shuttle, I left my suitcase with the lady. I rushed to the shuttle’s office washrooms to relieve myself. I conceived another idea on how to ask for her number.

When I came back from the washroom, I found the lady in the company of another woman. She had come to pick the lady. As I walked back, I eavesdropped on them talking.

‘Let us go, what are you waiting for?’

‘Some guy rushed to the washrooms. He left me to look after his suitcase.’

‘A guy? Good-looking?’ her new company asked.

‘That depends on a lot of things.’ My knees weakened at this point. I tiptoed and hid behind the shuttle. Shame became my companion.

‘Why are you helping him then?’

‘He helped me with Kylian. It is fatiguing to travel with the baby on my laps for all those hours.’

‘I see. Is he hitting on you?’ The friend asked.

‘He seemed to be interested. I saw him googling some stuff on his phone. He read some blogs on how to pick on a woman you’ve met in a matatu. I expected him to make a move, but he didn’t.’

Her new companion started laughing. Hysterically. ‘He googled what?’ The beautiful girl joined her in her laughter. I was in the mud, swimming in their unforgiving ridicule. I lacked the courage to face them. Eventually, they got tired from waiting. They left my suitcase with the shuttle’s driver.

I charged my phone when I got home. I received two messages from a new number. One of them was an ‘I tried to call you…’ The next text was provocative and diabolic.

‘Hello, son. You are home yet, or you still don’t have the courage to go home yet? Coward. You should have asked for tips on how to approach a woman in a matatu instead of googling for the same.’ The man chose violence.

BOY CHILD CHRONICLES BY ANTONY MAINA

I will never forget about Nyawera, my ex. I will never forget how she baited me into her trap, and dumped me after showing me love in ways that I have never known before. Why did she dump me? Because of spices, kitchen spices. I am yet to find a flimsier or bizarre reason to be dumped.

Nyawera loved cooking. She was a hotelier. She used her impeccable culinary arts skills, her beauty and bediminton skills to charm her way into my heart.

Our relationship was smooth until Nyawera was transferred from Nairobi to work in a hotel in Nakuru. She moved towns. This significantly reduced the amount of times that we spent together. Suddenly, she stopped trusting me. She started suspecting that I had a side chick that was quenching the thirst of my throat, the hunger of my stomach and the desires of my loin, just as she used to.

I denied the accusations with the vehement of a cheating husband. Still, she did not trust me. The thing was, I was cheating on her. But I was cleaver enough to cover my tracks. I was smart about it. Nyawera used to visit every last weekend of every month. One weekend, she visited. As usual. We left my house to go shopping at Carrifour at the Two Rivers Mall. While shopping, she came across a spice that got her attention.

'Ooh God, I have been searching for this spice for like all my life,' she said and picked two bottles, one for my house, the other for her house in Nakuru.

'Have you ever used this spice?'

'No.' I said. 'Why are you asking when you know I only use the spices from Mama Mboga' s shop. Onions, peppers, tomatoes, garlics etc. I don't use powdered or liquid spices from supermarkets. You are my Spicy girl, my Victoria Beckham," I teased her. She smiled.

Later that evening, she disappeared into the kitchen and came back with one of the most sumptuous meals that I have ever taken. I presumed she had used the spice to prepare the meal.

She left on Monday and I didn't see her until after a month, as usual.

When she was on her way from Nakuru to Ruaka, she sent me a list of things she wanted me to buy. She was going to arrive late in the evening. She wanted me to buy chicken, onions, tomatoes, garlics and other groceries. She arrived around 7 PM, took a shower, made wild love to me and disappeared into the kitchen to prepare supper. Man, I have never loved a woman as I loved her. She was organized. She loved order, and that is what she brought into my life. I envisioned a life of order next to her for the rest of my life.

Thirty minutes after disappearing into the kitchen, she called my name. I was in the sitting room watching a late evening EPL game.

'Babe." He voice was calm. She used to call me into the kitchen when she wanted company. She loved sharing stories and mushene while in the kitchen. Her kitchen muchene was fire than Abel Mutua's stories. An EPL game was playing on the TV. She never pulled me away from the TV during such times.

'Yes,' I responded and joined her in the kitchen.

'Where is the spice that we bought from Carrifour?'

'It must be on one of the kitchen cabinets. I have never used it since you left. It must be where you left it.' I said.

'Help me get it please,' she requested. She wasn't short. This request was strange. I walked to the cabinets and found the spice on one of the top kitchen cabinets, where she had left it. Without looking at it, I gave it to her and walked back into the sitting room. I was very eager to go back to watching the game.

Barely had I made myself more comfortable on the coach than she called my name from the kitchen again. She didn't call me babe. She called me by my names, Sakwah. It was strange because she never called me anything else other than babe or sweetheart.

I walked into the kitchen. She was standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding the spice bottle on her hand while the other hand was hoisted at akimbo. She flashed a brief smile on her face. The flash, was a smile that spelled trouble.

'Who used this spice?' She asked.

'What do you mean?'

'I used only one table spoon of this spice, once. Look at it now, three quarters of it has been used. Meaning it has been used several times. But by whom?' She looked straight into my eyes with glaring eyes. I did not have an answer.

'Sakwah, I asked you a question. Who has been using this spice to cook in this house?'

'I... I...' I fumbled.

'It is not you. You don't use these kind of spices.' Of course it was not me.

'I... I have been watching Dennis Ombachi's cooking videos...' I tried to lie.

'Liar. Liar. You've already said that you have never used the spice since I left. Who has been using it?'

I stood rooted to the spot. I was stunned. I tried to figure out which one amongst the girls had used the spice. Definitely, it wasn't Njeri. Because Njeri cooks with onions, tomatoes, gerlic, carrots and a lot of water.

When an answer was not forthcoming from me, Nyawera dumped the bottle into the sink. She stormed past me, and walked into the bedroom. She left me in the sitting room with a red face, looking as guilty as charged.

Two minutes later, she came out of the bedroom with her bag already packed. I was still standing in the kitchen. She was on the phone with her sister, 'come and pick me up from Sakwah' s place!' She told her sister.

I tried to speak, to tell her the lies that I had built, but she shushed me up. She did not want to hear me. She did not want to speak to me. She did not even say, "we are done."

When her sister parked her car outside our apartment, she opened the door and walked out of my house, and my life. I was sad. I became lugubrious. I tried to call her, but her phone did not connect. Her WhatsApp profile picture disappeared forever. She, disappeared forever.

I get PTSD every time I come across that particular spice on supermarket shelves. It always brings back the memories of the smartest woman that I lost.

The moral of this story is, dear ladies, if you find the rare spices, the ones we watch on cooking channels, inside the kitchen cabinet of our houses, don't use them unless you are the one who bought them. They belong to the woman of the house. Please, stick to using onions and tomatoes that we can easily replace.

BY ANTONY MAINA

It is 5 PM, today. I walk into a club in Thika to grab one and two beers before MKU students turn it into an unruly place. Almost immediately, a man in his 40s or 50s or thereabouts walks in after me.

He takes the next table. The music is low and slow. A few people around, mainly, the people of his age. The one whose eardrums can't withstand the rumbles of Amapiano and Afrobeats. The DJ is playing Rhumba.

I order two beers, Tusker, the man orders 2 beers, Guinness. And soon, we embark on an unprovoked and silent competition to see who finishes his beer ahead of the other. Occasionally, we take breaks to talk about politics, about football and we even discuss the size of the waitresses' bums, and their cleavages.

We finish our two beers almost at the same time, and orders two more, each with our favorite brand. There is no one as loyal as a beer lover to the brand of the beer that they love.

We have 2 rounds, and at that time, around 7:30, two sassy, skimpily dressed ladies walk into the club. They are perhaps a reminder to the old folks that their time in the club has expired.

Our eyes follow their footsteps until they sit at a table not far away. On my table, there is an empty bottle, and another half full beer. On the man's table, there is an empty bottle and another half empty beer.

The two girls orders wine. And as they sip, they turn their faces to look at our table. I smile at them. They smile back and even one of them is generous enough to wave at me.

The man smiles at them, they look away in protest of his old age, his missing teeth, white hair, tired forehead that has baby wrinkles.

I feel proud because they loved my youthfulness, my hairstyle, the sleekness of my shirt and the trends of my boots.

We go back to drinking beer. We gulp it down. It is a competition, a silent one. We empty our bottles almost at the same time and beckon for the waitress.

She dashes to our table and leans next to me first. 'The same as before, two warm Tusker Lagers!' I say. She nods and moves to the next table.

There, for the first time, I watch as she reaches the caps of her bra to pull out a paper, and a pen from the belt of her trouser. I wonder, is she going to write down two Guinness beers. Is her memory that bad that she needs a paper and a pen to remember 'two Guiness'?

She disappears into the bar of the club. She reappears with my two beers. I feel happy, jolly like a baby. I am winning again because I am being served ahead of him. The ladies and I exchange glances. I convince myself that it is just a matter of time before they join me.

The waitress then disappears and comes back holding a tray with 1 bottle of Black Label, 1 bottle of Johny walker, and another bottle of Singletons. There is a flask of hot water, a jug of ice cubes and sliced lemons complimenting the bottles of whiskeys.

Once the man is served, he deeps into his pocket and pulls out an iPhone phone. He has not used his phone since I met him. He does not use it. He only places it on the table as if he wants all to see the iphone of his phone. Next, car keys, with a BMW logo, sits on the table. I have keys in my pocket. But they have the Tricycle logo.

I feel cheated. Why change the rules without telling me. The girls cast their eyes at us again. I am quick to smile at them..Next time, I know, it is time to ask for their numbers, for their company, for their attention.

However, they don't smile back. They sneer at me, even, and ignore me and only stare at the man. The man smiles at them, they smile back, widely and invitingly.

They forget about the wrinkliness of his tired face, they ignore his white hair and the gumboots that he came with from his pineapple farm. It is the youthfulness of his carkeys, the trends of alcohol, the swagger of his phone that brightens their faces. They frown at the ugliness of my beer bottles, the dryness of my pockets and the ringtone of my Tecno phone. I can't compete. I take a long sip of my beer, it now tastes like leftover njahe, bitter and unwanted. The next time I look at the man, he is in the company of the two girls, they are laughing at his old boring jokes.

I am now in my house. I will never ever get into competition with a drunkard again. You just never know which weapon he carried. That man introduced a gun to a fist fight.

 ANTONY MAINA

When I had 500 shillings and a few hours to spare, I decided to go shopping inside Two Rivers Mall. I had always wanted to tour the mall, and marvel at all the nice things that people said about it.
The first shop I entered was Carrefour.

I was walking through the rows when I noticed a beautiful lady struggling to pick an item from a stall. True to my guess, she was struggling to pick up a bottle of Rexona from a top shelf. I would have walked past her had she not requested me to help her get the product.

She was as tall. She could have picked the item by an arm stretch. I wondered why she wasn't doing that. Perhaps she hadn't shaved her armpits yet or she had run down her previous bottle of Rexona and was scared to defuse the pungent smell from under her armpits. Or perhaps she was scared stretching her body would have stretched her mini skirt, hence, exposing the lushness of her bare nyash.

Nonetheless, I decided to help her pick the item. I stretched my arm and picked the Rexona bottle and added it to her almost empty shopping trolley. I thought I was done with her after that until she asked me if I knew where she could pick kotex panty liners.
It was my first time in the mall, additionally, I don't use panty liners. I wondered why she thought I knew where to find panty liners.

Because she was offering me a very very sweet smile, I thought why not just hang there and see what our little interaction would have led into. She was very beautiful, I must confess. My decision to help her might have been inspired by a lewd desire to ogle her ass and rich cleavage more than act an act of being a good samaritan. The more I stayed next to her, the more I fancied my chances of getting her number.

In addition, there was some admiration and envy that I earned from other male shoppers because I was walking around the store next to a very beautiful girl. I even offered to push her trolley towards the panty liner row that I had no idea where to find it. I pushed in silence as I danced in the envious stares I received from men around. And so, we struck up a conversation.

'You shop here more often?' She asked.
‘At Karifo?’ I asked.
‘It is pronounced as kaafo and not karifo.’ she overzealously corrected me a little louder than it was necessary. Her voice attracted a few stares. I was really embarrassed.

'I don’t shop here always.' I stammered.
'I see.' She said. 'Where are you from? I am from Runda. Are you also from Runda, Rosslyn, Nyari or Muthaiga?' She asked. I wondered why she had skipped Ruaka, Banana, Gacharage, and all the places that borders or are close to Two Rivers? Or did she assume that people from Ruaka and the ilk don't shop at Two Rivers?
You see, Two Rivers is on the border of the haves; Runda, Rossyln, Nyari and Muthaiga and the have nots; Ruaka, Banana, Gacharage, Macatha, Ndederu.

'I am from Ruaka.' I said.
'There are no malls in Ruaka?' she asked.
'There are. Not malls like this one but supermarkets.'
'Why didn't you shop at Ruaka then? Or was your tank full?' She was chatty with a condescending tone. I was already annoyed with her antics at that time. I chose to ignore her full tank question. It was unnecessary.

‘There is something that I wanted to buy that I can only find here.’ I lied.
‘What is it?’ She asked. How was that even her problem? At that time, I was already regretting agreeing to go on that mission.
‘Just something.’ I replied when I could not think of anything. As I pushed the trolley around, she would ask me to stop occasionally to pick something from the stalls. Before we could find the panty-liners, her trolley was almost full. She had reduced me to this guy who pushed her trolley around the store, often asking to stop so that she can pick something.

In one row, she asked me to stop because she wanted to buy chocolate. I almost screamed at her not to pick a bar of chocolate worthy 5k because its price was half my monthly house-rent. Yaani mtu anakula half my rent is ten mouth bites?

As we walked around the mall, I thought I stood a chance with her. I promised myself to pick her number at the counter after she had paid for everything. At least, I thought, I deserved her number.

Satisfied that she had everything she needed, she asked me to push the trolley to the counter. I did as requested. I was eager to impress her. I hoped there was light at the end of the tunnel.

Just when I was about to ask for her number, she pulled out her phone. I thought she was about to give me her number. Instead, she called a man whom she referred to as babe and asked him to come pay for whatever she had picked.

A minute later, I saw a tall man in sandals, shorts, and with his car keys dangling in his hands in a show-off manner. They hugged. When the guy asked her who I was, with his car keys pointing towards my direction in a condescending manner, she said, ‘nobody. I guess he works here, you know like he pushes customers' shopping trolleys around and helping them pick items."

The guy sized me up, from head to my toes. "Why is he still staring at you like he expects something from you?" He asked.

"Of course I am expecting something from her. Her number. A date out or something," I wanted to respond. I did not.

"C'mon, babe. A tip, of course," the lady responded and playfully touched the man's shoulders.

I used my tip to buy KFC, I sat in their short nursing my tattered ego and pride. On my way out, I ended up buying a red bull can, because I needed more energy to sustain my movement back to my house.