FORBIDDEN LOVE, PRT XIII …@babajeptum “Evin, I am with child.” I stopped, dead in my tracks, the words ringing over and again in my head. I didn’t want to be ‘that guy’, well not on her sister’s wedding after-bash; you know the guy who asks the stupidest question, “ni yangu?” I was literally lost for words. I just stared into her teary eyes. Sensing my confused and lost state, she briskly walked away into K2. I stood in the middle of the road. The thought that some wasted petrol-head may run me over never crossed my foggy-state of a mind. I had no doubt I was responsible, but mwanaume ni mwanaume; I wasn’t either so sure it was mine. Damn! I was between two rocks, or if you would better two hard places. My mind fuzzy, I walked into the club. I was up the stairs, past the Buffy black-t-shirt clad bouncers and into the V.I.P lounge. The obviously inebriated and intoxicated fellas and fellettes were all over; screaming in total delight, dancing, snorting off the now white-powdered tables and emptying their glasses. Gaceri was huddled up in some corner, looking as dull as ever but trying poorly to disguise it. I pitied her. I was a mess too. “Umemfanyia nini?” Some voice from behind me asked. I turned. It was Gaceri’s Ex, standing there, a bottle of beer in one and the other in his pocket, his nose covered with whatever he was snorting and his cheeks ever so puffy he looked like he had a mouthful of cow dung! I either didn’t understand the question so blatantly expressed or I was still lost in my own world or the shear hatred and utter disgust for the bloke, made me just stare at him- the last part most probable! “My friend, am asking you man, what did you do to her?” “First of all,” I started, “I am not your friend- never was and never will be. I’d rather live in Beirut than have you as a friend. Secondly, I don’t answer to you!” “You do know that I know about that little arrangement of yours, don’t you? I can easily open my mouth, sit and enjoy the sight of her old man whooping your behind.” “Why don’t you go ahead? Am surprised you haven’t already, seeing that you’ve always been a punk and a sissy.” “What did you say to me?” He menacingly asked, placing his glass down. “Don’t walk into the punch man.” I stood and faced him. He towered me alright but I feared none. I had graduated several years back from anger management class, but the events of the night and the fact that I had always played this scene; of me bashing this bald, one-packed, loud mouthed snob, in my mind so much, didn’t do much but fire me up more. I practically threw the glass of orange-soda I had on the glass table and I was surprised neither broke. It was all systems go. My fists were clenched ever so tightly, my knuckles practically shone. I could feel my nails sink into my flesh. “Hey come down. Leave him alone. Hes a jerk, he doesn’t deserve it.” Gaceri stepped between us and pulled me aside. My heart raced like mad- I was mad. The air coming out of my nostrils was so hot you could have thought I had swallowed coal. The punk on the other hand looked like he was about to burst. His face was covered with beads of sweat- he looked like he had just crawled out of a micro-wave! I was surprised none of the other guys had even noticed the scene. But then again, how could they? The room was practically covered in smoke; cigarettes, shisha and all. I wondered what work the D.E.A of Kenya did. Had I known their offices I would have snitched them guys and smile at the sight of Gaceri’s Ex being, being the supplier, getting whisked away to jail. The pig should have come from the penitentiary with stretch-marks and a resized rectum! YES, I hated him that much. **** Some wise Englishman once said that the best way to tell a story is to begin from the end, briefly, then going back to the beginning, and then periodically returning to the end, maybe giving different characters’ perspectives throughout. Just to give it a bit of dynamism and flow, otherwise, it’s just a linear story, just plain, pure and simply B.O.R.I.N.G. **** My bro picked my bag and we entered into the house. “Evin,” my bro’s sis began. “Meet Gaceri. Gaceri, meet Evin, the famous Kibet.” We exchanged pleasantries and I wiping the sweat off my face walked to the bedroom with my three midget nephews sauntering behind me, yelling without prose, narrating all kinds of stories, telling me how much they had missed me. Poor dudes, if only they knew how far my mind was!
Posted on: Wed, 11 Sep 2013 12:24:48 +0000
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