Cul-de-sac
Isaac Kilibwa
Isaac Kilibwa
I knew I should not have done it even as I ducked into the corridor. It was precisely three steps and two seconds and yet it was enough of a blunder. I felt it in the way the whole town held its breath. Maybe it was with anxiety or with annoyed panic, but it felt the way it does with adults when a toddler starts to fall. The way they flinch and wince, and feel their hearts fall into their bellies. The way they pray for a moment without knowing it, that it wasn't painful, hurtful. That he will not cry.
For a moment all hustle and bustle ceased. No one shoved into anyone else, the hooting of matatus felt like it was calling from another world. I almost sighed with relief. Almost. But then there are places where tea plantations stretch away to the start of forests. Where these forests are like heads with hair in the clouds. Places where quiet is a reassurance. Where I was, safety was in the mayhem. A semblance of it anyway, especially from violence. And I knew. I knew that trading the chaos for a couple of peaceful steps was trouble. From the frying pan and into the blue blossoms of the electric cooker.
She had begged me to stay. Laurain had said it would be tough. Getting from scenic upcountry Kiambu to the Nairobi CBD at such an hour. All the public service vehicles had left and I only had three hundred shillings with me. My money and I, and a healthy dose of determined pride, waged our own humble war against time, self-pity and poverty. As a man, when the most beautiful woman in the world pleads with you to accept some things, you must decline. Most especially after she had allowed you to kiss her and press her against the wall of her hostel room. What would she think of you when you accept such suggestions as accepting your own little disadvantages and misdemeanors? I would make it. For what is a man without a little pride? She had allowed us enough favours. At a place of blooming roses, we had not been rich enough to carry even cookies let alone flowers. Laurain had not seemed to mind though.
She had been elated that we made it.
“Look at last who graces the highlands!” she exclaimed.
“The village cockerel.”
“Haha. It does sure crow in the city, doesn't it?” Laurain remarked as she clung onto the hug we shared. The same way we had clung to every moment until it was too late to leave.
“We could watch the stars tonight, you know,” she urged.
“I doubt the clouds frozen in place would allow that.”
“Come on. You have so many clouds frozen in your sky too.”
“How now?”
“Look Yizhou, for the sake of children. We're a pair of stars shooting across the sky. I, a flaming blaze chasing after you. I wonder, are you fleeing from all the luminescence?”
“They say...”
“Don't listen to them.”
“But they say, Laurie dear, that by the time you see a star it might be already dead.”
“But what else would children be without hope? Let them wish upon these stars for now.” And surely if Kiambu was not anything else, it was a place of hope and quiet wealth.
Normally, the fare from the college to town by PSV was fifty to a hundred shillings. Luckily, I had found a motorcyclist who agreed to take me to Banana for one hundred and fifty. Even as dusk earnestly settled in, the fields of green stretched away in contented joy. Tea leaf bushes took over; sprawling neck to neck into the pink horizon. I shivered on the motorbike in the evening sunshine as we sped past greenhouses and closing flower stalls. Kiambu was seldom ever warm. At Banana, I hopped into a van that was just leaving for the Village Market. The universe, it seemed, was being kind enough to prove a man right. By the time I had left the Village Market and got to town, all I had left was seventy shillings.
“Yo punk!”
A man who looked to be in his early twenties accosted me. As he fell into step, I noticed that he wore a t-shirt bleached by time, sweat and the sun. The skin around his neck was dry and cracked, and colonized by a film of filth. He looked healthy though, healthier than me, if only unkempt. Punk was the Eastlands Nairobi word for rich Westlands people.
“How is it? With your babi ways?”
I continued walking. He gave me his hand. I cast a glance away. It was furtive if anything was ever furtive. Not a soul was in sight before nor behind us. I shook the hand. Then noticed the cake of human stool in the other. I stopped dead in the middle of the footpath. He struck a conversation. All the while, he would juggle the obscenity from hand to hand, molding it like it was a piece of strawberry coloured plasticine. I could feel the city wince and look away. Just the way adults again look away from the child after he falls, arguing that if you look at him he will cry. Did I not deserve some pity from this god forsaken place? I felt abandoned.
“Just two hundred bob, mtu wangu. My guy. You know? And all your problems walk away.”
How in hell could he not comprehend that I had not invited him to walk with me in the first place?
I sped away but he fell in step once more. We continued as we had at first. I looked up to plead with the heavens. The stars were beginning to come out. Around us, not a street light was in sight. The scent of frying chips and sausages, musty colognes and body lotions, and middle class sweat, roasting maize, open space, even vehicle exhaust fumes had all evaporated away. This dismally lit place was suffocating with the smell of fear and anxiety. And rotting garbage, ammonia, feces. I looked behind. The faraway lights seemed to stare after us in genuine concern and sympathy. Genuine enough but helpless. I did not see the jutting corner until when I bumped my shoulder into it. Then I stumbled and swayed a bit before getting my bearings. And there ten paces ahead I saw it. The imposing wall of a dead end.
The mind leans how it has been trained when faced with difficulty. I loathed then all the books I had read and grown to idolize more than ever. For why philosophy would find such a setting apt for contemplation is beyond me. Chesterton's words came to me unbidden. A man does not yield when the mere universe has turned against him; he yields when his own heart has turned against him. We surrender, not when circumstances are miserable, but when we are miserable. Then!
I sighed and turned to my companion, for how can two walk together lest they be agreed?
“Yo bro, how is it?” I started.
For a moment all hustle and bustle ceased. No one shoved into anyone else, the hooting of matatus felt like it was calling from another world. I almost sighed with relief. Almost. But then there are places where tea plantations stretch away to the start of forests. Where these forests are like heads with hair in the clouds. Places where quiet is a reassurance. Where I was, safety was in the mayhem. A semblance of it anyway, especially from violence. And I knew. I knew that trading the chaos for a couple of peaceful steps was trouble. From the frying pan and into the blue blossoms of the electric cooker.
She had begged me to stay. Laurain had said it would be tough. Getting from scenic upcountry Kiambu to the Nairobi CBD at such an hour. All the public service vehicles had left and I only had three hundred shillings with me. My money and I, and a healthy dose of determined pride, waged our own humble war against time, self-pity and poverty. As a man, when the most beautiful woman in the world pleads with you to accept some things, you must decline. Most especially after she had allowed you to kiss her and press her against the wall of her hostel room. What would she think of you when you accept such suggestions as accepting your own little disadvantages and misdemeanors? I would make it. For what is a man without a little pride? She had allowed us enough favours. At a place of blooming roses, we had not been rich enough to carry even cookies let alone flowers. Laurain had not seemed to mind though.
She had been elated that we made it.
“Look at last who graces the highlands!” she exclaimed.
“The village cockerel.”
“Haha. It does sure crow in the city, doesn't it?” Laurain remarked as she clung onto the hug we shared. The same way we had clung to every moment until it was too late to leave.
“We could watch the stars tonight, you know,” she urged.
“I doubt the clouds frozen in place would allow that.”
“Come on. You have so many clouds frozen in your sky too.”
“How now?”
“Look Yizhou, for the sake of children. We're a pair of stars shooting across the sky. I, a flaming blaze chasing after you. I wonder, are you fleeing from all the luminescence?”
“They say...”
“Don't listen to them.”
“But they say, Laurie dear, that by the time you see a star it might be already dead.”
“But what else would children be without hope? Let them wish upon these stars for now.” And surely if Kiambu was not anything else, it was a place of hope and quiet wealth.
Normally, the fare from the college to town by PSV was fifty to a hundred shillings. Luckily, I had found a motorcyclist who agreed to take me to Banana for one hundred and fifty. Even as dusk earnestly settled in, the fields of green stretched away in contented joy. Tea leaf bushes took over; sprawling neck to neck into the pink horizon. I shivered on the motorbike in the evening sunshine as we sped past greenhouses and closing flower stalls. Kiambu was seldom ever warm. At Banana, I hopped into a van that was just leaving for the Village Market. The universe, it seemed, was being kind enough to prove a man right. By the time I had left the Village Market and got to town, all I had left was seventy shillings.
“Yo punk!”
A man who looked to be in his early twenties accosted me. As he fell into step, I noticed that he wore a t-shirt bleached by time, sweat and the sun. The skin around his neck was dry and cracked, and colonized by a film of filth. He looked healthy though, healthier than me, if only unkempt. Punk was the Eastlands Nairobi word for rich Westlands people.
“How is it? With your babi ways?”
I continued walking. He gave me his hand. I cast a glance away. It was furtive if anything was ever furtive. Not a soul was in sight before nor behind us. I shook the hand. Then noticed the cake of human stool in the other. I stopped dead in the middle of the footpath. He struck a conversation. All the while, he would juggle the obscenity from hand to hand, molding it like it was a piece of strawberry coloured plasticine. I could feel the city wince and look away. Just the way adults again look away from the child after he falls, arguing that if you look at him he will cry. Did I not deserve some pity from this god forsaken place? I felt abandoned.
“Just two hundred bob, mtu wangu. My guy. You know? And all your problems walk away.”
How in hell could he not comprehend that I had not invited him to walk with me in the first place?
I sped away but he fell in step once more. We continued as we had at first. I looked up to plead with the heavens. The stars were beginning to come out. Around us, not a street light was in sight. The scent of frying chips and sausages, musty colognes and body lotions, and middle class sweat, roasting maize, open space, even vehicle exhaust fumes had all evaporated away. This dismally lit place was suffocating with the smell of fear and anxiety. And rotting garbage, ammonia, feces. I looked behind. The faraway lights seemed to stare after us in genuine concern and sympathy. Genuine enough but helpless. I did not see the jutting corner until when I bumped my shoulder into it. Then I stumbled and swayed a bit before getting my bearings. And there ten paces ahead I saw it. The imposing wall of a dead end.
The mind leans how it has been trained when faced with difficulty. I loathed then all the books I had read and grown to idolize more than ever. For why philosophy would find such a setting apt for contemplation is beyond me. Chesterton's words came to me unbidden. A man does not yield when the mere universe has turned against him; he yields when his own heart has turned against him. We surrender, not when circumstances are miserable, but when we are miserable. Then!
I sighed and turned to my companion, for how can two walk together lest they be agreed?
“Yo bro, how is it?” I started.
Isaac Kilibwa is a writer from Kenya. His most recent work has been published by Hawakal (2023) in the Wives anthology, Mystery Publishers (2023) in the Strange Waters anthology, Mukana Press (2022) in the exceptional Old Love Skin anthology, among other places. He lives and teaches in Vihiga, Kenya.