June 09

strange chap. He is fat. Actually, when I think of it, he is not ati thaaaat fat. He is just big. Light skinned, dark around the eyes and lips. When I join the table, there is a matchbox in his hand. It quickly disappears. No idea why some people are ashamed of the fact that they smoke. He is wearing a navy blue very very very big LA Lakers sweat shirt. And it looks very very cozy and warm. It’s a quality that he has given it. And has his hands crossed against each other in front of him. You know how you sometimes cross your hands together, fingers of one hand into the fingers of the other. Then your thumbs rest on each other. Well, for this guy, his hands are floating on the navy blue LA Lakers sweat shirt. How? He has a strangely big stomach. Very strange, very big. It protrudes outwards and sideways, and looks hard, stiff. His fat fingers rest gingerly on this thing. Floating.

There are 4 other people on the table when I join. I have been in this country for only 6 hours, but can tell these are 1^st generation highly skilled workers, in the late 20s, mainly from Africa and Asia. He is older. From the story, I calculate that he must be 36. He wears the face of an 18 year old overweight girl, on the body of a 60 year old diabetic. Very confusing this image. The others seem to regard him with some awe. He is the centre of attention in this 20 table bar. All the tables are full, 7 inside, about a dozen outside, a very cold wind is blowing. He talks without moving any part of his body. His lips, his hands, his whole body is still. But I notice a very rapid high frequency movement below the table. He is shaking his left leg at a very high speed. Only his left leg.

He is telling us about an earthquake. He was on the 14^th floor when it happened. That it had happened for 3 days consecutively and he had not noticed. Apparently because he always has a lady in his bed, with whom they would be too busy doing something else. Just looking at him, its hard to picture. Anyway, I listen on. I sit and order a drink, no one pays attention to my intrusion. His eyes are fixated on some imaginary thing in the middle of the table as his stiff lips narrate this story. I get the image of a corpse telling a story. A shiver, I sip my milky beer. Actually, my lager is not milky at all. I realise that my healthy table mate sort of gives everything a healthy milky quality. Even saliva tastes like a milk shake when you sit next to him.

So anyway, an earthquake. My mind drifts off. Then I hear my name. “so Charrrlllle, how is Kenya” he asks without looking at me. He is still staring at the middle of the table. “How is Uhuru, Mboya and Kipchoge?” totally unrelated random Kenyans! Or perhaps he knows something. Maybe Kipchoge was running so fast because he knew the no doubt disturbing fact that Tom Mboya was Uhuru’s dad…and alas, another motive for the murder? Now I feel like running too.

He slowly shifts his gaze to me. Only the eyes move. I look back. All the other 4 immigrants look at me. Am silent. Its one of those questions that are said in a manner that tells you, shut up and listen to me. I feel like taking a milky sip, but I resist. I feel the attention of 12 eyes. He takes a sip. Am silent. Watching him. Actually, am thinking of Westlands. That I should visit Haandi restaurant at the Mall soon as I get back. I also think about the earthquake sex story and smile, inwardly, at its fakeness. My silence makes him uneasy, and he sips. That makes me happy. Actually, he clears his one pint glass in a gulp. Waitress appears like magic. She is the only person in this tropical city that is bigger than him. He makes a joke to her, about how hard sex between them would be, and suggests that the Kenyan (yours truly) would be a better sex mate. Now I can’t resist taking a sip. In fact, I gulp the milky stuff down. Its becoming very hot in the 11 centigrade clear night.

So my 4 year old asks how come the fridge light is always on. (and yet I preach that all unused lights should be switched off blah blah…) I tell him, it goes off when you close the fridge door. He asks how I know. I say, I just know. He asks how? Have I ever been inside the fidge with the door closed? Now, as a man, if you have a son, you know that’s a challenge, and cannot rest.

I look at him. He looks at me. Am thinking. He’s waiting. I hear Tink! I think he also hears tink. We’re alone, so this should be easy. In brief, we seem to agree that, as men of science, we must find out. We also agree that I am too big to fit in the fridge (am a poor man, it’s a small Nakumatt (local supermarket chain) fridge, they even packed it in a paper bag).

So chap chap operation before his mother comes, kijana ndani, we pack midget into fridge. Then silence. I plan to ask him if the light is on.

Then one of those universe moments strikes. I am standing alone in the kitchen, and for a split second, cannot recall why I am alone in the kitchen, and what am waiting for...

As fate would have it, Bald Pal (who always appears without calling, always invites you for a beer – not at the Kileleshwa police canteen where its sijui 70 bob. Always a fancy westie pub, and always the bill is mine) hoots at the gate, and off we go...

Anyway, let’s summarise the learnings here, before we incriminate ourselves:

1. 4 year olds are smarter than us (can manipulate you into killing them)
2. The midget, I don’t know how, came out, unhurt, but with a very clear memory
3. Because he has told everyone who cares to listen, in detail, how his Baba (yours truly) (I think) (I hope, I suspect) (Incidentally, now that we are on the subject, how much is a DNA test? A pal was asking…) put him in a fridge and he survived. (am waiting for the T-shirts)
4. Please don’t do this to anyone? (I mean, the Bald Pal thing. If you invite me for a Tusker, or Guinness, pay for it, them)

In the beginning

in the beginning. no, some years after the beginning, man created gods, in his own image.