Stay Alive - Bee Gees

Side Mirror Ya Ndege

Lying is a process of altering reality and expressing it to some other party. Stealing the truth from others. There are many reasons why we lie.

1. To save a marriage – I did NOT have sexual relations with that woman.
2. To save a reputation – I DID have sexual relations with those women, all of them
3. To save money – Sema buda, niko home na familia, leo siwaki, good night
4. To save time – Chief, another call coming, si I’ll call you back
5. To earn money – looks exactly like you, aki this is your child kabisa, ona hiyo kisogo
6. To earn respect – I resigned, got tired of that place
7. To earn a drink – Charlie? Ati what? Me? That chick? I know her vizuri sana from Braeside, ebu wait you see.
8. To make Sanko, K-Tray and Zo happy – I am superman, I can fly
9. un-deliberate lies – do you know uncle Charlie can fly? Yes, he can.

Other lies are, ‘this is on discount best price vithout Wi. A.T’, ‘boss, this is Made in Japan’, ‘mimi na apa ya kwamba…’, ‘let’s have one last drink’ and, ‘it wasn’t me’.

Ritcher scale liar

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 lent it. And he 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, slapping each other playfully, rapidly, distractingly. Well, for this guy, his hands are floating on the navy blue LA Lakers sweat shirt. He has a fluid liquid big tummy. Very strange, very big. It protrudes outwards and sideways, and also 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 a few hours, but can tell these are 1st generation highly skilled workers, most 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 bar that has 20 tables. 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 14th floor when it happened. That it had happened for 3 days consecutively and he had not noticed. Apparently because he had a lady in his bed throughout this time, with whom they were too busy doing something else, something we do when dressed like we’re going to shower. Looking at him, this fact is 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 pole protruding from the floor 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. I puke on the inside at this thought.

So anyway, an earthquake, he says. My mind drifts off, am thinking of how am beginning to hate JKIA. 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 that Tom Mboya was Uhuru’s dad and so a motive for murder. And now I know, am an accomplice. And now Mwalimu Mati will start tarnishing my name. Now I feel like running too.

He slowly shifts his gaze to me. Only the eyes move (ebu try it at home). I look back. All the other immigrants look at me. Am silent. Its one of those questions that are said in a manner that tells you, please shut up and listen to me. The way Jimmy Gathu treats us in a bar near my place. I feel like taking a milky sip, but I resist. I feel the weight of 12 eyes on me. He takes a sip. Am silent. Watching him, but, am thinking of Westlands. That I should visit Haandi restaurant at the Mall soon as I get back. Makhini chicken with garlic naan. I also think about the earthquake sex story and smile, inwardly, at its unrealness. My silence makes him uneasy, and he sips again. This makes me happy. Actually, he clears his one pint glass in a gulp. This makes me worried. Waitress appears like magic. She is the only person in this tropical city that is bigger than him. So far at least. He makes a joke to her, about how hard sex between them would be, him and her, and suggests that the Kenyan (yours truly) would be a better sex mate. Now I can’t resist taking a sip, a large-ish loud sip. Actually, I flush the milky stuff down.

It’s becoming very hot in the 11 centigrade clear night.