~~Makena~~
August 2012
Even to this day, I enjoy travelling. I find little pieces of God when I’m inside a moving car, looking out the window, watching the people and the trees move backwards. There is something about these moments that just factory resets my mind.
The soft sound of snoring occasionally distracts me. My best friends, Wanja and Nduta, have been asleep for six out of seven hours of the journey, while I’ve stayed awake.
The bus pulls to a stop. We are here, in Mombasa.
Finally, warm air hits my nostrils as we get off the bus. The turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean sparkle in my peripheral vision. Going down to the beach is on my bucket list.
There is that thing I must do, for my sanity’s sake and for my dear mother.
I feel for the yellow thing in my bag, buried under my blue Sunday best dress and my beaded sandals.
Mombasa is hotter than any place I’ve been, but I’m too excited to complain. Instead, I take off my brown knit sweater and stuff it in my bag. I wiggle my sweaty toes, inside my black plastic shoes.
“Tosh.” Nduta drops her bag and starts running.
Turning around, I see her boyfriend. His name is Gitonga, but we call him Tosh. His family owns the one and only posho mill in the village.
Tosh and Nduta hug and kiss and laugh. They haven’t seen each other in three months.
Looking at them makes me wonder how it feels, how love feels. I’ve never found a boy who excites me enough.
Tosh sees Wanja and me standing by the corner. We wave, and he frowns.
“Sorry…until you pay her dowry, expect this lot,” I tell him as we hug.
His perfume is a little too strong for me. I crinkle my nose.
“It’s okay. She is worth it.” He smiles.
Nduta blushes and stares at her feet.
Wanja and I approve of him. He is sweet and kind to our girl.
“Loyal too,” Wanja would add whenever we speak of Tosh. She is on Facebook as Alicious de Pretty.
And all the pictures on Tosh’s social media pages are of Nduta.
Wanja asked one of her pretty college friends to try him and see if he would fall. The friend messaged Tosh some pictures, but he never replied.
He is a cool guy without many words. Although, I don’t like how he texts Nduta with stupid spelling mistakes—sweetat, my daling, plecious.
“English is not our tongue…it came on a boat,” Nduta always defends her sweetheart.
Tosh looks different from when I last saw him. He’s added some weight around the midsection, which is a sign of wealth back home. The job at the port must be paying well. He’s grown a beard and a moustache too. He looks all serious and grown-up.
“It’s good to see you, Tosh.” Wanja squeezes him into a hug.
“Ehen, let’s go, my beautiful girls. And stick close to me before someone steals you.” Tosh laughs at his own joke.
He walks in front, holding Nduta’s hand. Wanja and I follow closely behind, on the path he is parting through the busy streets.
There are ancient houses, Arabic-design mosques, tuk-tuks, and women wearing diras walking with the men in kaptulas, exchanging Mashallahs between them.
Ah, this place is perfect.
In my Heaven, there will be a little section that looks like Mombasa.
We arrive at Tosh’s place sooner than I want. His house is in a row of cream-coloured houses with the paints peeling off. The cream and black patches remind me of burnt chapati. His door is marked ‘7’ in black.
“Welcome.” Tosh opens the door.
The home is unlike any I’ve been in. Everything is in one room—the metal-frame bed, kitchen, small TV, low table—and a door leads to the toilet, which doubles as the bathroom.
The place is tidy and smells of his strong perfume. He presses a button on a remote, and soothing RnB music breezes through the room.
“Is that Burning Passion?” Nduta asks about the Mexican soap opera playing on the TV. It is her favourite show.
“Yes.” Tosh smiles.
Paloma and Diego, the Romeo and Juliet of the show kiss on-screen. They are hiding behind her father’s barn, their rendezvous point.
Wanja and I sit on two plastic stools. Tosh and Nduta are on the bed, exchanging smiles.
I feel a little pang of envy.
“You girls must be hungry.” Tosh stands, ready to buy food and reaches for a green paper bag under the glass coffee table, the prettiest thing in the house.
“Tosh, why are you insulting me like this?” Nduta hangs her head. She tries to look cute and disappointed at the same time.
She attended Iregi Catering School and caters at the weddings and funerals back home.
She’s one of the best cooks I know. She has a gift. No matter how many times she teaches me how to cook pilau, the amount of garlic needed, or how much Royco cubes to put in beef stew, my food never tastes as good as hers.
“I will cook,” she says and reaches for her bag at the foot of the bed. She pulls out a leso, ties it around her waist and heads to the kitchen area.
Tosh smiles, her ‘wife material’ points probably increasing in his head.
An hour later, we indulge in extremely sweet biryani. Tosh feeds Nduta.
I watch them and pray for a boy like Tosh but without a potbelly and better-smelling cologne.
A knock sounds at the door. Wanja opens since she is closest to it.
“Oooh, babe,” she shouts and flings her arms around the tall, brown-skinned Somali guy with soft curly hair. He’s in a red Manchester United shirt. Then she kisses him full on the mouth.
My cheeks heat up. I count all my toes close to four times before they come up for air.
Wanja introduces the guy as Noor, her boyfriend from college. Nduta and I look at each other. So, this is the legendary Noor?
Wanja talks about him all the time. They slept together eleven times. She tells us everything while we’re on the way to the market, hurdling and whispering like we always do
He’s very handsome with big bright eyes and hot pink lips. He sits, and Wanja climbs astride him. They kiss and grope each other as if their world is dark.
“I missed you, babe.”
Noor unzips Wanja’s blue jeans pants and slips his hand inside there. Wanja purrs like a cat in heat.
I stare at my bag, wishing to fit in it.
He whispers something to her, and they stand. He takes her tiny purple suitcase from the floor, and they wear their shoes.
“See you tomorrow, my kinsmen,” Wanja blows kisses in the air as they run out of the place.
***
After Wanja leaves, it’s just Tosh, Nduta and me, the third wheel.
As the only one without a boyfriend, I shouldn’t have come. I squirm uncomfortably.
“How is everyone back at home?” Tosh asks.
I tell him about the long rains, the newly-weds, the fresh headteacher at the primary school, the recently built church by the river and the story everyone is talking about.
“You remember Wa Muthoni? The woman who sold peanuts along Ena Road. She was crossing the road to grab a customer when a vehicle appeared out of nowhere and ‘phu’ she was squashed like a watery cabbage.”
“Eeyy!” Tosh exclaims.
“It was a ‘very very shiny’ black Mercedes, but the driver hasn’t been caught because all the witnesses are the idlers at the bus station. People are saying the Mercedes man paid them for their silence. But God is not a human being. One of them, Gicara, you remember him? The one who walks with a limp, yes, that one, a muvariti tree fell on him the other day, and he died.”
“Very sad,” Tosh says. “I feel for her little children. They are four, right? The last one is what? Two years old?”
“He is one, and a half…It’s just sad,” Nduta replies and Tosh caresses her back in consolation.
“How about you…how have you been?” I ask.
“Like is okay. I can’t complain.” Tosh rubs his stomach. “But I’m lonely, you know. I miss my sweetheart. Life is extremely hard without her.”
He looks at Nduta and caresses her chin slowly, as his throat ripples.
“I will…let me go out and get some air,” I excuse myself and step out on the veranda.
Tosh raises the volume of his radio.
I take a walk around the block. The air smells of masala, ginger, and garlic. Mothers are preparing supper and calling their children back home.
A group of little boys are playing football on a dusty field near a filthy dumpsite. One of the boys tells his little brother to go back to the house, but the little brother doesn’t listen and keeps following him. They never pass the ball to the youngest boy, but he keeps running after it and tripping each time.
I return to the house an hour later.
Nduta is in the kitchen area, washing utensils and preparing supper. Tosh is on the bed snoring. He sounds like a power saw running out of fuel.
That night Tosh gives me a mattress to place on the floor, moving the coffee table aside. He creeps into bed next to Nduta. It’s a little room, and I hear all the grunts and moans they make half of the night. I almost crawl out and sleep on the veranda instead, and when it becomes too much, I think about cutting out my ears.
When I get the chance, I will strangle both my friends. This isn’t why I lied to my sweet mother.
The lie: We are attending a church revival in Nairobi.
The plan: We visit Mombasa and tour the coastal town. My friends will say hi to their boyfriends for like an hour or two. Then we all head to a club, dance the night away and get drunk in this city where no one knows us—it will be my first time getting drunk, and I’ve been looking forward to it. I shouldn’t be the only twenty-one-year-old yet to do it.
Afterwards, we’ll take the evening bus, return to our little town, and tell our parents that the church revival was such a blessing. Mother will be so proud. She always wants me to take my relationship with Jesus to the next level.
***
The next morning at dawn, I tell Nduta and Tosh that I will tour Mombasa independently. They need time alone, and I don’t want to keep being the third wheel. Wanja hasn’t come back. She’s still at Noor’s place. The return ticket is for the 10 pm bus, so I have a whole day to explore.
“I’ll meet you at the bus stop at 9:30,” I tell Nduta. “Tell Wanja the same when she asks.”
“Sawa,” Nduta says.
My mission: go straight to the beach, watch the beautiful blue waters and finally, get rid of the yellow thing in my bag.
However, I make so many stops along the way. First, I buy a coconut and drink from it. It’s not as sweet as I thought it would be, so I throw it away.
I think of going to Marikiti market. Instead, I visit Fort Jesus, the fortress where the Portuguese fought the British for the coastal strip.
I want to retrace my steps to Marikiti market. What for? He can’t be around there still, can he? What if this is my only chance to see him? Think Makena think.
I go back.
Five months ago, our pastor, Dr Dr Humphrey—yes, he uses the title twice—had a vision about me. I told him in secret once about how I yearn to meet my father, and he told me he would pray for me.
Three days later, he comes out of his fast and calls me to his office. He tells me he knows my father’s location—God showed him in a dream.
At the prospect of a reunion, my heart plays a crazy fast soundtrack that makes my knees weak. I take a sit to listen to the good news.
“I saw him, Makena…I saw him in a dream. He looks just like you,” he says.
I believe because mother once confirmed it, that one time when I was seven. I fought with a boy in my class, Mutemi, who liked putting frogs in my school bag. He also called me bush hair because I had a very thick mane. One day, fed up with his ‘bush hair’ taunts, I beat him up until he peed on himself.
Aggrieved, Mother comes to the principal’s office, and I know the moment we get home, she’ll give me the beating of a lifetime. Mother never spares the rod.
She surprises me, not punishing me as I expect, but not speaking to me either. This is too much a punishment for me to bear. I wish for her to flog me instead.
In the evening, after supper, as we warm ourselves by the fire, she speaks.
“You look like him, you know. Your eyes, your hair … your skin. You look just like your father, but you will not turn out like him. Do you hear me, Makena?”
“Y—yes,” I stutter, ready to promise anything in exchange for her forgiveness.
“You will not turn out like him, and you will not fight again at school, or anywhere.” She spits in the fire, and the firewood hisses.
I don’t sleep that night, thinking about my father who I look like.
So, when Pastor Humphrey goes on, “He was coming out of a big gold shiny car…and he wore a beautiful black suit, and his shoes were polished…he wore gold rings on all his fingers I tell you.”
His words stun me. I put my hands on my mouth. My father is a rich man?
“He walked into a market. At first, I did not know which market it was, but God whispered that it was Marikiti in Mombasa. Everywhere he walked, people bowed down for him. He bought all the things in the market. You should have seen how the traders praised him, Makena. They hugged his knees and thanked him as they closed their stalls early.”
“He…bought all the things?” I try to stitch the fragments of this puzzle together.
Maybe my father owns a large hotel. My God, what if he has one or two of those five-star tourist hotels advertised in the paper? My luck in life is about to change.
Mami’s arthritis has grown worse. I spend all my salary buying her medication. If my father is a rich man, maybe, he can help us.
“I can take you to see him, Makena” Pastor Humphrey says.
I’m so overwhelmed by his kindness that tears fill my eyes.
“If you want we can go to Mombasa next weekend…just me and you” He winks at me and fondles my hand.
I quickly snatch myself from his married hands.
“It’s alright, pastor. I do not want to take you from God’s work. I will look for him myself.”
I walk out of his office with a headache.
People say he has the gift of prophecy, so the vision must be real. I only wished he had not winked at me.
Now I’m in Mombasa. I can find my father myself. I enter the market and approach the third stall, which has big healthy-looking juicy mangoes.
My father may have bought mangoes here for his big hotel. I stop in front of the trader who sits next to his goods. He is staring at his feet.
“Samahani…habari yako?” I call out.
He doesn’t seem to hear me.
“Habari yako?” I edge closer.
He doesn’t hear me or pretends not to.
I nod and walk on. This is crazy, and a sign that I should abandon this mission altogether. It’s getting too hot, and I don’t have all day. I should go to the beach and do what I’m here to do. I decide to ask one more trader and then leave.
I stop at a tomato stall. There are all kinds of tomatoes, big, and small, some red and ripe and others green. The trader is separating them into three lots. She is a middle-aged woman with a red leso tied around her non-existent waist.
The leso reads, “Mbuzi kala mkeka, wadaku mtakaa? The goat has eaten the mat, where will you gossipers sit?”
“Samahani. Sorry for bothering you.”
“Ehen”
“Natafta mtu. I am looking for someone.”
Shy suddenly, I wonder how my rusty Swahili sounds to her. Although I’m fluent, I’m not a native.
She goes on separating her tomatoes, and I take that as an encouragement to continue.
“I am looking for the man … who ... bought all the goods in the market.”
She stops and looks at me, up and down. See, she must have met him, and now realises I look exactly like him.
It’s happening. Pastor Humphrey may have weak flesh, but his spirit is strong.
“Ati kafanya nini?”
“He bought all the goods in the market from all the traders.”
She looks into my eyes for a long time. Then drops the tomato she is holding back to the bunch. She tells me not to move and goes to the next stall, where three women sit. They have coconuts, mirrors, lipsticks, and bananas in the disorganised booth. She returns with the women.
“Rudia ulichosema. Could you repeat what you just said, please?”
“I am looking for the man who bought all the goods in the market. He wears gold rings on all his fingers.”
First, they stare at me, then at each other. Suddenly they burst into loud laughter, holding their shapeless sides. Everyone in the market turns and watches us.
“Wacha bangi. Stop smoking whatever you are smoking.”
“These youngsters in Mombasa are smoking anything and everything.”
The tomato trader holds me by the shoulders. “Wewe Mrembo. You are a beautiful girl. Stop smoking these things, eeh. They will destroy your mind. If you have no job, why not go to Diani. You might catch yourself a rich white man.”
I shrug and march away fast, keeping my eyes down because everyone is looking at me. Stupid stupid me. Why did I ruin a beautiful trip by coming here?
One of the women, the one with the black henna on her nails and palms runs towards me.
“Dada, sister, maybe I can help. You said he did what again?”
I look into her kajal-rimmed eyes. Maybe someone did know my father after all.
“He bought all the goods—”
Before I finish, she is howling on the ground, and her friends high-five each other as they continue laughing at me.
Funny, how it’s no longer funny when the joke is you. I hurry, not looking back.
Don’t cry, no crying. I unzip my bag and withdraw my earphones. I put them on although I’m not listening to any music.
I flag down a tuk-tuk and head to the beach. Soon I’m there.
Forget those women and do what you came to do, Makena.
I reach for the yellow thing in my bag, and a big lump clogs my pipes. Glancing around, no one is watching. It’s time to part ways.
A tear falls from my eyes. Not only for what I’m about to do, but for the incident at the market, and a father I’ll never meet. This is harder than I thought.
I grab the yellow thing and yank it out of my bag.
Someone groans behind me, he sounds like he is dying.
I glance over my shoulder.