KHALAYI PT 3; THE MIDNIGHT DANCE.

Your mind swims back to the days of your youth. You have just finished having a tasty meal of chicken and black ugali, specially prepared by Kukhu Tunai your grandmother. Kids your age take their place around the fire ready for another epic story telling session. Kukhu Tunai is an old hand at spinning juicy tales that are just as delicious as the morsels of chicken you have just devoured. After a long day of back-breaking work either helping tilling the land or looking after livestock mukewa, this is usually everyone's favourite time of the day. Little girls and boys sit impatiently in Kukhu Tunai's hut waiting for the session to kick off. The older boys usually sit with your grandfather or other older men to receive invaluable counsel on how to be men. That is on ordinary days. This is far from an ordinary day. Everyone including the youngest children know that the the stage is set for the dance of the year.

Kukhu blows into the fire rejuvenating the dying flames, making them to crackle and sizzle with renewed determination. Meanwhile, the kids are bursting with eagerness. Some sit staring at Kukhu Tunai while others exchange riddles in anticipation. Others are making funny shapes by casting shadows on the walls. Today, unlike many other evenings, your mind is far away from the folktales Kukhu is about to narrate. You heart pounds gently. All you can think of is the prospect of sneaking out of your grandmother's hut in order to indulge in the spectacle that is the midnight dance. You're not allowed to go because you're too young. Your friend Wekesa managed to sneak out the last time the dance was held. He is the type whose stories one has to take with a pinch of salt. He likes to exaggerate.

He told you about the beautiful girls that attend the dance. He told you about how they stood in line and gyrated to the tune of the drums as the crowd screamed in ecstasy. He told you about their bouncy chests.  He told you about how he drooled as their round bottoms vibrated. You can't help but drool yourself as you listen to the story with your eyes wide and mouth agape. Your heart pounds with excitement. You remember how he  paused dramatically to let those words sink in, and how you urged him to tell you more. He was even allowed to dance with one of the short girls. You curse yourself for missing out. You swear that you won't miss the next dance. The time is nigh.

"Yabao khale Wanakhamuna nende Wananjofu ..." Kukhu Tunai begins narrating one of her famous fables.

The curious kids are all ears, but your mind has wandered  away to the land of music and drum beats. You can already picture the dust rising as the young men and women, boys and girls invade the arena like warriors. You can discern happy, dark faces beaded with perspiration. You can smell the petrichor- the sweet smell of rain when it drops on dry soil. The thought of the big girls with wiggling hips from Wekesa's vivid narrations make you quiver with  a tinge of excitement. Ignoring Kukhu and her stories, you spring to your feet and walk out of  the house into the moonless night. Your departure barely raises any eyebrows. The clueless kids have their gaze firmly fixed on the master storyteller. Besides, kids always leave from time to time to relive themselves behind the hut. It's not strange, however, for the younger girls to wet themselves while glued to the gripping tales of Kukhu Tunai. It's either that, or maybe they are just  scared of the darkness.

Outside, the atmosphere is tranquil but heavily pregnant with the sporting chance of imminent action. You can hear excited male voices chattering in the darkness. The girls must still be in their mothers' huts getting ready. Girls are innately fastidious with their appearance. You creep into the night and head to Wekesa's home.  Since you're too young to be allowed to attend the dance, you must move stealthily to avoid being spotted by one of the older boys. That would be the end of the road for you. You know too well about one of your older cousins who tried to sneak into a midnight dance when he was not yet of age. When he was caught, he was fastened upright on to a pole in the cowshed and had to spend the whole night in the dripping rain, standing in a messy puddle of goat urine. He had to endure the foul smell of urea and cow dung, and the ceaseless bleating of sheep. He swore never to repeat. The mere thought of the punishment sends a chill up your spine but the determination to witness the dance gets the better of you.

It's really dark. Wekesa's home is a bit far from yours. You walk briskly down the footpath leading to his home. You decide to take a shorter route  there. You have to trespass through Mzee Muliro's farm. He's known to be a no nonsense authoritarian. No one dares go anywhere near his fence let alone trespassing. Some people say that he is always steamed up because he was mad at the gods for denying him a boy. He has eleven children who are all girls. Rumour has it that his first child was a boy who was very lazy. One day when everyone went to the farm, the son hid behind the granary and fell asleep. His father found him. He was so irked with him that he beat him to death and chased the mother away. The gods became angry with him and refused him another boy. He has three wives all of whom only bear daughters.This has made him callous. His daughters are very attractive but everyone, including the bravest of men, is scared of trying to woo them.

As you walk through his maize plantation with cat-like stealth, you hope your personal god is awake. You know that if Mzee Muliro catches you he will skin you alive. The drying maize stalks rustle as you walk by them. You don't want to make a sound so this makes you shudder. You're about to get to the other side of the farm when Alas! You come face to face with a tall, well-built man whose face you can't clearly see in the darkness. He's holding what appears to be a machete on his left hand and a walking stick on his right. Unmistakably, this is Mzee Muliro. You are suddenly gripped by a  nauseous feeling that makes you experience knots in your stomach. Your legs feel numb like one who is paralyzed and you feel the need to sit or support yourself on something. The inside of your ears feel hot as if someone has inserted hot pieces of coal in there.  The tension building inside you can make you go to the toilet inside your own pants.

The man is motionless. They say that when rage is building inside him he neither makes a sound nor moves any party of his body. Before he beat his son to a pulp, they say this is how he was behaving. It is now serious. You have to go to the toilet. You can feel the distinct warmth of urine streaming down your legs without your permission.

"Papa Muliro I greet you," You muster some faint courage.

Your greeting is met with death-like silence. A raging debate in your head is whether or not you should bolt off with the speed of  a cheetah. You judge against that since he has already seen you and will definitely not rest until he punishes you severely.

You decide to move nearer Mzee Muliro. Close enough to let him slap the taste out of your mouth, or to clobber you senseless with his walking stick. By now he would have lost it. You would be either nursing your  injuries or staring at the grave. Surprisingly, Mzee is ostensibly in no mood to hurt anyone tonight. He remains calm like a day-old kitten. Wait! Wait a minute. When you move even closer you almost wet yourself laughing. All this while you have been scared of  a tree. One that  looks exactly like a man, in the pitch black darkness. Fear makes you see nonexistent things. When you get bitten by a snake once, you will run away wailing when you see a rope.

Soon you're at Wekesa's home. You head straight to his simba but as you approach, you can hear his grandmother berating him. You know better than to walk in there. Wekesa's kukhu is a mad woman. She once hit you on the head with a cooking stick that was fresh out of her cooking pot. The pain of the impact was not half as excruciating as that of the boiling ugali that almost scalded your bald head. You remember screaming like a girl and running all the way home to seek solace in your grandmother's arms. She ignored you. As you wailed for attention, everyone else also ignored you as if you were not even there. You threatened to run away from home. One of your senge tried to stop you but Kukhu in her wisdom told her to let you go.

"Eningilo elamukobosia," she said in her tired voice. Meaning, once you feel hungry you will return home yourself.

The old woman long forgot the ordeal, but it will forever  linger in your mind. Your people say, Okania kebilila, okaswala niye okhebilila ta ... He who shits forgets, but whoever steps in the excrement never forgets.

 You go round the house and hide waiting for Wekesa's grandmother to leave before talking to him.  You can hear Wekesa groaning about being refused to attend the much anticipated dance. You sit in the biting cold for a while waiting. After what seems like eternity you hear footsteps fading away from the simba. That must be kukhu wa Wekesa returning mwatayi-to the main house, or maybe to her small kitchen which stands adjacent to the main house. You force the window open and struggle to climb in. If you go through the door she might still see you since when in her kitchen one can see outside and those outside can see everything going on in the kitchen. You fall in clumsily and land on a hapless chicken that jumps up clucking loudly. A goat bleats somewhere in the room. When you look up, your stomach fills up with hot air. You come face to face with Wekesa's grandmother.

Apart from the incessant bleating of the stupid goat, everything else is silent. The old woman has her unwavering gaze firmly fixed on you. You also stare back at her, wary of her violent nature. She is old and frail looking but sturdy like an ox. Her name is Ajema. She comes from the neighbouring community. Their women are combative and short-tempered, unlike women of the tribe who are submissive and benign. It has turned into a staring contest. It seems like the game you play with other kids staring at each other to see who will laugh first. The tense moment is interrupted from to time to time with the bleating of the goat, and the frightened sounds of the chicken.

"Kukhu oriena ..." You greet in a tremulous voice.

"Ewe omufwi namwe omubini?" comes the creepy reply. "Olekhe kumuliango wimwate munju khubirira mwitirisia ..." (Why did you choose to use the window like a thief or a witch, when the door is wide open?)

"Kukhu nosima mbelee," You plead with her to forgive you, knowing all too well that by the time you leave the hut your behind will be on fire.

Surprisingly, she turns and leaves without uttering an extra word. You are more baffled than happy. You remain seated at the spot still dazed in disbelief. Then you hear approaching footsteps. You hope it is Wekesa. It's not! The old woman is back yielding esimbo. 

"I wan't you to leave my compound on the count of three," she says without stuttering.

One ... Two ... 

You are more confused than ever. She is standing at the door way, blocking your path.

 "Does she want me to use the window?" you wonder.

Three ... 

She starts  approaching menacingly. You suddenly hear wild drumming outside. Kukhu wa Wekesa is distracted for a moment. You grab the chance and escape through the door at the speed of lightning. As the darkness swallows you, out of the blue, someone grabs you. You are so frightened that you let out  a subdued howl.

"Kuka!" Wekesa says excitedly. He's holding a small drum.

"Wekesa!" You are delighted to see him.

"Follow me!" He says dashing wildly into the darkness. You comply.

After running for miles you arrive at the venue of the dance. You can hear spirited drumming and stumping of feet as you approach, gasping for breath. The dance is held at Makhino's homestead. Makhino is one of the best drummers in the village. He also has a melodious voice that can charm birds off  a tree. Everyone knows him as the lead singer during circumcision ceremonies. He usually serenades crowds with his uncanny prowess and a few women have even left their husbands for him.You can hear the rapturous wails and screams of the merry makers .

You stay in the shadows to avoid being seen by the big boys and girls. It's a spectacle. It's unlike anything you have ever seen. Spectators sit around the arena. Three young girls are dancing in the middle of the circle. On their left hand side, two drummers beat the drums with enthusiasm. The girls are experts at shaking their shoulders. The famous kamabeka dance. The three are joined by three energetic young men. They dance behind the ladies, who now assume a different posture. They bend slightly, that their bottoms touch the young men's crotches. Standing still, they start rotating their bottoms grinding against the men. Curious spectators let out lustful screams. After the sweaty affair, they leave the arena heaving heavily.

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Older girls replace them. The crowd goes wild. The drummers lower the tempo. The pace of the dance goes from very fast to slow. The girls dance gracefully. The drummers start to pick up the pace. The dancers increase their speed in tandem with the drumming. You recognize one of the dancers. Naliaka, one of Mzee Muliro's daughters. She is the most attractive girl in the village. Men go to great lengths trying to win her heart. She has long, black hair.  Her light skinned face shines in the darkness. She has a permanent smile on her face. Her beauteous brown eyes are alluring. One day a man fell into the river as he walked while staring at her. Her waist is slim but her buttocks are big. You can place a baby there and it want fall. Now everyone is in a frenzy as she shakes it with vigour. Her smile is so bright that you can see her teeth gleaning in the darkness. Although its dark, the stage is illuminated by a huge born fire that serves as light and as a source of heat.

You can clearly see the facial expressions of the dancers. They smile, frown, grin, grimace and even scowl at the crowd. Sometimes they do not know what to do with their mouths. They dart their tongues in and out of their mouths like snakes as the music grips their souls. Both the crowd and the dancers get carried away. The drummers remain composed. Makhino's voice can be heard booming over the sweet tunes of the drums. Sometimes it gets swallowed in the frenzied drumming and cheering.

Wekesa and you manage to keep a low profile so no one has recognize you. At least not yet. Besides it is quite dark.  There are so many people here  and the place is buzzing with activity. However, when it,s time to indulge in the juicy goat steaks going round you can't help yourselves. The delicacy is accompanied by busaa a traditional brew that accompanies every single ceremony, happy or sombre. That's when things started heading south.

As you dig into the roasted pieces of goat meat with zest,one of the young men realize that Wekesa and you sneaked out to join the dance. The infuriated reveler shouts to alert the other party goers. Wekesa  zooms away faster than you can say "ewe" . Startled, you also take off like a frightened rabbit. You dash off into the darkness as a small crowd gives chase.

Allow me to cut to the chase. Wekesa gets away. You get caught. They beat you like a drum. They tie you to a pole in the cow shed, legs up head down. You endure the smell of cow dung the whole night. Cows moo, sheep bleat, donkeys bray. You moan and groan all night, but it's futile. On this night, it rains like the clouds are also annoyed with you.

"Omwami!" 

When you open your eyes, you see Wekesa fastened upside down next to you. Eventually, they caught up with him.


"Mulosi, khwaumia baya ..." 

 As you conclude your story, Khalayi rolls on the floor laughing. It was indeed a night to forget.


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Wafula Wekati. Author.

IN LOVE WITH TWO WOMEN CHAPTER 2

Chapter 2

I wake up at the crack of dawn. Monday. Everybody else is still fast asleep. As has been the norm for a few days now I slept on the couch. I'm half awake. I feel throbbing pain in my head. The aftermath of the previous weekend. Heavy drinking with campus girls and the irksome lecture by a group of angry women, who also happen to be my wife's best friends. I can hear the sound of regular breathing from my wife and the kids sleeping in the next room.

I drag myself to the bathroom. For a few minutes, I stand under the running water. My mind is blank. I feel numb. Powerless. I'm gazing at the hazy bathroom window. Now my mind feels a like a stadium full of thoughts rushing in all directions. I turn off the shower and grab a towel. Wrapping it around my waist, I walk back to the living room and sit for a couple of minutes. I stand up and walk slowly towards the bedroom. Amani sleeps in a cot in her own room while Pendo sleeps with his mother in our bedroom-which has become her bedroom. The regular fights have wedged us apart so much that the couch feels warmer and more inviting than the bed. 

It doesn't make any sense now. I remember the first day I met Moraa. I knew she was the woman I would eventually marry. The first few months of our relationship were magical. We spend long hours on the phone talking and laughing like fools. We were inseparable. Whenever I saw her name on my phone's caller I.D. my heart would be filled with an inexplicable warmness and my eyes would water with joy. 

Any man that tried to woo Moraa saw his efforts thwarted unabashedly. One day she almost pulled off the braids of a campus girl who kept throwing flirtatious glances at me during one of my regular visits to her campus. That should have been a red flag. I did not see it. I was madly in love. Love bloats out logic.

I'm fully dressed. Standing at the sink in front of a mirror, staring blankly. My reflection stares back, as if to say, "fight your own battles". My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pick it with my left hand as I brush my teeth with the other. A text message. A short one that simply reads, "Honey". It was from Leila. For a brief moment, I seem to forget my present predicament. I look up from the phone back to the mirror. The sullen, long face has been replaced by a smiling one. The thought of  a shoulder to lean on seems to lift a load off my heart. 

I open the fridge and pour myself a glass of cold juice, which I empty in a gulp. I glance at my wrist watch. Fifteen minutes to six.

 Outside the house, the weather is chilly. It looks like it rained last night. Most school children are rushing to school. When I get to the bus stage, I see a few matatus, with touts beckoning passenger to board their vehicles. The otherwise tranquil morning air is rented with shouts of "Tao, tao, tao ..." or "Mbao, mbao, mbao ..." and hooting of cars.

I board one of the matatus. I quickly scan around and realize that it is almost full. A young lady gets in, followed by an old man and soon we're on our way. Smooth reggae music is playing in the vehicle. Glen Washington-Strangers in the Night. In moments of sadness one tends to listen to a song's lyrics. "I just can't let you go/ Oh, no, no, not my baby/" .We live in a strange world. In a blink of an eye, inseparable lovers can turn into venom-filled strangers.At this moment, Pendo and Amani are the only adhesive holding my troubled marriage together. 

I get to work in good time.Sitting at my desk, I can't stop thinking about Leila. Then it hits me that I haven't returned her text yet. Looking at my phone, I find out that she has texted again asking whether I was okay and wishing me a good day. I stare at the phone for a few minutes. 

"Are you okay?" Masika, who is standing right at my desk, asks. Her voice is full of concern.

"Good morning to you too, Masika. Have these low lives told you how beautiful you look this morning?" I say this with gusto, trying to conceal my true feelings. 

"You look like shit bro," she remains resolute.

"Wait a second. You're saying that metaphorically, right?"

"If you need anyone to talk to, I'll be at my desk"

Masika is the our new receptionist. A charming lady who can brighten the dullest of days with her good cheer and infectious laughter. Since she started working here, we have grown fond of each other. She is a chatter box that won't let you talk. I, on the other hand, am the quiet type. We are naturally attracted to each other because of our different personalities. She is also very observant. I hate the fact that she can read me like a magazine. 

I text Leila telling her that I am fine and that I would like to see her. She texts back promptly saying she doesn't mind. I feel a bit relaxed. I go about the usual work stuff mechanically since it's what I do day in day out. I take a lunch break and head downstairs to grab something to eat. Maggy, the HR lady, has already had  her lunch and is heading back upstairs. She is sweating. She is fond of reminding us that she only loves two things in this world. Her son and food. Breathing with difficulty, she struggles to ascend the stairs. I like her. She is quite personable. 

"I hope you didn't eat all the food by yourself,"

"Actually, I did. This body is not built by bricks," she says laughing heartily. 

I eat very little today. After lunch I find it quite difficult to concentrate. I leave the office fifteen minutes after two. I walk swiftly down Wamalwa Kijana Avenue. Traffic is light. The wind is blowing briskly. I walk straight to Nyumbani Bar and Restaurant. It is virtually empty. I sit on one of those long bar stools next to the counter. Giving me a knowing smile, Musa the barman swings the fridge door open and brings out a bottle of beer. 

"You're early," He sounds curious.

I signal him to put the beer back.

"May I have a glass of water please?" that comes out almost as a whisper.

I call Leila. She tells me that she will be in town in an hour or so. I order a bottle of whiskey. Musa is baffled since he knows that I hardly ever take hard liqour. I had read about people who try to escape their problems by drinking. It all seemed so unrealistic and unreasonable. Now here I am. I have this strong urge to drink until my problems go away. Whiskey on the rocks will do. For the last couple of minutes I was the only patron here. A second one walks in. A tall man in a blue suit. He sits a few stools away from mine. He nods at me and shakes Musa's hand silently. Musa pours him some brandy which he gulps down in a flash and the smashes the glass back on the table. This goes on for a while and he only stops after the fourth glass. He looks very disturbed. Strangely, this gives me a glimmer of hope. I am not the only one sailing on troubled waters. 

My mind wanders back to my wife. I find it hard to wrap my head around the fact that the birth our son had polarized us so much and our marriage was on the brink of collapsing. Moraa had become so attached to him. After he arrived, I ceased to exist in her world. She expected me to shower him with the same undivided attention and would become irrationally exasperated when she felt I did not. She becomes mad whenever I arrive home late-that is 5 p.m. She would wear a sulky face and give me the silent treatment. I would be forced to warm my own food or sometimes cook it all together.

There has to be other underlying issues. Our future together looks dark like midnight. It seems like a candle flickering feebly struggling to stay alight and that can  be extinguished with a single blow. My only hope is the kids. Maybe we will patch things up for their sake. The innocent little angels.It is amazing how the source of our joy had turned out to be a thorn in the flesh. Our differences are becoming apparent. Close friends and a few relatives are asking questions. My performance at work has taken a nose dive and my social life is in shambles. I can't picture a lasting solution in the foreseeable future. I have opted for a stop gap measure. Alcohol. I hope Leila can fill the vacuum in my heart. She is almost half my age but her maturity and level-headed nature has struck a cord with me. We have only met once before but that's what problems do to a man. They make you vulnerable. 

I notice that a tipsy looking man has come in with a woman whom you would be forgiven to mistake for a prostitute. She is wearing heavy make up and strong perfume. She is dressed in a tight, white miniskirt. A buxom woman. Her bosom seems to be threatening to escape from her fitting, lacy blouse that you can almost see through. She almost catches me staring. My phone screen lights up. Leila has texted asking where I am. She is fifteen minutes away from town. We agree to meet at The Gibson's a fancy, upmarket restaurant in town. I feel a bit intoxicated myself. I pay and leave. Of course I did not finish the whole bottle by myself, I saved the rest for later. 

The Gibson's is not far off. It takes me about ten minutes to get here. The lady is not here yet. It's a posh little restaurant. The interior is predominantly white. The lighting and decor scream "ambiance". There is smooth, old school, jazzy music playing in the background.  A lazy looking waitress saunters to where I am seated. She looks bored but tries to seem cordial, but fails. A young woman. In her early twenties I presume. Medium height and slender build. She seems like one who doesn't like her job. Maybe she's only here for the money. 

"Hello,"

"Hello,"

"You look good ..."

"Would you like to order anything?" she asks trying to sound polite.

Silence.

"Thank you," she adds that as an afterthought.  

"No, I'm waiting for ... Oh! here she comes .."

Leila walks in looking glamorous as usual. She walks with the demeanour of a model. She's dressed in a navy blue crop top that flashes her navel, a white fur coat and a tight fitting pair of jeans that flaunts her slender, but curvy figure. Her sweet fragrance wafts in the evening air. She's a natural beauty. I notice a hint of mascara, foundation, lip balm and blusher as our eyes meet. She doesn't look away like most women would do. Her pouch matches her fur coat and her heels, which make her a tad taller than she actually is. I notice this when I stand up to greet her. She kisses me gently on my lips. I pull a seat for her. The music sums up the mood perfectly.

 "I wanna be the one you believe in your heart is sent from ... sent from heaven." Keisha Cole. 

Hours later 

I am awakened by the chime of an alarm clock on the night stand. The room is partially dark save for some light sneaking in through the crack of the slightly open door. The surrounding seems vaguely familiar. A woman is sleeping soundly next to me. I get a dim recollection of last night's events. After a romantic dinner at The Gibson's we headed to Pulp Night Club where we had a couple of drinks before heading to Leila's. I check my phone. Seven o'clock. Two missed calls and a text message. All from Moraa, my wife. It dawns on me. I cheated on my wife last night. My heart pounds angrily against my chest like how an energetic local drummer beats drums during a spirit-filled traditional African church session. I am suddenly engulfed by untold guilt. I feel filthy. Tears well up in my eyes. What am I doing? I have hit rock bottom. 

Back at home you could cut the tension with a knife. Moraa is her usual sulky self. The kids are unaware of the monstrous rift between their parents. My colleagues at work notice a change in me. As much as I feel revolted by the thought of the illicit affair between Leila and me, I just can't help myself. I think about her all the time. She is so mesmerizing .Her amiable personality has a magnetic effect on me. The more I try to end our fling, the more attached to her I become. Moraa's constant bleating about how badly I treat her only serves to compound the situation. I have never laid a finger on her. I always provide all the necessities and some luxuries to the best of my ability.  I am always there for her and the kids.

It's a Tuesday evening. At Five p.m. I head to Tembo to unwind. I find my friend Juma here. He is upbeat and jolly as usual. He doesn't notice my aloofness until I tell him about Leila.

"Women are like smokies, one is never enough," that's what Juma tells me, when I confide in him that I am having an affair. He takes life so casually. I regret involving him in such a  grave matter. He tells me that to him that's not an issue to make a grown man lack sleep.

"Muhudumu" Juma screams at a plump waitress that is walking past our table. " Give my man here a bottle of whiskey. He has grown from a timid, little girl into a man of honour"

I don't see any honour in what I did. I betrayed my family. I betrayed my manhood. Instead of fighting my problems, I simply pushed them away albeit temporarily. I should have fought hard like a lion, but what do you know? I bury my head in the sand like a stupid ostrich. I lacked patience. I ran away like  a coward when my wife needed me most. My innocent kids are too little to comprehend the predicament which their parents are in but I know, in the long run it will affect their growth and development. What I don't know now is that this is just the beginning. I have just opened up a Pandora's box and the events set to follow are bound to change my life forever.

You wouldn't believe this but I soon start spending more time with Leila. It started with a few regular dates at The Gibson's and nights out in and out of town. I have on more than one occasion ran into some of Moraa's friends while with her and I couldn't help but notice their scornful glances. Obviously she has already told them that I barely spend any time at home. I have grown quite indifferent. I am not bothered so much about whether or not I go home. I do not even care much about what Moraa and her evil friends think.

I wake up  at about 6 a.m. An appetizing aroma of fried eggs wafts from the kitchen. Leila is an adept cook. If her geniality won't charm your pants off then most definitely her cooking will. I can hear her set the breakfast table as I step out of the shower. My clothes are pressed and shoes polished. From the living room, she instructs me to get my socks from the lowest drawer in the cabinet. Soon, I'm done getting dressed. As I sink into the couch to have breakfast, she plants a gentle peck on my right cheek. Then she adjust my tie and brushes my hair with her palm. She then blots my brow with a napkin. I dart a glance at the clock. A quarter to seven. I scoff the scrumptious breakfast with a view of beating the morning traffic to work. Fried eggs, freshly baked pancakes and a banana. Soon after I finish my meal, I kiss Leila goodbye and leave. 

The first person I meet as I enter the elevator is Masika, the bubbly receptionist. A comely, chubby woman. She takes a hard, long look at me. 

"You are glowing!" she exclaims. 

"Stop it," I say smiling wryly.  

Luckily enough, She does. She walks away smiling. 

While at work Leila texts me a few times just to see how my day is. It's been a week since I went home. I haven't talked to Moraa on the phone for over a month. It's like we're finally giving up on our troubled marriage. It does not worry me anymore. My estranged wife does not seem concerned either.

At 6 p.m. that evening Leila calls and tells me to meet her in town. She says that she does not intend to cook but promises to buy me dinner. It seems strange that a female university student can offer a man who is employed dinner and even allow him to move in with her. Most of them run after big-bellied  old men only for their money. Leila is quite different from the pack. Come to think of it, she has never asked for my money and even when I offer her some she declines politely. The only time I spend money on her is when I buy household goods to replenish stuff that she's run out of and when I pay for food and drinks at restaurants. I assume that she gets all this money from her rich parents, who she never talks about. 

I wait for thirty minutes before Leila arrives. She apologizes and blames the traffic. She seems a bit preoccupied. I ask her if everything is okay and she affirms that. Throughout the evening she speaks less than she usually does. The meal is tasty. I eat ugali with fish while she opts for chicken and French fries which she barely touches. However, she swigs her glass of strawberry yoghurt in a few gulps. I try to pick up the tab but Leila insists on paying.  I oblige.

We take a cab home. Traffic is light. In about fifteen minutes we're here. This time round I insist on paying the taxi driver. Leila does not protest although I had seen her reach for her purse.  Leila seems anxious-I wonder what's eating her? 

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Inside the house the atmosphere is rather fraught. 

"You seem tense," I break the silence.

"Sweetheart," she smiles, "You worry too much."

"I care about you, and your mood worries me."

"I'm feeling a bit under the weather," she says, "It's trivial."

"If you say so."

"You're a such a darling. Thanks for the concern."

I sit up and watch television. Leila excuses herself and disappears to the bedroom. There is nothing catchy on TV. Mostly it is just the usual stuff about corrupt politicians who only care about their bottomless stomachs. However, one story catches my attention. A news item carries a story about worrying trends among university students-alcoholism, crime, money laundering, drug trafficking, prostitution rings among other ills. It's blood-cuddling but I brush it aside. It's fifteen minutes past ten when I retire to bed. I'm surprised to find Leila still awake. She is lying motionlessly on the bed facing the ceiling. Her face lights up when she sees me.  I join her in bed. Fifteen minutes later, she is fast asleep.

I wake up in the middle of the night. I notice that Leila's side of the bed is empty. I squint to look at my phone screen as the bright light it emits attacks my poor eyes. It is about a quarter to one. I walk to the bathroom door and knock. After a short, anxious while I open it and peep in. It's empty. The guestroom is empty as well. She's not on the couch. I check all the other rooms. She is not in the house. The discovery sends a chill up my spine. Her phone is switched off. I call her friend Sasha. It goes unanswered. I keep trying until her drowsy voice comes in from the other end of the line. She asks me to relax and that Leila is fine. She does not tell me whether or not they are together. I hear a disgruntled male voice in the background. Sasha hangs up promptly. I am worried sick. I sit on the bed, staring at the wall. The house seems hollow and empty like a grave. The ominous silence is sickening.    

I leave the house at 5 a.m. feeling utterly dazed. I had barely left the compound when the loud ringing of my phone flung me from my fuddled state.

"Hey ... "

"Hey, I hope you're fine .. "

"You bet I'm fine! You left in the middle of the night to God  knows where-after a mind-numbing evening!"

"Calm down"

"CALM DOWN?" I yell "I'm perfectly calm. Where the hell are you?"

"I'm on my way over there. Are you in the house?"

"You must be kidding me... "

My mind is immediately clouded with uncertainties. An air of doubt engulfs me.  I feel like  a child who makes a mistake and immediately regrets it. I stand transfixed on the spot like  a frightened prey in the face of imminent death. I then muster the strength to walk back to the house. Barely ten minutes later Leila arrives. The gate squeals as she enters.  Sitting nervously on the couch in the living room, I hear her unbolt the front metallic door. She walks in looking somewhat beat. I feel evil rage building up inside me. I try to push the thought that she might have been with another man to the back of my mind.

Leila sits right next to me and wraps her arm firmly round my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she says ... 

To be continued ...

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Read chapter 3 here.

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