IN LOVE WITH TWO WOMEN CHAPTER 4

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Chapter 4 

“Honey, I’m pregnant,” Leila says. Her voice is steady.

I stare at her blankly. It is unbelievable that I can sink deeper into a quagmire. This labyrinth of love keeps getting more convoluted each passing day. My mind is completely hazy. How do I cut through this complex maze? What have I gotten myself into?

There is pin drop silence.

Leila mumbles inaudibly. She covers her mouth and lets out an involuntary muffled sob.

“I am sorry,” she says after what seems like eternity.

“Don’t be, we will figure something out,” my voice is shaky. My thinking is clouded.

Leila embraces me tightly. I sit motionlessly, gazing blankly. I feel her warm breath on my neck. Her heart beats steadily. Her chest heaves. She sighs and stands up in front of me, her hands akimbo.

“Honey,” she pauses and mops her cheeks. “You have to go back to your family.”

I stand up slowly and walk towards the door, still in a daze.  I turn to look at her. Her face is emotionless. I walk out into the dark night.

 A few years earlier

The matatu is blasting Mos Mos a song by the exciting South C rapper, the late E-sir. It slows down and stops. I alight right in front of the university gate. It is Friday. It is about 6 o’clock. I have to squeeze my way through the sea of people. The place is teeming with students.  I struggle push through the throng.

In Love with Two Women 4

I cannot help but notice some posh cars parked right outside the campus gate. Students at a public university cannot possibly afford such cars. A slender, light skinned girl with pink braids stands out from the crowd. She is dolled up in a luminous green outfit. She struggles to walk in high heeled shoes. Her expensive looking handbag seems heavy. She soon disappears into a waiting Toyota V8 car which speeds off promptly.

Young men loiter aimlessly. On the other hand, most girls look stunning. You would be forgiven to think that they are trying to outdo each other. Some stand in bevies of two or three chatting excitedly while the lonesome ones stand alone, occasionally pacing back and forth and impatiently glancing at their wrist watches or phone screens. As the number of vehicles parked outside the university reduces, so does the number of girls. I hear one of the young men lamenting bitterly that he can’t reach his girlfriend on phone. His jocular friend, while ogling at some girls who walk past them, remarks indifferently that one needs a heavy wallet to maintain a girlfriend on campus. The other fellow walks away seemingly infuriated, with his phone firmly attached to his ear.   

“You guy,” a familiar voice calls from behind me; unmistakably, Junior my cousin.

“Juniour, I was just about to call you,” I say.

“Okay. Let’s bounce. Chunga hawa madem wamekosa form wasikurukie,” he quips in his characteristic witty manner, while struggling to contain his laughter.

He walks off briskly and I follow him.

Juniour studies Bachelor of Commerce at the university. He is in his final year. He is one of my closest cousins. He stays in a small house about a kilometre away from the campus. He leads me into an eatery that is frequented by the students. The food is fairly good and reasonably priced. The food joint is packed with comrades enjoying their evening meals.

Almost all tables are taken. We are lucky to find two empty chairs near the entrance. We sit and place our orders. I order fried beef, sukuma and ugali while Juniour orders fried fish with ugali. We spend the next fifteen or so minutes munching away while catching up. It has been three months since I visited him. I stay a few kilometres away but because of my busy schedule, I have no luxury of visiting friends and family.

Soon after, we are done eating. We leave for Juniour’s house after he pays. Suddenly, I realize that my phone and wallet are missing. We decide to rush back. Hardly had we moved when see a lady rushing in our direction.

“Hi, you dropped your property,” she says, almost running out of breath.  She hands me the phone and the wallet. I fumble to confirm that the contents are intact.

“Wow! I can’t thank you enough. That’s so kind of you.” I remark.

“You are welcome,” the lady replies shyly.

“Thank you, we’ll be on our way now,” Juniour says handing her some cash.

The lady declines the offer and walks away. For a second, we watch her as she disappears around the corner.

I spend the night at Juniour’s. We work on some business idea. After an intellectual intercourse, we both retire to bed.

Throughout the night, I cannot help but think about the kind lady. Nairobi is a hotbed of evil and you would be hard-pressed to find a benevolent person. The whole country is simply devoid of moral values. Most people are avaricious and selfish. The leaders are the embodiment of corruption and abuse of power. The police force is rotten. The education system is a copy pasted version of the British one. The curriculum places emphasis on achieving academic success at the expense of promoting virtues like kindness and contentment. Religious education does not promote social ethics. It is concerned majorly with Jewish, Arabic or Hindu folklore, some of which does not aid in solving the predicaments facing the country presently. I feel the need to trace the lady and reward her.

Present day

The Uber taxi arrives promptly. Baraka is a jolly driver. He does not talk much. Thankfully, he does not interfere with my musings. The journey is a quiet, thoughtful one. We stay stuck in traffic for a tense moment. The snarl up eases and we are soon on our way. I call Musa and we agree to meet up in town. Moraa and the kids moved to some insecure neighbourhood in Eastlands. Musa has agreed to take me there.

A light drizzle ushers us into the central business district. Streets are buzzing with activity. Most shops are still open. Hawkers are shouting themselves hoarse and literally pushing and pulling potential clients. They are also on the lookout for city council askaris. Voices of touts and hawkers dominate the evening air. This is punctuated by loud honking of matatus and buses. It is a mad rush. You have to jostle your way through small crowds since everyone seems to be in a hurry to get wherever they are going. As some walk home hurriedly, others are setting up their wares on the streets ready to make a night time killing. The streets are teeming with all sorts of people including pickpockets, muggers and rogue police officers. 

I call Musa. He is already in town. I tell him my exact location. I spot him shoving through a crowd. His clothes are dripping wet. He hops into the taxi and we are soon on our way. After greetings, he tells the driver about the destination. Musa peers at me in the darkness as I try to break the ice. His aloofness makes the mood in the vehicle tense. He speaks very little throughout the short journey, mostly to the driver telling him about the best possible route to use.

Musa signals the driver to stop after a twenty-minute drive from the city centre. I wipe the frost off the car window with the back of my hand, trying to make out where we are. It looks a spooky neighbourhood to say the least. Most houses appear old and decrepit. They are closely packed together. I lower my window to get a keener look. I immediately get a whiff of a heady waft of malodorous air.

“I wouldn’t roll down the window if I were you,” Musa warns me.

I quickly raise it shut. I pay Baraka and we alight. He speeds off.

 We start walking. I miss a step and land into a fetid puddle.  I cover my nose with my hand and wave to ward off the dank smell. Musa leads the way walking briskly. I follow him closely. We walk for longer than I expected. I can barely see the road. The path is really dark. There is no one else out here.  It is cold. We walk on despite the unremitting drizzle. My shirt is soaking. It clings onto my shivering body. We walk past several dilapidated homes. Every now and then we have to hop over an open sewer or some filthy puddle.

Suddenly Musa stops. He puts his index finger across his lips, cautioning me to be silent. A sick feeling grips me. My throat tightens. Ahead of us, four dark figures approach. We stay in the shadows. The four men walk towards us. I can hear Musa’s heart hammering in his chest. He struggles in vain to conceal his panic. I am worse off. My legs are wobbly and hands cold and clammy.

The young men walk up to Musa and ask him something. Raw panic is in his voice. They let us go without much hassle. One of the men is holding something that glimmers in the little light from a dim street lamp-a knife. Fresh terror rears up within me as we hurriedly walk away.

We stop in front of a small house with a green door. Musa raps at the door gently. I hear approaching footsteps. The curtain is pulled to one side. A face peers outside from inside the dark house. Musa clears his throat noisily. The door creaks open. A light switch clicks.

 Moraa stands in the dark doorway. It is raining. For a brief moment, I stay rooted to the spot dripping, staring in her direction. She remains silent, her gaze firmly fixed on me. She stands with one hand across her chest and the other on her cheek as if to support her head. She must have been mystified by my absence. Amani joins her at the doorway. The child tugs Moraa’s nightdress. She yawns, looking at me. Her eyes are sad and drowsy.  Moraa lifts the baby and disappears into the house. I look at Musa, feeling confused. He walks into the house. I can hear him talking to Moraa. Moraa’s voice is laden with discord. Musa gives in. He walks out and asks me to follow him.

I wonder where we are going. Musa remains silent but walks very fast. The rain persists. After about 15 minutes, he stops in front of a crumbling house. It is nothing more than a shack. The miserable, decaying walls stare back at us sadly. Musa lets himself. The door is not even locked. It creaks painfully as he flings it open, almost tearing it off its rusty hinges. For an uncertain split second, I hesitate. I can hear zooming cars in the distance. This city never sleeps. I walk into the shack with faltering steps. Musa is fumbling for something in the dark, using his phone screen as a source of light. A dim bulb lights up the small room when he clicks a light switch. The light makes me squint trying to acclimatize the sudden change, after walking in the darkness for a while.

The house is stuffy and crammed with furniture. It is a one room house, partitioned by an ageing curtain. I notice two little girls sleeping on the floor. I can hear someone snoring on the other side of the curtain. I catch a whiff of urine. Musa sits on the only available chair, looking exhausted. He welcomes me to squeeze in beside him. He falls asleep as soon as his head touches the armrest. I glance at my phone. It is about 11 p.m. 

Moraa did not say a single word to me. You cannot blame her. I think she may have given up on the marriage. I will not allow my marriage to crumble right before my eyes. I will not let my kids suffer. I will fight like a man. We cannot surely throw everything away, can we? I have to cut down on the drinking. That is not a problem. Once I patch things up with my wife, I will obviously imbibe less often. I may even quit all together. I am not an unfaithful man. I have made some unwise decisions and dealt with the consequences but that is how life is. I knew all along that marriage is not a bed of roses. So far it has been one bumpy ride. I am glad, however, that life has not been that unfair. My wife and I are both alive and my children are healthy. It could have been worse.

I have barely slept for two hours. I am awakened by terrified screams of a woman. A ruckus ensues right in front of me. A hefty man rains blows on a poor woman. Musa watches helplessly. The man is heavily intoxicated. Screams of the frightened children rent the night air. The woman runs out of the house into the darkness. I can still hear her fading screams. The man barely takes a look at us. He staggers heavily and disappears behind the makeshift curtain. The kids who were sleeping on the floor are still sobbing. Musa has neither said a word nor moved an inch. I choose to follow his lead. I cannot go back to sleep.

It is 3 a.m. when the woman returns, shivering. Her face is badly bruised. It most certainly takes a regular battering. Her dress is torn and stained with drops of blood. The kids are fast asleep. She stands in the middle of the house and stares timidly in our direction. I squeeze up against Musa to make room for her on the seat. She jams in beside me and now the three of us are crammed up on the single seat available in the room. She is cold. Her eyes are red from crying. Her hair is a tangled mess. I have many questions on my mind. I choose to remain silent.

Musa and I leave at the crack of dawn. He tells me that that house belongs to Baya his elder brother. He is an alcoholic who beats up his hapless wife for no apparent reason. The woman is accustomed to the battering. She has endured it for the last ten years and shows no sign of leaving. If she stays in that house she may leave in a casket. Musa tells me then that Moraa wants nothing to do with me. We part ways at the bus stop. I have to go to work.

I take a matatu. I feel weary. Traffic is already building up steadily. When I arrive, I walk slowly towards the building that houses our offices. The security guard gives me a quizzical look. I shake his hand and slowly walk up the stairs. I sit silently at my desk. Masika sends me an inquiring look from her desk. She shakes her head slowly and walks away. Everybody else at the office looks at me suspiciously, or so it seems.

For most part of the day I simply go through the motions at work. I am distracted. My mind is disturbed. At lunch time I sit alone at the small restaurant downstairs. When Masika comes in, she walks straight to where I am seated. She sits quietly for a brief, tense second. I smile and greet her, breaking the strained silence.

“Hey?”

“Hey,” she replies drily.  

  

“How are you doing?” I ask nervously.

“I am worried about you buddy,” she says concernedly.

“I have never been better,”

“Everyone here knows about ...” she hesitates. “Everyone knows that Moraa moved to Eastlands. They know about you and the young girl.”

“They do?” I choke.

“People talk bro,” she says.

I am getting fidgety.

“Even Baraza does,” she adds with a sigh.

Baraza is our boss.

With that, she leaves. After lunch I head straight to, you guessed it, Tembo bar.  Hey! Don't you dare judge me! Do you think I am deliberately ruining my life? Fate, my friend, is a force beyond our control. I walk absentmindedly into the bar. It is virtually empty, as you would expect. It is 2 p.m. Only problem drinkers can be found in a pub at such a time. It is surely ungodly to start drinking at midday.

That notwithstanding, I take my seat and order whiskey. I have not had a decent meal lately so I will not take it neat. I ask the young waitress to bring some ice cubes. Right now, Jack Daniels on the rocks sounds like a good idea. I realize that the prickly, long serving waitress has since been replaced. I like this one more. She is relatively short and dark. She is clad in a black figure hugging dress that barely goes beyond her thighs. She brings back the ice cubes and opens my bottle of whiskey. She then sits next to me. The tranquil air is filled with soft Rhumba music.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

“Zena,” she whispers. Her voice is husky and titillating.

“Would like to join me? Get a glass.” I offer her a drink.

“No thanks,” she smiles sweetly. “You know I have to work, don’t you?”

“Come on,” I am obstinate.

I walk to the shelf and return with two cans of Smirnoff-the sweet one that ladies like. Everyone calls it Guarana.   Zena looks at me grinning. I pop the tab on the can. She is astonished at my audacity, it seems.

“Welcome,” I say extending the glass to her.

She accepts with a sigh of capitulation.

More patrons walk in and Zena has to attend to them. She is charming and everyone here seems to like her. By 4 p.m. the place is almost packed. That is unusual. Zena must have a magnetic effect on the customers. Her presence here has created an alluring atmosphere. The relaxed ambiance of the bar coupled with the soothing music seems popular with the clients. Every time she serves the drinks, Zena returns and sits next to me and sips her drink. We chat cheerfully as if we have known each other for ages. Her gregarious personality complements her natural beauty. She is a diligent worker and seems to care more for her job than the money. I am not sure if it is the liquor kicking or whether I am simply beguiled by her good looks.

I leave Tembo at 5 p.m. The sky is clear but it looks like it will rain later tonight. Where do I go to now? I have no idea. Moraa will not take me back now. I have to think of a way to mend fences with her. She is the mother of my kids.  She will be relieved when I make peace with her. I cannot go to Leila’s. There is a skeleton in the cupboard and I have to keep it that way for now. I can only imagine how Moraa reacts when she learns that Leila is expecting my baby. It will only compound our fraught relationship.  We will cross that bridge when we come to it.

I notice a lady waving at me across the street. She beckons me. It is Rukia! I cross the street fleetly. She is bubbling with enthusiasm.

“Let me buy you a drink,” she says after we exchange greetings.

“I am already a little buzzed,” I reply.

“I insist. I know a good place just around the corner. They have decent meals. You will love it!” She is uncharacteristically genial today.

“I wouldn’t say no to a free meal”

“Yes!” she jumps for joy.

Rukia is unusually vivacious and I like it. Since I have nowhere else to be and nowhere else to go, I comply without putting up a fight. I will grab a meal with her and later book myself into a hotel where I would spend the night. I promise myself to drink modest amounts of alcohol, if I have to, since I have a lot to do at work tomorrow.

She takes me to an eatery called Chomz Grill. I take roasted beef with ugali and we wash it down with a cold beer. Rukia eats chicken with chapatti. Rukia is so lively. She offers to pay for the food and buys more drinks. A live band plays beautiful Congolese music. The TV screens here are showing live football matches. The place is full of lively revelers.

Time flies. I realize it is already past midnight. We are joined by two young ladies and a man, Rukia’s friends. We spend the next hour or so dancing and carousing.

“I have had a ball,” I have to shout over the music and voices of the uproarious party. “But I have to go now.”

“Hey, relax party pooper! Where do you plan to go?” Rukia says in a shrill voice.

“I need to hit the sack, busy day tomorrow!”

“I will get you a place to sleep. It’s too late. This city is unsafe!”

One of Rukia’s friends has a nice Volkswagen Golf.  She offers us a ride. Her name is Hawa. She is the only member of the party that has been taking a non alcoholic drink. Rukia stays in town. The drive to town is brief. We alight in front of a two-storey building right in the middle of the city. We go through a corridor that ushers us into an open space that has rooms on either side. Rukia fumbles in her bag, finds a key and opens one of the doors. It’s a single room with a spacious bed and a small couch. It also has a bathroom. She disappears for a while and returns with a pair of slippers and a large, cotton towel. On the small table next to the bed are a tube of toothpaste and a roll of toilet paper.

Rukia gives me a hug and wishes me a goodnight.

This is becomes new home for the next couple of weeks. After work, we take usually two or three drinks at a small pub in front of the building before I retire to my small room. Rukia has been so kind. She has grown from an acquaintance to a bosom friend.  We talk a lot and enjoy each other’s company unlike in the past. She works as a bar tender at the small pub. She also manages the rooms behind the pub. I tell her about Leila and some scanty details about my relationship with my wife. She is so compassionate. She asks me to reconcile with Moraa for the sake of the children and for the general good of my family. I agree. I tell her that that is my intention. I have been meaning to do that for some time now. 

I have since made a few attempts to meet Moraa but she has been rebuffing me in no uncertain terms. My attempts to extend an olive branch are spurned at the earliest opportunity. I have tried to wheedle my way into her heart but she would hear none of it.

I lay on the bed thinking about Amani and Pendo. My heart is filled with poignant nostalgia. The shouting and music from the nearby pub melt into an imperceptible drone. Nothing can drown my sorrow anymore. I feel like my whole world is crushing. The future is as dark as the moonless, village nights. I am losing my family. I may never see my children again. I am losing my mind. I am pouring with sweat, and my head is spinning. I am gripped with intense anxiety. I am aware of my environment but I am unable to move or speak. I can hear distinct voices of laughing children. The room is dark. The guttural laughing persists. I try to scream. My mouth is open but no sound comes out.

Suddenly, my mind goes blank!

I am on the floor. I hear noises of merrymakers from the pub. A song by Madilu and Franco is blaring.

“Boya makambo ezali binene eh

Franco a beleli na Paris eh, eh

Balobi makambo ezali binene eh,

makambo ezali binene eh”

I pick my phone from the dresser. There is a new message from Moraa. It simply reads: “Let’s meet tomorrow at 10.00 a.m. You will have 30 minutes with the kids.” I can barely read properly through my teary eyes. I cannot believe it. I am relieved. Finally, I have a chance to be with my kids.

It's a bright Tuesday morning. I leave my abode fifteen minutes to 9. I am in a taxi heading to Kid’s Planet where I am supposed to meet Moraa. It is now 9 a.m. I have to get there early and wait for her. My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Moraa. I hope she has not changed her mind. That would kill me. I am surprised more than pleased when she says that she is ten minutes away from the park. I reassure her that I am on my way. The phone buzzes again 10 minutes later. What now? It is a new number this time round.

“Hello! Hello!” a female voice cries with urgency.

“Hello, may I help you?”

“Drop everything you are doing and come to Maisha Care hospital. She is in ICU,” the woman says frantically. The voice sounds vaguely familiar.

“Who is this?”  I ask.

 “They beat her badly. She was bleeding. You have to come now!” the woman is sobbing uncontrollably.

“Please calm down …”

“Sorry, this is Sasha. Leila is in bad shape!” she hangs up. 

I am lost for words. 

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