Dying by Bits

She crossed River Athi, spit at the water and cursed. She watched her thick saliva dance on the water, a dart she only saw in her basic Chemistry lessons when Mr. Thuita dropped a pinch of sodium into a glass of water.

What the fuck was all that education for? After two years in secondary school, which can be summed up to one year for the trips on and off, home, she became a woman. Her chest was inviting, the way the pastor sends invitation cards to village members lost in Nairobi city for a choir instruments harambee.

She had legs, two long and strong legs, a characteristic of beauty in both village and city terms. She had overgrown her short black skirt, but she still insisted spotting it. This made it hang on her like nuts on a madman, revealing yellowness of the legs and red underwear when seated. Last Sunday the vicar bubbled some words when their eyes met, getting lost in the middle of the sermon before his eloquence rescued him.

Mueni was sixteen, ripe sixteen. Her aunty had insisted on taking her to a place called Mlolongo where money flows like beer froth, forming a patch on the table for the barmaid to wipe. Her aunt, Wanza, once told her that she won’t have to collect coins from the ground as there are creatures down in the food chain to do that.

Armed with several English sentences and a strong accent scented Swahili, Mueni let out a loud fart, showing her back to the village, and another one, to say goodbye to the good-for-nothing fellows who had written misery on her book, since day one . The next few strides were filled with energy, power and enthusiasm, the kind of enthusiasm seen on Television screens in the evening as the British accented news anchors fill sitting rooms with body curves and smiles in between tales of killings in Mpeketoni and female genital mutilation in Wajir.

The yellow paper bag housed her fortune. She had an extra pair of pants, black. Her English teacher, Mr. Kimeu had insisted on black colour as it showed very little dust patches. The memory of how she lost her white pair of pants was still clear in her mind. Mr. Kimeu had promised to be gentle in breaking her virginity but ended up forcing himself inside as if he was screwing a whore. The pain was seething, loud, tangible and satanic. The first chance she got to sit up, she stood, ran like a dik dik, cursing the dick, that thing is fucking awful.

The following day she tried to find the bush where the play had been acted to little success.  The teacher had carried her pants away just in case she thought of revealing it to the chief. Not that the chief would take any action, but he would get a chance to extort some coins from Mr. Kimeu in blackmail. The next day in school, Mueni and Mr.Kimeu exchanged guilty glances. He even spared her when he was sending the other students for fees and gave her a five hundred shillings note, to buy something called E-pill and a new pair of panties, specifically black. Apparently, the white pair he took home had the colour of soil and a terrible smell.

Inside the yellow paper there was a pair of scissors (for shaving her pubic hair), the purple dress donation from her best friend, her faded school uniform and three photographs.

In one of the photograph she was smiling to the camera while receiving an award for been the best girl in the national exams two years ago, in Makueni County. The second one had her sick mum clutching the Rosary in her hospital bed, death bed. The doctors said the cancer had spread to her lungs and she would be lucky to survive another week.

It is the third photo which stirred mystery. She had dug it out from her mum’s closet after the burial. It was a perfect black and white shot. Her mum, in heavy heels, was holding to the bosom of a well built man, giggling (or smiling). The man had big eyes, a perfect haircut and he was clad in perfect jeans and a fitting T-shirt. Mueni felt indifferent, an indifference which swung to brief sadness then curiosity. That, perhaps, was the reason why she still treasured the photo. She thought, at least, her mum had happy moments once upon a time.

Her journey to Mlolongo was awesome. The corners at Makongo road swayed her, making her lean on the middle aged man sitting beside her, with the man taking revenge every time the bus slanted on the opposite. She wasn’t sure but she saw something like a protrusion on his trousers. She had seen a man in the circumstances before, Mr. Kimeu. “What do men take us for?”, She thought, “quarries? Holes?”.

Thank God her aunty, Wanza, was waiting for her at the stage. Everything seemed different. She saw the Royal Tavern bar and restaurant which she had heard about in many songs by Wa Maria and other wannabes.

(to be continued)