by Peter Kimani
Stesh is a full woman. Her legs make the sweatpants look like tights, and I don’t want to imagine the friction being caused as her thighs brush against one another. Her waist resembles that Michelin Man ad and her tits are voluptuous, her hoodie encasing them well. Her weave crowns her head, with tresses that cascade around her face. She’s pretty, yet plain. She looks like one of those women who is never seen in public without makeup. Mbiu would like her. He likes this African form of beauty. He often says, “If you are going to climb a mountain, why not climb Kilimanjaro? Hills have no thrills.” He thinks of himself as a wordsmith. He is foolish and spews a bravado that I foolishly worship. He apes his older brother in order to hide his poor self-esteem, and we say nothing and let him be the de facto leader of Trinity.
“Uko, mfit,” Stesh compliments me. “Unaenda gym?” As she asks, her hands quickly prod and paw my biceps. I regret wearing this polo shirt.
“Asante,” I respond, not wanting to appear rude. “Naenada kiasi, just enough. Nikujaribu, au sio?”
She chuckles, and I quickly change the radio station to a Christian one, hoping it will distract her. She chuckles again.
“Even Adam needed Eve. You are gay?” she asks.
We both laugh. She’s witty; I’ll give her that and only that. I notice her right hand is no longer on me, but resting between her thighs. I’m shocked that it can fit between them considering the girth of those things! I steel my gaze forward, focusing on the hawkers and buyers that line Toi Market. Trying to ignore Stesh, I remember how Woodley was once a clean and orderly neighborhood. It had respect then; now it’s a mitumba, a secondhand haven, with overgrown hedges and lengths of elephant grass.
“Kuna joto leo,” Stesh says. Her voice is attempting to sound seductive. From the corner of my eye I see her hand massaging her thigh. We both know that she’s not talking about the weather. And I am back at Number Sita.
* * *
“How old are you, kijana? Feeling hot today?” asked the hooker who stared at me as she placed her calabash-shaped bottom on her bed.
“Mimi si kijana,” I replied with an added gruffness to my voice, trying to mask my nervousness. She was beautiful, sensual, and carried a seductiveness that quickly birthed a hard-on. I was scared that I’d cum even before I’d get to undress. I sat next to her and touched her. Her skin was soft and warm. Her perfume too flowery and she smelled of pomade. I looked her in the eye, inched toward her, and said nothing. The less I spoke the better, and I realized that was the only way I’d win her respect. My mouth needed to get to work. I was about to kiss her, but decided against it; I didn’t want to appear romantic. I changed tactic, kneeled before her, and clumsily but forcefully parted her creamy thighs. They were so tender. I quickly saw the surprised look on her face; her eyes widened. I smiled. A wave of calm settled in, tempering my excitement. A surge of raw teenage power took over. This is what it is to be a man, I thought.
“Ya leo ni mengi . . .” she started to say. I didn’t let her finish the sentence, and proceeded to bury myself in her depths, just the way Nana had taught us. “God” came into our room. Her lack of underwear made things even easier. She became even softer.
* * *
“Nyanje, si you’ll help me with my shopping when we fika home?” Stesh asks, removing me from Kilimani past to Kilimani present.
“Sawa, madam,” I respond. Hoping that by calling her madam she’ll feel old and insulted. She looks like she’s nearing thirty. Stesh won’t age well, I note.
“Poa! Super!” she says gleefully. I am being pawed again. Then the smell comes. The ghosts that perfumed Number Sita.
* * *
Almost an hour after our arrival we met outside Number Sita. Morris was already seated on the culvert beside TWR. I nodded at Morris, and he smiled back. I silently sat next to him. Mbiu was the last to emerge. He came up to us and immediately passed his index finger under our noses. We inhaled and said nothing. We smiled, seemingly victorious in our quest. No tales were exchanged. We had become men, or so we thought. How that happened, if it happened, only Number Sita knew. Our Saturdays would never be the same. We’d all go back to Number Sita, but never again as a group. We had started building our private worlds. But that day we all walked off victorious, singing Ini Kamoze’s “Here Comes the Hot Stepper,” though we only sang, “Na, na, na, na, na, nah.”
* * *
I notice, as we approach the Adams Arcade Shopping Centre, that my palms are feeling clammy. A wave of anxiety crashes into me. Stesh is no longer interested in me and has turned her attention to her phone, which is more responsive than I am. I drop her off outside the Tuskys Supermarket and we agree that I’ll let her know where I park. This arcade was our old stomping ground. It was here we had dates at the Taurus Restaurant. We bought our first beers from Tumbo’s Bar. There was the corner store that only closed on New Years Day, the supermarket, the post office, the butcher, the bookstore, the antique store, the Metropole Cinema with its cheap action movies, and the area behind the cinema—the spot. I am back in my once-upon-a-time. The only parking spots available are taking me back to the one place that I didn’t want to go.
* * *
It was Friday night. We were at Adams. We had enough money between us for a beer each and a few sachets of vodka—minipacks, as they were called. We weren’t happy drinking inside Tumbo’s Bar with the wazee, as the old men were unruly and lecherous toward the women in the bar. We stationed ourselves under a loquat tree that was in the recesses of the parking lot. We shared cigarettes, booze, and laughter. Mbiu was in full form that day with another one of his tales, and as always we were his ready audience. From our vantage point we got an unobstructed view of the walkway that lined the shops. We saw Nana and a young woman whom we assumed was her girlfriend. Nana carried her trademark rucksack which probably held her training gear and basketball.
“That’s Nana and the . . .” Mbiu didn’t finish his sentence. We all knew where we had seen the leggy, slim, curvaceous woman walking beside her. Number Sita. No one said anything, but our silent stares confirmed that we had all bitten from the same fruit. This was one of those times when eyes couldn’t hold back secrets.
Nana walked into Tumbo’s alone and to our surprise came out with Auntie Charlotte. I ignored Mbiu and Morris. The women’s body language seemed comfortable with one another. They seemed to be a trinity too. Auntie Charlotte and Nana’s girlfriend walked into Tumbo’s and Nana headed around the back of the building. She air-dribbled as she walked, and we knew she was in her happy place. The back route through Woodley was the shortest way home for her. The rear of the building was also where a lot of sex took place and where weed was smoked. It was Ado’s main spot, but we weren’t yet of age to venture there. We went back to ourselves and let our girl be.
But we also saw Mbiu’s older brother and two other men walk out of Tumbo’s and head to the back, probably to smoke weed, we thought. We returned our attention to Mbui and his storytelling.
Almost twenty minutes later we saw Nana’s basketball roll itself from the back. We had never seen the ball wander by itself. Where was Nana and why wasn’t she coming to pick up her ball? We watched in silence as it continued to roll. Then it stopped, along with our hearts. A few minutes later, Mbiu’s brother and the other two men emerged from the darkness. There was a shiftiness to their walk, but also a confidence. One of them kicked the ball hard into the darkness. They walked back into Tumbo’s laughing among themselves. Mbiu stood up and moved away from us, heading toward the bus stop.
“Morris!” I called. Hoping that he’d know what to do. I noticed his eyes were glassy.
Morris gave a feeble but sharp shout and, to my surprise, chased after Mbiu. I was alone. I found myself running toward Tumbo’s and Auntie Charlotte. Safety. I buried Mbiu and Morris after that night.
* * *
I now find myself parked under the same loquat tree. There are too many ghosts coming out today. I know I’ll have to eventually drive back past to
exit. I’m sweating profusely and breathing heavily, and then I’m breaking down. After all these years, I unearth my tears for Nana. It is only when I look up from my steering wheel and through my salted eyes that I notice the basketball courts behind the building.
ANDAKI
by Kinyanjui Kombani
Dandora
It was the tap on the shoulder that stopped the young man in his tracks, a sharp, urgent tap that bore into his collarbone. The pain shot through his shoulder, and he whipped his head around.
The panting, sweaty face of a shorter, darker man met his.
"Ah! Kocha!" his face broke into a smile.
The shorter man waved his hand as if in surrender. He bent over, his hands on his knees, still panting like a petrified thief who had just survived a mob attack. He coughed and mumbled something.
The young man removed the large headphones that covered half his head.
"I've been . . . calling . . . out for . . . you," Kocha's words came in short bursts. He coughed again. "Those headphones will be the death of you. Can you even hear a car approaching?"
The young man shrugged and turned his head toward the road. Kocha followed his gaze. He probably got an answer to the question he had posed, because he looked down again and coughed some more.
The road was flanked on both sides by hundreds of traders with wares sprawled on the ground, on wheelbarrows, and on platforms made from materials ranging from pallets, roughly hewn stones, metal frames, and sticks. Only a madman would drive on the road at a speed high enough to knock anyone down.
"Are you okay?" the young man asked Kocha. He pulled a device from his pocket and touched a button.
"Niko fomu," I am fine, came the labored answer. "Za wapi?" Where are you going?
"Niko tu hivi, raundi mwenda," the young man responded—I am just making my rounds.
Kocha's eyes fell on the bag the young man was holding, then stayed there for enough time to make the young man's eyes flinch. Then both men looked away.
"I've been searching everywhere for you," Kocha told him. Then, after taking a long breath, he continued, "Our game was moved forward to this afternoon. I have to raise a team."
"Wah!" The young man's jaw dropped.
"Yes, you should get a phone, man. This idea of running all over to look for you, haileti shangwe. It is not pleasing at all."
If the young man heard the complaint about the phone, it didn't register on his face. He stared into the distance, as if there was a phone for him in the middle of the street. "How many people have you gathered?" he asked.
"Three," Kocha responded weakly.
"Three?" The young man's face looked like he had been hit by the butt of a policeman's G3 rifle. "What time is kickoff?"
"Three o'clock." Kocha straightened up. He was still breathing heavily. With a sweep of his finger, he wiped the sweat off his brow, then snapped the finger expertly to splash the sweat into the ditch next to them. "And you know this is a do-or-die game for us. Will you make it?" Kocha's eyes briefly scoured the bag that the younger man held, before moving up. Their eyes locked for a moment and then Jobo looked away.
"I have to take care of something first," the young man said, staring past Kocha.
Jobo didn't stop gazing off even when Kocha slid into an alley next to an electrical repair shop marked, Kaka Fundi wa Radio. His mind was elsewhere. He was looking past the man and far into the crowd. After a few seconds he slipped his headphones back on and walked ahead, clutching the bag tighter.
Still, he did not move toward his destination. He made a long detour into Grao.
Grao lay smack in the middle of Dandora Phase 1 and 2. A tall stone fence now surrounded the grounds, the product of turf wars between the big church neighboring it and the many land grabbers.
Jobo remembered the fights that had been waged for control of Grao, pitting angry men against each other, each bolstered by teams of hirelings armed with crude weapons. Most times, the winner was decided by the size of the gang he could hire. Having the right land-ownership papers was no evidence of ownership—each party had genuine title deeds signed and stamped by the Ministry of Lands, which they did not hesitate to wave at their opponents.
Currently, the church had hold on the land, courtesy of the area Member of Parliament who had made it a campaign pledge to secure the grounds. The church had quickly put up the fence. But Jobo knew that the ownership was only temporary, until someone with more clout than the MP prevailed. Only time would tell. The cartels were biding their time. It would not be a surprise to soon see a block of houses being built, using stones from the wall. This was Dandora.
How his brother Roba had found himself among the marauding gangs one afternoon remained a story to be told for generations to come. He had been hanging out at base when someone came in with the news that there was some quick money to be made. All one needed to do was obtain any ugly-looking weapon that would scare people away. The prospect of earning five hundred shillings was too tempting, and Roba found himself shouting himself hoarse at another group of youth, daring them to come closer if they wanted to meet their maker. It was after a lot of shouting and daring that he had been told the other side was paying a thousand shillings, and he immediately switched sides.
Oftentimes, those confrontations did not turn violent. After all, the gangs knew their rival gangs and would meet in the estates after the financiers had departed. At other times, though, especially when the gangs were from other estates like Kariobangi and Huruma, things could indeed turn violent.
The police, who mostly just hung around watching the gangs threaten each other with fire and brimstone, would swing into action if the situation became bloody. When this happened, the estate would shut down.
Jobo was startled out of his reverie by the sight of a ball zooming toward him. A series of loud gasps escaped from the nearby football field. The ball was coming straight at his head.
Instinctively, he bent down. The ball whizzed by, just an inch from his head. He somehow stopped it with his right foot, bouncing it over his head and over to his waiting left leg. Then he flipped it to his right leg and hit it back into the field, all this time carefully watching the bag in his right hand.
"Wow!" A wave of admiration crossed the field. A few people clapped.
The field was filled with spectators and football players in kits of different colors. He had been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn't even noticed he had strayed into the field.
He clutched the bag tightly and crossed the road again. He was now facing the direction he had come. If someone was following him, they would realize that he had been walking in circles all along.
He took another quick glance behind him. There was nobody. Satisfied, he slid into an alley.
A few moments later he emerged into a small clearing. On his left side, a black gate stood high in the sky, only matched in height by a wall built with roughly hewn stone. The colorful bougainvillea leaves peered above the stone fence. In many parts, the leaves overhung the wall, crawling almost to his height, leaving an uneven, unkempt shape.
Opposite the gate, on all four sides, were buildings facing the road, away from the black gate. The only way into the compound was the alley Jobo had come in through. Nobody knew who the owner of the plot of land in the middle was. In the estate, there were such pockets of land, marooned for the moment, until someone claimed them.
Jobo picked a small stone and hit it against the wall. Three sharp raps. He glanced toward the alley.
Every time he came here, while waiting for the gate to be opened, he always expected someone to jump in from the alley. He always had a knot in his stomach, which was only unwrapped by a cough on the other side of the fence.
"Amani," he mumbled the password. Peace.
There was a slight pause on the other side of the gate, and then Jobo heard a click as a key turned in the lock, then the welcome sound of a bolt sliding out of place. The gate opened slowly and someone peeped past Jobo's frame and toward the
alley.
"You are late," the man said plainly, as he stepped back to let Jobo in. The statement was neither an accusation nor a lament.
"You are lucky I even came," Jobo responded. "There is a game this afternoon. Tona."
"Tona? So your tournament is more important than us?"
Jobo did not look in any way perturbed. Instead of answering, he pushed past the younger man and walked toward the house. He could feel the guy's eyes on him.
The house was old. It was not like many of the Dandora houses which were multiple stories. Its wall was lined with plaster and smothered with white chalk—if you looked closely you could see the finger shapes of the people who did the plastering.
There was a small compound which could fit two cars, but it was clear that no vehicle had driven into this compound in the recent past. A small, freshly weeded and watered vegetable garden stood where ordinarily there would be a car park. Rows of healthy looking kale and spinach stalks waved cheerfully.
With his left foot, Jobo kicked aside a watering can, perhaps more forcefully than was necessary. The younger man walking behind him clicked his tongue as he picked up the can and placed it aside.
Above the metal door was a small handwritten sign: ANDAKI.
"Ah! Finally!" someone said from inside the house even before Jobo went in. He recognized Roba's voice.
Before he could respond, a few other shapes emerged from somewhere in the house. Within a second, the bag was yanked away from his hand and its contents removed. There were four large bowls and two large flasks.
"Kuna nini leo?" Roba asked as he smacked his lips. What is there for us? But he clearly was not waiting for a response. He was already opening the lid.
"You guys are hyenas." Jobo relaxed into a sofa as the four young men congregated around the dining table behind him. The sofa was not comfortable. Age had eaten into the cushions, and he could feel the hard wood press into his bones.