LETTER TO JACQUELINE

 Dear Jacqueline
This will be my last letter this year. I did not write
to you as much as I did last year… or the year
before. I hope this pattern does not leak into 2015.
Our love should be growing and not otherwise.
As I write this, I am seated on a wooden chair at
the verandah of my cousins 'thingira’ (A thingira is a
house built by kikuyu      young men in their fathers compound
when they come of age) listening to Sauti sol's sura yako. The grass is wet and the ground
murky with mud and cow defecate. The air is fresh
and virgin with a few bird chirps. It is by all
standards – relaxing! It was a bit scary as our
Prado danced in the mud on our way here in the
middle of the night in the middle of wild tea
plantations the night before — but it was worth it!
2014 has been a great year… Everyone says that.
My M – Ledger says otherwise though. The most
memorable bit of 2014 was shaking Jeff koinange ‘s hand. It happened in a fragment of a
second. My heart almost stopped with excitement.
•••

I went to shop for a roseate shirt to go with my
cobalt Nick Ondu suit for to be worn to my friends
wedding (that was graced by The Hart band by the way)
. The shirt I had ordered for online from Next UK
was not going to get here in time. Before I took a
matatu to town, I decided to check the stalls in
Nairobi West if they had anything that would tickle
my fancy.
I decided to take the flyover because people were
being arrested for not using it to cross the road. Iy
had never used a fly over before in my life. I had
heard all sorts of stories about them though.
Stories about their ordure burdened nature are
common. Street kids and thugs crawl those
bridges and one is never advised to use it at night.
Once you are atop a flyover, nothing can save
you… Nothing but a fateful jump on a busy road.

I went to two shops in Nairobi West but got
nothing. I was looking for a vivid pink shirt. I
bought a random shirt I loved though. A purple
shirt with tiny white paisleys. The shirt was so
fresh that I decided to wear it immediately. I
stuffed the black shirt I was wearing in a ‘juala’
and set off to to town. Very few things get me
excited; a fitting purple shirt is one of them and
paisley is another!
On the way back I took the flyover once more. But
this time, unlike last time, I was not the only one
on the flyover. Let me explain.
There was a couple on the furthest opposite end of
the flyover walking slowly with their hands tangled
together. Between the couple and I was a street
child who had one hand held out asking for money
with the other had tucked behind his back as
though in respect or so I thought.
The couple saw the kid and turned immediately. I
found this a bit strange. I slowed down as I
approached the kid. He was smiling so hard. I had
never met a smiling street child before that very
moment.
“Niaje. Si unisaidie finje !” (Hi, help me with fifty
shillings) The kid said with his right hand stretched
out and the other still tucked behind him. I found
this quite strange. I had never met a street kid who
asked for fifty shillings before. This one was
ambitious. I was not going to give the boy fifty
shillings because my budget was already messed
by getting the shirt I was wearing. So I took out a
twenty bob and handed it to him.
“Nilisema finje, si twenty bob!” (I said fifty shillings,
not twenty shillings) the street kid insists, his
smile now long gone. The dirt under his eyes were
now more evident.
“Sina finje. ” (I do not have fifty shillings) I tell the
chokora. I was a bit scared of what this child was
capable of. He was serious and was convinced he
had the authority to negotiate.
“Buda uko nayo. Tafuta tu poa!” (Boss, you have.
Look nicely) The kid says in dictator voice. I dig
into my pockets without understanding why. I get
a ten bob and hand him thirty shillings.
He refuses to take it. At this point I looked around
to see if this child had some sort of back up
waiting for me somewhere because his confidence
was a bit worrying. There was no one. It was only
the two of us on that flyover. For a second I
thought to myself, “I can take this fucker!”
“Ona. Tusivutane.” (Look, let us not pull each
other) The boy said and took out his other hand
from his back to reveal a fresh heap of shit piled
up neatly like he shut directly on his hand. I had
heard of theses street kids who threaten people
with defecate. I have always thought they harvest
them, like there is a corner they get the shit from,
but this one was too perfect! This boy either
placed his hand and excreted on it or someone
excreted on his hands for him! Looked like an ice
cream cone.
A woman who was coming up the flyover stairs
saw the situation and turned back immediately. It
felt like a western movie. Cowboys on either side.
Just me and a child with shit in his hand.
There was silence for a short while. I thing he was
giving me some time to absorb the situation.
“Haujatafuta wallet!” (You have not checked in your
wallet) The boy orders as he walked towards me
holding slowly holding ‘it’ with the free hand
planted on his waist. He got so close I could smell
his ammunition. I could not run… maybe jump, but
not run.
“Sina!” (I don’t have) I say and turn to walk away
and said a short prayer over and over.
“God. Please. God. Please”
That was when I felt a mushy thud on my back!
The idiot had just thrown a pile of shit on my back!
On my purple fitting shirt. I lost it! There are three
things you do not mess with, my family my girl and my
purple shirts!
By the time I had turned to look at the kid, he had
already started running. With my long legs, I got
him before he got down the stairs. I hit him on the
face so hard he fell down the stairs. I was a bit
scared that I might have killed him. But then he
got up and tried to run again. The adrenalin-fueled
anger was still at its peak, so I ran down and
slapped him. By the time all the altercation was
done, I was covered in shit… paisley and shit!
People had started staring.
Just there, at the side of the road, I unbuttoned my
purple paisley shirt, took it off and threw it on the
ground just under the flyover stairs, then wore the
other shirt I had in a juala . Two thousand bob
down the drain!
I walked home, still smelling like human excrete! I
walked home and got straight into the shower. I
scrubbed myself so hard l almost became white!



by IRUNGU HAROLD