Color me bad

Most of us start at humble(poor) beginnings. Be it talent, Business or whatever propels us to excellence in life. Same for me, Two years after secondary school and I still had not found my thing. I used to sit outside our home in Ratna square watching boys and girls early in the morning heading to work. I was broke and jobless. Sometimes I walked far to visit friends and relatives because I had nothing to do. But most of the time I was inside listening to music, watching videos, eating and sometimes scribbling unqualified short stories on papers I had.

I usually hide my earlier stories. Though not classically written, they move me when I revisit them. Because they made me cry while writing them. When I take a good look at the stories, I can’t help but think my life is wrong, and I made it so. The stories are real, but contrary to the success of the stories on the social media, the reality is, the subject in the narrative is either a bad person or he gets hurt really bad. Some men don’t know a good thing when they got it. Me being one of them, we sometimes don’t realize that we’ve got the whole world right in front of us. It is for this reason that I have taken a pen and paper today to give an account of that weakness. You will find the theme relating closely to my other two stories, ‘Eternal lover syndrome.’ And ‘A story of my heart.’ But never was I hurt by my own mistake than on the incident I’m about to relate now.

It was on my early days of writing career and joblessness when I met Aisha Shosi. A Bajuni girl who worked at Cinemax cybercafe in our neighborhood. She was cross eyed, always poor in spirits and never cared much about fashion in what she was wearing. The third time I went to the cybercafe I commented to her “Young girl, by not smiling you are going to hide that divine beauty under your face forever. No one will see it.” She looked up, half startled, her face beaming with a blush. Between the primitive colors in her wear and a face that advertised a person who doesn't enjoy life, there was something noble in the simple faith of this girl which compelled my respect. She laid her bundle of papers upon the glass table and then gave me a questioning look. “What are you up to boy?” She asked. “Well, if you get time, I would like to take a hike with you. And get to know you more.” I replied. “Who in the world would want to have a stroll with me?” Her face turned somber when asking this. “Me.” I gave her a plain answer. “If you don’t mind.” I continued. “Lets try today evening.” Said her with something of lost and found confidence in her face. And I nodded to accept. She seemed quiet enthusiastic after the deal.


We had our ramble in the evening. She had taken a little care of her face and skin. She was wearing a long blue skirt and seventies' long sleeved white blouse. Her starved youth seemed to bloom and modestly hide her plainness. Although much was still expected of her if she wanted to be a dot-com girl. “So, what do you do with yourself?” she asked. “I write short love tales.” I replied. “Aha! So, will you give me your fables to read?” “ I have written only three. I don’t even know why I call myself a writer. I’ve got ideas and everything but materials. When you see me coming to your cybercafe, it’s because I have got around fifty shillings and I want to write something and save in my e-mail. “I will help you.” she said. “Whenever you have a story ready, come to the cybercafe around lunch time and you can use a computer free of charge.


That was the cornerstone of my life. I used the free internet to stat a blog, job searches and networked with many people on the internet. Soon, my Facebook friends never got contented of reading when the combative style of the boy from Ratna had taken over their walls. This is because the allegories were presented in a unique style. A sublime phrasing and a stylish and aesthetic structure that stands apart in the history of writing. She was so fond of me, and the little things she would do just to please me. I also played my part. We got into the habit of having those evening walks everyday. And I made sure that she was happy. She had done a lot for me, I could not bear to see the smile fade even for a moment from her face.


We had a close friendship for about eight months. Then I received an e-mail from a company in the middle east that was recruiting truck drivers from Kenya. I had a strong fan base for my stories on Facebook but it was not a paying thing. I had to take this opportunity. Aisha paid for my driving license to be upgraded to the class of heavy commercial vehicles. She paid for my medical check up, agency fees and renewal of my passport that had expired a year ago. She couldn't see me off to Jomo Kenyatta International airport in Nairobi due to her work, but she gave me pocket money and asked me to notify her as soon as I arrive safely.


The contract was two years. Truck driving in the desert on the newly commissioned High speed Rail in the kingdom. We got handsome salaries but I missed home so much. After work, I used to bury myself on the internet where I would share stories or just chatting to friends. Internet was fun and before long I had become a flirting celebrity.


I was happy when my vacation was due. I was going home to see my family and friends and my beloved country. After two days rest, I met Aisha. I brought her gifts from Saudi Arabia and fifty thousand Kenya shillings to be a gift for her.


After three weeks when I met Aisha again, she asked “Now that you've become a star, why don't you come to our little cybercafe now and then. Pay us a visit, and chat? Its still free for you.” I told her that I have a laptop and broadband internet, I don't need to come to the cybercafe anymore. She nodded sadly but to suggest that she understood. Then, after a minute’s silence, she asked again. “Is this love? Is this love that is between us, or I’m just deluding myself.” “Now, don’t go too far with ‘us.’ We are just friends, and forever we will be.” Her eyes were wet now, and she was playing with her fingernails as if she had nothing else to touch. “What’s the matter now. Why are you crying, Aren’t you happy for me?” I asked. She excused herself saying that she had to get home early. But asked to see me before I return back to Saudi Arabia for my second contract.


I had booked Coast bus that was leaving at Seven in the morning of Wednesday. It was raining on Tuesday night when Aisha and I had our farewell meeting. It was a weird silence in the air. I was confused. I recalled in all our chats that I did not affiance her. Why was she having those feelings for me? My heart had already been captured by another girl I found on the internet. She was fun and sophisticated, the kind of girl I should be with when I'm at the zenith of my career.


“I want to be with you in all my life, and in death.” She finally gathered her courage to speak. Aisha was a sweet girl, but she surely doesn’t fit to be my girl. I told her I had already replied her about this. Oh! God, how can I force myself to love someone whom I can’t love? She was sobbing now. I was afraid of even touching her because she wasn’t trying to control herself. And I knew I had inflicted on her a fatal wound. She got up, opened the door and walked out slowly. I followed her and asked her to wait inside until the rain was over. She turned to me and held my both arms and said “Kiss me please. I adore you.” Her eyes were still wet, but conveyed the message that if I had nothing in my heart to give her, then I should grant her this. “No! That would spring up something else. Please understand, there’s a big career ahead of me.” God knows the inappropriateness of those words. They sent her to a freak. I wasn’t considering the fact that I am where I am today because of her help. Call me heartless but there are many things to consider when in a position like mine. She was heart broken, but I had hopes that she would be alright after sometime. Her raison d’etre can’t be only sir Ngombo’s love.


She was still crying, and I was still confused. And we were both soaking in the dark deserted pathway. My heart was filled with pity now. Is it pity or love? No it’s confusion. I didn’t know whether I was making a big mistake in my life. Had you seen her tears! But anyway its always so with women. They cry in their own way. The way their tears move, you feel like changing the world so that it doesn’t pain her anymore. But how they feel you against how you feel for them, it matters not. You have become their world and everything, while to you they were dispensable friends. When you look in their eyes, traveling to the depths of their hearts, you say a million things to yourself. For a million reasons you should love them. No paper would do it justice. Its anything not in the mind but of the heart. A feeling only felt, which I didn't.


“How about in the future, Could you include me in your life? I'm willing to wait for you for as long as it takes. You can have your fun then return back to me. Do you think there’s any chance for ‘us’ in the future?” She asked after a long silence. I gathered my courage and remembered the saying told to me by my grandfather long ago while I was still young. “Love is a part of life. But life is not a part of love. Therefore life is more important than love.” And I just replied a blank No! , I don’t think there is a chance for us.


No more words were needed. She started running away. Her knees seemed to give way and she fell on the muddy ground. She writhed as someone who is in severe pain and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. She got up just about when I started her way for rescue. And she rushed away. I didn’t look at her this time. I just heard splashes upon the stagnant pools of water, then the sound of crisp running footfalls from the street.


The departure time to Nairobi was eight o’clock in the morning. And I was still wandering aimlessly about the garden outside our home. It would be useless to have laid myself on a bed because I surely would be hag-ridden all night. I do not know what pushes time so fast when people are in depressing thoughts, for the moon had sunk and a bright morning was breaking when I came to myself. The ejaculation had been drawn from unusual sounds of marching footsteps and a distinct sound of police siren somewhere. I decided to follow the trampers, and I saw that the siren was from the direction of Aisha’s home. The place was choked with villagers from North, south, East and West of Ratna square. And there was an ambulance accompanying the police car parked beside the guava tree that was in front of Aisha’s home. Up there, I saw her hanging from a rope tied on her neck loosely so as to swing from side to side. She had committed suicide.


What! in the name of heavens is happening to me now? I felt bitter in my chest. My heart was aching and I felt my my hairs erect brought about the straining in my mind. Why is the world turning against me? Am i to blame for this? Of course not. I was just making a decision for the good of my future. but she has taken away her life because of me. Its not fair. I could have stopped this. It was a selfish decision. Had i decided otherwise, Oh! Lord. This is guiltiness. Am i going to live with it forever? Forgive me my Lord. Please forgive me Aisha. Should i kill myself? Should i not return to job in the middle east? Please tell me what i should do to redress the consequences of my ruthless decision. Oh! Aisha please, come back so that we can talk it over.