The Bamburi Triangle

Breakups are bitter points of relationships, at least most of all. There are those who part amicably, there are those who don't care, and there are those have to find a better angle and reason for the situation. This is because we want to keep the hurting minimal. For want of that, we lie to get out of a relationship. We sometimes change phone lines or keep quiet for the break-up to take its natural cause.

Options for nice guys like us are few. We envy our opposites during times like this because they can just take up another to show off in front of the current lover to end the relationship. The last honorable option is speaking the truth. This seems far fetched during these times. They are the worst because they inflict the most pain. People beg to be told the truth at these moments but they don't know what they are in for. That is why most of us resort to cliché.

About a kilometer off Bamburi stage, on Utange route, there's an off-road on the right-hand side. Four hundred meters after this murram road is a club. It is on this road that Zuhura and I were walking, at eight-thirty in the night, heading towards the club. I have been to the club before, twice during a night like this and one time it was late afternoon.

The club lay on a solitary ground. As you approach it, you won't miss the big sign of neon lights that reads “The Bamburi Triangle”, The name of the club. It was not a popular club, there have been less than thirty people each time I have been here. A pretty girl and a guy of about thirty manned the bar. There is no DJ, but there's a vintage jukebox that works very fine. The first time I was here I inserted a ten shilling coin and chose the song “Afro, mtoto wa sagala.” I liked it. But I didn't have to put coins other times I came here because people always have their favorite songs lined up. Four chairs around each table, a small dance floor, two rooms for storage and an office, a refreshing section, a suggestion box, and a thatched roof completed the geography of this triangular shaped open air club.

The Bamburi triangle is surrounded by tall grass, just above the waist level. To the back, red roofs could be seen less than a kilometer away. To the left and right, settlements are even further. It must be swampy deeper into the grass because these were not ordinary grass, they needed water especially during a dry season like this. Looking at the surrounding grass made one feel eerie, somebody could have been murdered, thrown there, and never to be found.

What makes this club special is that one: it's cool. This is where you escape from the noise and commotion in our estates. Two: it feels mysterious, and this brought about by the myths surrounding this club. We never knew the owner of this place, and it keeps soldiering on even without enough clientèle.

The first time I was here with Andrew, my childhood buddy who likes chewing ghat/miraa every Saturday afternoon, he narrated to me why there hardly is a car parked at the parking lot. Numerous vehicles had disappeared mysteriously while the owners were at the club. One would go to refresh himself in the gents and be startled when back to find the car he parked missing. The bartenders and drinkers would say they know nothing about it when asked.

The third time I was here with Andrew again. He pointed to the suggestion box and asked me what I thought it was for? My answer that it was for customers suggesting better ways to receive service here was wrong. He told me people put envelopes of money inside it. With the money, there is information on what the poster wants. Usually a picture of a car, or even a person. You put the envelope in and forget about it. And within a week you get your results, guaranteed. He never mentioned these stories while we are around home. Maybe he thinks he can trust me with this information now, maybe its the inebriation from the grass from Meru that he was chewing, or maybe he thought I would need it someday. He went on to tell me about people who had problems with their workmates, boyfriends or even family members. Their only solution was The Bamburi triangle, and their problems disappeared.

There had been times when a police helicopter flew around the swampy grass in search of dead bodies but could find nothing. I thought even a fool wouldn't dump a body here because it will stink in just a few days. One thing that was uniform, was the culprits were all reported to have been at the Bamburi triangle when last seen. It was scary that in the blink of an eye, a human being might be missing here. Someone you saw just a minute ago. I guess some got afraid of going to the toilet or looking down while drinking here. And the executioners, if there were, must be professionals or witches.

Zuhura was a girl I met at the Lambada disco in Mtwapa, and after the routine of boy-girl sweet talk and exchanging numbers, we grew closer within a month. But our closeness was only for fun. We would meet on one Friday night at a discotheque, and on another weekend we’d be hanging out in a cottage I rented in Watamu. I did not know where she stayed neither did I ask. And I did not want her to know where I stayed and my family.

Our problems started when one evening she saw me coming out of our home in Ratna Square. She wanted to come in but I objected. After that, she expressed her anger all over social media. I had to block her before rumors found their way to my family and neighbors. While I thought we were having fun, my partner was loosening her heart’s guard. She showed her anger in the text messages she sent. I tried to reason with her that there were a million men in Mombasa but she didn't see that. At last, she threatened to come to my family and report how I lied to her and treated her disrespectfully.

It is for this reason that Zuhura and I are walking, at eight-thirty in the night, heading towards The Bamburi triangle. There was no amicable way for us to break up, and I hated the misgiving of her presenting herself to my family. The night was cool despite the air of confusion that I felt. Crickets were heard stridulating in the grass bush. A taxi passed us by taking a customer to the club, and in less than five minutes it was heading back to Bamburi. We had taken a Matatu and got off at the murram road junction. The sky was so clear that every star was seen.

Two days ago, I posted an envelope in the suggestion box of The Bamburi Triangle. Enclosed were ten thousand Kenya shillings and a picture of Zuhura. Did I feel guilty or regret this? No. she was out to get me, and I was defending myself from her malicious reputation-damaging threat. If there was no other way to part, then this is. And it’s not like I’m giving her up to be murdered. There has been no evidence of the murder of people whose names or details were inserted in the Suggestion box. 

For all I know, the people who disappear might have been taken to Europe or U.S.A to start a new life. Or maybe to a neighboring country where they were given a job and livelihood under the condition that they don't come back. So, I am not a bad person. And that’s why even though my heart feels heavy doing this, I still can. It was necessary. I glanced at Zuhura's face and she seemed happy walking while leaning on me. It was all I could do to tell her that I won't break up with her and invited her here tonight. This would be the last that I will see her. The final intimate hold. The final ugly break up. And as we were nearing the Bamburi triangle, I knew, This would be the final walk.