Abra-Cadaver!

Caroline, Adam, Kishindo, Musa, Fatu, Morris and Dama Were names of students before me who were interested in improving their creative non-fiction writing. They frequent my blog and had requested just an hour a day of my time for one week. And I felt honoured to grant their request because it would be giving back something to my community. They were all pursuing different courses in different universities and colleges in Mombasa city.
After a brief introduction, I asked them each to write something short. Not even a complete story. Just one short paragraph. And Morris wrote…
The weather was hot. But we were being fanned while seated on the plastic chairs, on the right side gazebo extension of the Swahilipot hub. Further right, the low tide of the Indian Ocean had begun sending waves that beat on the beach rocks for its journey to high tide.
Kishindo wrote…
The main reason that I chose a remote Health centre to do my internship, was the fair workload. But also, the surrounding is serene and before bedtime, the trees and birds entertain you with heavenly melodies. But lately, some people intentionally start their percussion rituals when it’s my time to go to bed. They usually come to the back of the health centre where staff quarters are situated then proceed south where their sounds go faint.
After they all read their pieces, I said to them: - Creative non-fiction writing is about the story as much as it is about proficiency in the English language. Grammar, idioms, et cetera. All of you are good at the latter. It is in the former that I wish to sharpen your skill. While writing, think of words and a flow that would interest your reader. One that always makes them want to know what happens next. He or she should not want to put down your story to go for a short call. You can go now, but I want three paragraphs tomorrow.
The next day, Tuesday, they all stood in front of their colleagues and read their three-paragraph stories. Kishindo’s story went thus:-
Ten O’clock. Low hymn-like sounds penetrated my walls. I peeped outside my window and saw a procession coming out of the small room which acted as a temporary mortuary, heading to the bushes southwards. I put on my open shoes, opened the door and sauntered following them. I was still in my pyjamas.
It was dark. The occasional cracking of small dry branches which I stepped on must have felt like it was their own doing. Clouds were scarce but still. You could hear weevils and crickets chirping from the near bushes. I followed their voices, careful on the footpath for it was narrow.
After about fifteen minutes' walk, I saw that the party had formed a semi-circle and something was covered by a white cloth in the middle. There was an inscription on the white cloth, it read “Bububu Health centre.” And I recognized one of the congregants to be the head staff in charge of the mortuary. I could not stay there any longer because my heart was in my mouth.
After dismissing the class, I asked Kishindo to remain because I wanted to have a word with her. I told her that Creative nonfiction demands stories to be real. Not cartoons, not fiction not anything inconceivable. She looked at me with no emotion. I could not tell whether she was a bit offended that I did not take her story seriously or that she was heeding my advice. I have always been sceptical of matters of voodoo and witchcraft and have dared people who believe in it to make it crap lots of money.
The next day, nothing was interesting. Or you may say, nothing that I expected because I looked forward to a continuation. Maybe Kishindo was angry because her story today was about her experience in Tsavo game park drive. I talked to them about the importance of suspense in a story and being articulate. Then I told them they can write as many paragraphs as they wanted for their next day's assignment.
“Curiosity killed the cat.” Kishindo started her reading on the morning of that Thursday. “It was my curiosity that brought me back to these bushes tonight. I had to know what Berumba, the Mortuary head and his cohort did to the dead bodies. They were supposed to be transported to Coast General Hospital every morning where there are proper and enough facilities to preserve cold bodies.
After about half an hour of dancing and music, they all removed their clothes. They removed the white cloth that was covering the corpse too. Four of them started facing towards the bushes to make sure there was no one coming. Then, one by one they went down and kissed the dead body on the nose. After that, one man went down and knelt on the lower side of the stiff body, chanted a few words I could not understand, and then descended on her.
I must have lost myself for a considerable moment because I was breathing heavily when I came to my senses. I was going out of breath. I couldn’t believe it. The guy was copulating with the cadaver. I couldn’t feel my limbs but after a moment I regained my energy and decided to escape.
Just before I reached the hospital, three men and a woman caught up with me. We were rejoined by the others after ten minutes as they took back the dead to the temporary mortuary. They explained to me how in their culture that ritual is done to cure impotence. I reminded them we are active members of the medical profession. How could we still believe in those things? Furthermore, they were violating the dead person. They said it worked. And as I continued to argue, one of the women having long nails slapped me hard which made the pain in my already bad tooth severe.
They had made it clear they were not joking with their business. They warned me that any word to the Police and I would have invited my death. Moreover, I was to participate in tonight’s ritual, and it was not a request but an order. I heard one of the women say 'it would be a gift and a blessing because I will have many babies.' The thought of sleeping with a corpse scares me, but so does death. I couldn’t eat. Neither could I perform my job well after I came back from the writing sessions of Mr Ahmedinho. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I want to stay alive."
It was not after her last word that I discovered the scratch marks on her chin. She had tried to conceal them using cheap makeup but the marks were somehow visible. Also, I recognized a brown opening on her teeth lining. She was scared to death and it showed on her face. The others left their mouths wide open as they listened to her story.
After a ten-minute recess, I told them that there is a difference between Autobiography, biography, news reporting, academic papers and creative nonfiction writing. All except the last are based on real events and true stories. When one encounters things or activities that go against the law, or things that are harmful to human beings, the wise recourse is reporting to the police.
That afternoon as I lay on my bed back home, I could not help but wander my thoughts to the predicament that had befallen this girl. Her intention, and ambition, were just to practice and spend time in that hospital for her placement so that she can get the necessary testimonial to help her with her career. Here she was, caught up between evil and her dreams. But her method of crying out left me nonplussed. She had decided to convey her confusion in an artistic form. Was it a reality, or just fiction? Was it writing, or was she really in danger?
After a long battle in my mind, I decided to go and witness it myself. I dumped the idea of going first to the police because I would become a laughing stock if the rituals for tonight were postponed. It was nine thirty and dark when I came down from the Matatu at Kona ya Mtongwe stage. I took to the left then after a hundred meters I went right following a footpath that I knew would lead me to Bububu health centre. And before ten, I was hidden behind a large Boribo-mango tree where no one could see me. Anxiety kicked in at half past ten. This was the time the rites started. Five minutes passed, then ten, then half an hour. I did not hear people singing or coming to the back of the hospital. I was patient enough to wait for another hour and a half but no one came except angry mosquitoes who sting mercilessly leaving you expressing your agony in silence. And they do not give up coming back when whisked.
I was first in the hospital on Friday morning determined to get answers. The receptionist told me they don’t have a mortuary and after making noise for fifteen minutes, two nurses escorted me back to the back structure that was on the right side of the staff quarters. They opened it and to my embarrassment, I saw that it was a kitchen. Full of pots and firewood and other kitchen stuff. I asked about Kishindo but they said they never heard of her. I described her to them, that she had an average body and stern eyes, even when she smiles. Chocolate in colour. Curvy. About five feet three inches in height and head always covered. They identified her as “Hilu”, they said her last day was yesterday and she was doing her nursing internship with them. Where is she from? I asked, and they said Malindi.
The game was over. She had gotten the better of me. I tutored them about making their stories interesting but she had gone further to make them believable. So attached was I to the sequence of events in her story that I wanted to enter her world and experience it myself. To hear, and to see what she saw on those nights. She used words to paint a perfect picturesque of the location and rituals in our minds. She plays with language to play with minds. She makes readers’ minds dance with the words. She curves her words in a rhythmic form that took my emotions hostage. I could feel the adrenaline rising high each time I finished a sentence to begin another. What a writer! Surely, the writing world is at a loss. Creative nonfiction lost a talented writer when she took medicine to be her career of choice.
She did not come to class the next day. I had designed my own certificates to give them. I remained with hers since I did not think of asking for her contacts. And until today, her certificate hangs on the wall of my bedroom. I have given praise to many writers for their exceptional works. But when I talk about Hilu, it’s with high regard and reverence to the sublimity of her writing prowess.

Standard dating procedures

About two hours to midnight, and we had stationed ourselves on this cozy alley. Just me and Alice from Nairobi waiting for the millennium new year. The Alley was two houses back from where I stayed, which is also not far from Alice’s host aunt where she came to spend this December holiday. To the left, there is a footpath artery that begins from the Kenya Petroleum Oil Refinery (KPRL) wire mesh fence boundary that is parallel to Mombasa - Nairobi highway. To the south, it goes all the way to Chaani beach where it also happens to be the ends of the Kenya Ports authority Ship berths.
The alley was narrow and dark. Not so many people frequent it. Just a bunch of drunkards who use it because there is a Mama-pewa who sells illicit wine three houses away. Where we were sitting was an unfinished house, still under construction. And the half-built wall served as a good sitting position for us. We could see the busy pathway from our position. Beyond it, there is the road that heads to Kwa-hola and Mwijabu primary school. Cross the road and you are in Santana, a small area famously known for selling cooked 'Mutura' and 'marondo' and other rejected parts from slaughtered cattle like goat's heads and cow's intestines.

“You know, as cheap as these hangouts are, I’m still enjoying myself,” Alice said as she was smiling. It’s not that I did not want proper romantic getaways, but I found them unnecessary at that point in my life. Why would I want to make my lady happy by giving the money to another? To hotels and chefs and wherever we would buy expensive unnecessary things.

“Dates are supposed to be classic.” So I’ve been told. That I am supposed to look for at least a three-star hotel and restaurant and make reservations. A hotel where I would have to give keys to the valet as I’m holding my lady’s hand while making an entrance. It should be well lit though not so bright, and where they served three-course meals. Huh! Where am I going to get that money? I just finished high school two years ago. Let’s say I was old enough to explore romance but young enough not to immerse myself in offensive spending.

I liked this girl and she welcomed my moves the second day after her arrival. I told her my name and that I’m the local nice guy: born and brought up here in Magongo, Changamwe division of Mombasa district. She said she was “Alice, from Nairobi.” And that stuck to my head. The combination of her first name and where she comes from sounded exotic. We met another time, and another too. This was our fourth date. We tried different alleys before and this seemed perfect today.

I wasn’t short of sweet words. I made sure she laughed each time we met before pouring warm viscous words in the language of love. She seemed happy to have me. I kept the narrative of promises and lies as unending as I could. We kissed on our previous date, that’s why I wasn’t so nervous today. It was between a conversation she was telling me, about a hang out in Kangemi(Nairobi), where they usually have their chips + chicken meals. I looked into those radiant eyes, happy as she was telling her story. And without notice, I planted my lips on hers. She did not resist, and in less than sixty seconds, she made this beautiful hungry sound that made me plunge my tongue into her mouth. It was magical, sweet, and romantic.

She deserves more. A girl this beautiful and so into me surely deserves more than this. She had the same height as mine. Slim with cute curves. And the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. Tonight, she wore a light black short sleeveless dress that complimented her perky bosom. And dark flat shoes that I did not pay so much attention to. Here she was, a girl to die for. Yet she and I were chewing groundnuts that I bought earlier, here in the dark alley of a suburb in Mombasa West.

This should have been about the time they brought drinks had we had this date in a fancy restaurant. Maybe Chadney, maybe cognac. I felt some guilt, not so much though. It would be nice to hold her hand and escort her to the dance floor, holding each other while slowly swaying to the jazz rhythm.

To hell with high-end dates, love is love even if we have nothing else. Who set up these rules anyway? That for love to blossom, one should do one, two, and three. And they are expected to do this and that on the first, second, or third date? I say, there is fun in breaking the rules. And that’s why I think my style of having dates in the alleys was special and unique. Sometimes you hear hissing sounds from the nearby grass and your adrenaline shoots up. Some people might pass by just about the time you want to grope something elastic and you have to pretend to be oblivious to them. Anything can happen anytime in an alley like this, but what’s life without taking a few risks?

The alley did not effuse rose flower scents or lavender or any of those you would have in a rich underground restaurant. There must be a spot used as a pit by neighboring houses nearby. But if you set your nose to attention, you will also get a good smell from the banana plants and bushy trees that are nearby. With the natural smell and the ambiance made by tunes played by some bar in the area, plus the full star sky blanket above, I would bet no five-star hotel in Mombasa could match this.
Fireworks started flying and bursting in the air. We knew it was already 2000. And just before I went for a kiss, she told me “Make it count crazy Ahmedinho.” This was supposed to be her last night in Mombasa. My girl, my Alice from Nairobi. We had talked about this earlier. I had already begun to miss her while she was still here with me. I was understanding, I knew she had to go back to her waitressing job in a big hotel in Nairobi and save some money to help in paying her maiden semester fees at the University of Nairobi. So this time, the kiss was slow and long. What I loved most about her was how she responded to my touch and kisses. She was on fire and my eyes were red. These are the moments to envy those who have money and probably were in a love-shaped bed in an expensive hotel at this hour. What did we have? Just the wall on the house opposite where it would serve as a stopper and rest for her back while vitality takes over my body. The legendary standing missionary.
But after all dreams and sweet expectations and blood running hot, that remained a night that we almost. Because some seconds after all pants were down, there came loud noises and cries from MAMa-Pewa’s direction. The illicit brew corner had been ambushed by policemen and no one wanted to spend the New Year in jail. We had to zip up and button up and run for our lives when we heard them cry “Polisi” as they closed in on our location. We didn’t want jail either. And for sure, it seems no one would come to bail us out until the morning of the following day.

Such are back alley romantic encounters and sexcapades. They are cheap but exciting. Risky but true. and not so classic, but adventurous.