The Shadow at My Door: Part 3 (Final)

Down the beaten, dusty road, I huffed and puffed, searching for relief and comfort and some peace away from this shadow pursuing me.

My iron gate, a giant silhouette of mystery in a sea of all-consuming darkness, loomed tall ahead of me, each step seeming a pull from this iron demon rather than my own will. Behind this iron demon, the house stood in brooding silence, silhouetted against the grey-blue hue of moonlight, disaffected and distant, cold and in tears. 

As I approached the gate, I looked up at my house, at the arched roof that was hands reaching out to the indifferent night sky. It wasn't a scary sight, that house. Instead, it was a broken look. Its long windows, behind which peeked nothing but darkness, were eyes empty of tears long dried. The roof hung down the rafters like the shoulders of one weighed down by unending sorrow. 

I stepped onto the cold, hard path, and as I took my first steps toward the house, I could feel that cold, unwelcoming push toward an inevitable end. I wasn't walking toward my house. My home, with its cold, ghastly hands, was pulling me toward it, reaching out for a hug to ward off the forlorn coldness it was feeling, and I, a mere puppet, had no will but to give in to this and take this hug.

The door groaned and creaked, tired and weary, as it slid off its jamb. A cold draught slapped across my face on its way hastily outside the house as though the sorrow and sadness inside it were too much to bear. That left me alone, standing at the door of the house, which seemed to stretch endlessly above and ahead of me like a castle, those walls of weeping sorrow staring coldly back at me.

Then, the scent of rosebuds and jasmine reached me. But it didn't accost as it did previously. Instead, it started off in a tentative swirl, distant but perceptible. 

I entered into the belly of this beast, of this gloomy beast who sought to devour me, not out of malicious evil nor unholy sinfulness, but out of desperation, a desperation to make things right, to correct the past.

I made it to the landing of the stairs and stared at the brooding shadows of blackness at the top. The stairs led to nowhere but a dark abyss. Unlike the first time earlier in the day, though, I couldn't feel the unseen eyes watching me. In fact, I felt as though everyone had turned their backs on me, standing facing away from me as if I was so hideous to look at.

Even the nightlife seemed to have deserted me. The wind stayed hidden somewhere in the tall grass. The frogs stayed muted somewhere in the ponds, and the mosquitoes remained silent and hidden, not even daring to suckle on this meal I had prepared for them with my short-sleeve shirt and exposed face. It was a night in which I could hear the hairs on my skin crackle as they stood up. I could hear my heartbeat echo through the darkness like a malago drum. I could hear my heavy, desperate breathing howl like the Kaskazi winds that had now fallen silent outside.

On landing at the top of the stairs and engulfed in this encumbering darkness, the bedroom door down the corridor offered a glimmer of hope. A small stream of weak, yellow light escaped through the door and framed itself in a neat rectangle on the opposite wall. The scent of the rosebud and jasmine was now stronger, and with it, the strong memories of her.

Someone gave a nasty, phlegm-filled cough and let out a short groan of pain and extreme discomfort. My wife, Sylvia. Sly, my magnificent muse and close confidant. How I had missed her.

I was now standing at the bedroom door, and there she was, lain in bed in her red, silky nightgown. This gown she had previously filled with her curvy frame now hung down her body as though it was held up to dry on the lines. The skin on her body was stretched thin, all bones in her body exposed. Her skin was like a dried-out tree stripped clean of its leaves and roasting in the Kajiado desert. Her lips, chafed, dry and white, bled with each cough. 

Upon seeing me, her expressive eyes, sunken deep under the shadow of her brows and further pulled deeper by the deep crow's-feet around her eyes, suddenly widened. Not in joy, but in anger. It was a steely gaze of angry disappointment.

"I told you not to tell that man of my illness." She said in a breathy voice that sounded like sandpaper rubbing against a tree bark.

"Sly, look at you!" I said, rushing into the room and kneeling on the bed by her side. "You are wasting away fast. I felt it was necessary to tell your family. They deserve to know."

"I can't believe this!" She gave a disdainful chuckle. She was very weak and struggling to talk, but the anger, it seemed, overpowered everything else, and she was using every bit of the little strength she had left to admonish me.

"You, Pamela, Steven, Alice. You are my family." She went on, "I was ready to die with nobody but all of you by my side. I did not need you to play savior and tell that man how I was doing."

"That man is your father, Sly -"

"Says who?" She fired back, almost raising her head from the bed, "Says who, eh? Since when, eh? Since he disowned me, eh? Since he asked me to leave his house as a teenager? I thought you loved me." 

Her voice broke, and she began sobbing. I rushed to her side.

"I love you, baby," I said, this weight of sorrow dragging me down in supplication as I kissed her bony arm.

"Then why wouldn't you respect my dying wishes? Now the man I loathe is coming over to see me. He is bringing his wife too. Do you wish to kill me so soon, my love? What did I ever do to you for you to hurt me so by inviting my sworn enemies to my death bed? Do you not wish me peace in my journey home?"

I wailed and cried at her words. A bag of sorrow was pooling on my neck, bringing a flood of tears into my eyes and sending them down my cheeks in a stream of grief and contrition. I am sorry, Sly. Forgive me, please. That is what I wanted to say. But words couldn't come out of my throat. I was drowning and gasping for air.

"I was only trying to do the right thing," I stammered amidst sobs and whimpers, but Sly was not having it. She had turned away from me, staring blankly out of the window, at the tree, cast in the evening sun, gently swaying to the gentle breeze.

"Your good intentions, Henry, they sometimes cross boundaries." She said, tears streaming down her eyes, though the rest of her face remained static. "And I always told you. You want to be helpful, but you must also respect my wishes. Now I won't die in peace, knowing that he will forever be aware of my death and how I die, even if you now tell him not to come. Umeharibu safari yangu ya ahera."

"Forgive me, my love. Sly, aki nisamehe!" I cried, pulling her closer to me and burying my head into her chest, feeling her bony ribs press against my face. I could hear her heartbeat - distant, faint, weak, but also violent and impatient. I hoped to feel her hands wrapped behind my back in embrace, but they remained stuck by her sides.

"Go!" Was all she said.

I looked up at her, but she wasn't looking at me. She had turned away from me and was staring outside the window again. My sobs and whimpers hadn't moved her. I watched her through the blur of tears welling in my eyes, streaming pain and anguish down my cheeks.

A knock at the door startled me. Her nurse, Atieno, was at the door, here to care for her through the night as I was on night duty at work.

"Good evening, Mr. Mungasa," She greeted. The smile on her face quickly dissolved into a frown on seeing the tears in my eyes.

"Enda," Sly said, still not looking at me. I could feel the hatred and anger seep through her thin skin and reach out violently toward me.

I got off the bed, adjusted my tie, and picked up my car keys. I started planning on doing something big for her when I came home from work the next morning, a significant act of contrition to make up to her for going against her dying wishes.

I would never get that chance. 

Seven minutes to midnight, I received a call that nobody ever wishes to receive. I didn't immediately jump to my feet and drive over. I couldn't even bring myself to get to my feet. Instead, I remained seated, numbed and lost in thought. A blissful life of marriage, now ending in tragedy, no, not because she was dying of cancer, but because I had broken her trust in the worst way possible. Now, I could never ever make it up to her.

I keeled over and sighed, that pool of grief beginning to choke me and sucking the life out of me once again, sending the warm tears through my eyes and flooding my chest with grief, squeezing my heart and crushing it into a puddle of blood, pus and countless regrets.

There in our marital bed, in the darkness, in the quietude of that melancholic sadness, I sat, drenched in tears and drowning in sorrow, gasping frantically at everything and anything I could get my hands on until sleep washed over me. 

I don't know how long I had been crying or even how long I had slept, but the next time I opened my eyes, it was seven minutes to midnight. I looked at my bedroom door, wide open, a wall of deep blackness just outside it. That feeling of being watched was over me again. Something was watching me. I had yet to see it, but I could feel it.

My shoulders tightened in dread, and a sinking feeling of despair and anguish was pulling me down from the inside. The strong explosion of rosebud and jasmine once again violently accosted my nose.

Then I saw it. In the shadows, half buried in the blackness of the night, stood the tall thing, bleeding into the room a cold chill of dread and a heavy air of misery and pain, watching me, this time I could see the bright glow of its eyes pierce through every inch of the thick darkness and into me. 

I could not escape it. I had to learn to live with this shadow.

THE END

The Shadow at My Door: Part 2

 

Still the shadow at my door. Photo - Dall-e

Seeking a Human Face

A mess of nerves and dread, I rushed back into the house, picked my phone and wrench still in hand, hightailed it out of my house like a mad man whose demons had finally caught up with him. My destination - my neighbour's house.

Stephen was a good old friend of mine whom we had known each other since college. We had applied for jobs together, tarmacked together and propped each other up until we now lived as neighbors. Our wives also happened to have been college friends when we met.

Once I was outside my gate and beyond the buzzing security light of my compound, the darkness enveloped the earth with malice. There was a blue-grey hue all around, as the pale crescent bathed the earth from behind the palls of cloud that kept scudding in front of it in intervals. I turned on my phone's flashlight, but the focused thin bar of light seemed to further accentuate the darkness and made it easy for me to see those thin tall figures emerging from the darkness just beyond.

So, I turned it off and pelted into the darkness like a mad man, darting my eyes all around me, to the tall grass performing a creepy dance of menace in the darkness, at the moonlight's deathly smile upon the grey earth below. From the periphery of my vision, I saw them - these tall lanky men dancing in the shadows, inching closer with each dance they made. When I turned, they would then turn into grass.

I almost screamed. But I didn't. I don't know why. But I did whimper and sob. I heard the voices behind me, echoes of screams and whispering voices. Suddenly, I became aware of just how far from my house Stephen's home was. It never was this far. Had it moved? Or was I even moving as I ran?

I turned back to make sure that I was moving. Behind me, my house stood in solemn silence, a silhouette casted in dark shadow against the cloud night sky, bathed in the pale blue glow of the eerie moonlight. It was a haunting visage, as though I was staring at an old, haunting memory that refused to fade into the darkness that surrounded it.

The wind howled past me, and I felt, with each breath, the cold hands of these unseen spirits grip me all through my body, the voices within the wind whispering right into my ears. I ran faster. This was no place for a man, and I could not stand any more of this dreadful darkness and the sickening howl of this seemingly cursed wind that seemed to carry with it voices of the damned.

I made it to Stephen's gate and called him, all as I also banged on his gate like a wrestler spending the last of his strength.

"You are what now?" He asked, "Are you the one banging on the gate?" He asked to which I cried to him to let me in.

I peeked through the gaps on his iron gate, then looked back from where I had come from. I shone my phone flashlight down the path from which I had come from. The grass continued to give an ominous whisper as the wind howled and bayed across the land. I saw the tall shadowy figure come right round the bend, emerging from the sprawling darkness around it.

Behind me, the gate creaked, and I barged in, closed the gate behind me fast and scampered into the house, all before Stephen's bemused self could utter a single word.

"Henry! Henry!" Stephen called, rushing after me as I stumbled into his house, where his wife, Pamela, was standing, an alarmed look on her face. She stumbled back in shock as I made my way into the house, out of breath. I urged them with frantic gestures to close the door behind me.

"Who is following you?" Stephen asked.

"What happened, Henry?" Pamela asked just as her husband was asking me his question.

"Someone...something is in my house! An intruder." I said as I tried to catch my breath.

"Shit!" Stephen said, "Let's go deal with this guy."

He was getting ready to get back out there, his eyes displaying that kind of fury that I had come to know of him. Stephen was never one to back away from a confrontation. He was my polar opposite. I often would avoid confrontations at all costs, even when justified. I was perhaps a coward by definition, but I liked to think of myself as easy-going. Besides, why would I ever need to be the confronting one when Stephen was there? Even my wife had been more combative, so why would I be?

I reached out and put a hand on Stephen, shaking my head as I tried to catch my breath.

"Do you want some water?" Pamela asked, her concerned eyes on me. I shook my head.

"Please, just stay with me." I begged them.

"Well, then, tupigie polisi." Stephen said.

"I think they are now gone, surely. I...I made a lot of noise. Maybe I scared them away!"

I know very well that was not true because try as I might, I could not convince myself that what I saw was even human. That shadow looked like it came from another realm, another dimension. But I needed to believe that that was an intruder, a human intruder.

Despite my pleas, Stephen called the police, who responded typically - they would come over as soon as they got 'mafuta ya gari'. They wanted their greasy hands greased.

"Useless!" Stephe said as he threw his phone onto the coffee table.

Pamela's piercing eyes of concern and sympathy made me feel a little exposed and I felt uneasy. Could she know that I had lied about the intruder? She often had this uncanny ability to read people, which made sense. 

She had majored in human psychology in campus, though she would pivot hard after completing university. After graduation, she focused instead on nurturing her cupcake business, which she had started in her first year in campus and had now turned into a blooming business. She was the one who made the cake to my wedding with Sylvia.

“You say that there is an intruder?” Pamela asked.

I nodded, still uncomfortable with the fact that she seemed to be staring deep into my soul and trying to extract the truth through the labyrinth that was my emotional alcove.

“Ama ni Spiderman? He has been on a rampage lately.” She said.

Spiderman was a burglar who had been giving city residents sleepless nights for about two months now. What had started out as a regular burglary turned into a persistent thread of break-ins caught on CCTV cameras. He especially targeted various high-end apartments in Kileleshwa, Lavington and Westlands. In these security cameras, he was a figure of the night, a shadow dressed in all black from head to toe, with a balaclava on his head with holes for eyes to complete his 'spiderman' look. He also always carried a backpack for his loots. He was a figure that was as skilled at climbing wall as he was at evading capture.

But as much as I knew that that shadow of the night was not the one tormenting me, I desperately wanted to believe it was, because the alternative would be that I had seen a ghost.

“Hmm,” Stephen said, “But why would Spiderman come to Kajiado? So far, his operations have been limited to areas around west sides of the city.”

“Maybe the police are closing in on him, so he moved to a new place.” Pamela said.

“I woke up earlier tonight and there was a shadow standing at my bedroom door. A tall thin figure.” I said, trying to convince myself that this was what was true and not the fact that the shadow at my door was an ethereal presence, a figure with an aura or death and torment.

“I mean, surely that must be him. It’s Spiderman.” Stephen said. Then he turned an alarmed look to his wife. “Did you shut the back door?” 

“I don’t know! Weren’t you the last to come through it after sitting in the backyard.” Pamela threw it back at her.

“Oh fuck!” Stephen said as he rushed out of the living room toward the kitchen. 

Pamela turned to me, and I did not like it. She knew I was lying.

“Are you okay, Henry?” She asked, sitting next to me and putting a hand on my shoulder, “Sylvia's death really took a toll on you, and I can’t imagine how much stress this intrusion is putting you under.”

I sighed and closed my eyes as the warm tears began to gather behind those closed eyelids. I shook my head and just sank back in resignation. A heavy weight pulled down on my shoulders.

“You can spend the night here. Let’s see if the police will come and comb your house for the intruder.” Pamela said. I nodded, glad that she did not press me further.

"But could there be more going on?" Pamela asked, "I mean, your face - the color is gone, and your eyes show trauma of someone that seemed to have seen a ghost or something."

Before I could respond, Stephen came back panting, a relieved look on his face.

“Turns out I had indeed closed the backdoor.” Then he turned to me, “So, Henry, what do you want to do now?”

“I was thinking that he could spend the night in the guest room, just to feel safe.”

“Oh, okay, yeah. Sure.” Stephen said.

He led me to the guest room, which was on the ground floor of his house, further down the hallway from the living room.

“Well, rest here my brother. Let us see what tomorrow holds." He said, patting me on my back, "Good night.”

“Thank you, Stephen. Good night pia.” I said, walking into the room and closing the door as soon as Stephen was gone.

I began checking the room - under the bed, where there was nothing but a thin layer of dust on the carpet, under the bedsheets, in the closet, behind the desk at the corner of the room. I checked to see that the windows were shut. I looked out into the backyard, where the pale moonlight shimmered on the dewy grass and the leaves of the mango tree. Under this mango tree, was a swinging seat, which swayed with faint squeaks to the wind softly humming outside. 

Yet, despite checking the room, I still felt uneasy, as if something unseen was watching me. I crept into bed and spent the next few minutes on my phone, alternating between Instagram, Twitter, Reddit, and YouTube, trying to keep sane a mind that was going insane.

I Saw Her Face

The sound of a twig cracking startled me. I tore my eyes from the glowing screen of my phone, where I was watching some Real Ghost Sighting videos on YouTube to calm down and looked at the window. The curtains were drawn, but a small gap on the edge of the window close to my bed allowed me a glimpse into the grey night outside, where the moon continued to bath the land in that eerie pale light.

The trees danced their thin shadows on the curtain, their shadows like tall thin figures dancing around behind the curtain. The swing was now creaking loudly, as if someone was actively pushing it to the edges of its limit.

I curled up further in bed and tried to stay as still as I could.

Bug then, I heard the twig crack again. Surely that must be the wind. Surely. I sat up and listened again. The wind had picked up pace once again and the creaking of the swing chair grew louder and was rhythmic, meaning that it couldn't be swinging to the wind. Someone was moving it in slow, deliberate swings.

I felt the hand of fear grip me such that I could not move and every cell in my body began to tremble in violent spasms of fear. I covered myself head to toe in the bed and began whimpering. What did these spirits want with me? What wrong had I done?

I put on my earphones and began listening to music, hoping to use the music to lull myself to sleep. But then another sound startled me. It felt like a tap on the window. I gasped and took out one earphone, just to ensure that the sound wasn't really.

But it was real indeed. There was a gentle tap on the window, followed by a low, painful, almost inhuman groan. I whimpered and cowered further in my fetal position, my knees barely inches from my nose. The hum of the wind outside seemed to now be inside, whispering right next to my ears. I thought I felt a presence hover just above me, waiting to unleash unspeakable horrors to me if I even dared to peek even a crack.

But I could no longer keep my sanity. I was sinking in a sea of violent trembles under the bedsheet, and it was becoming increasingly hot the more I stayed buried in there. I was dripping sweat like a leaking faucet, such that even the sheet began clinging onto me.

Maybe all this was nothing. Perhaps all I needed to do was just check the window, see that it was all the wind's doing, and that peace would put me to bed. So, I sighed deeply and decided that I would jump out of bed and pull aside the curtain to rest my fears.

At the count of three, I threw away the duvet and rushed for the window. On my periphery, from the darkest corner of the room, I thought I saw a shadowy figure emerge from the darkness and begin to make for me.

Pulling back the curtain, the moon was gone. The mango tree was stiff as a corpse, standing unmoved like a sturdy railroad. Everything was still, as though the night had also held its breath in anticipation of the horrors about to unfold. Everything except the damned swing chair. Its creaking hinges echoed into the silent night, swallowing up every other sound.

My legs almost gave up on me when I finally saw what was making the swing move. That shadowy figure sat, slowly rocking back and forth on the seat. I gasped and let out a loud scream. I turned on my heels and made my way toward the door. It was at this moment that the shadowy figure I had seen emerge from the darkness inside also tried to reach out and grab me. I felt these cold, deathly hands grab me and begin to pull me down.

I stretched with all my might and managed to just about reach the tip of my finger on the light switch and turn the light on. The hands let go instantly and I collapsed to the ground in exhaustion and fear. Every cell of my being was screaming in terror. on my hands were grab marks. It was real!

I struggled back to my feet and opened the door to the corridor. The lighting from my room spilt out into the corridor but only lit the corridor halfway. The rest of the corridor was soaked in this partly lit darkness. I couldn't bring myself to run down that hallway. Then, it hit me - the swing had also fallen silent. Now, this eerie pause blanketed the earth. I turned back and looked at the window, half expecting the shadowy figure to emerge from it.

But it was not from the window that it emerged from but from the hallway. Down the end of the hallway, just beyond the rays of light from my bedroom, I saw it - the tall, thin elfin apparition making its way toward me in these ethereal steps, almost as though she was walking in a different dimension. It seemed she was walking in slow motion, her walk eerie and disturbingly elegant, her footsteps echoing a split-second after she had taken her step.

My trembling feet almost gave way, and I could feel sweat break out from every pore in my body. My hear threatened to rip through my chest and I

"Pamela?" I called out, still in denial at what I was seeing.

Silence.

The wind picked up pace again, this time, it started rattling the windows, as though someone was trying to prize them open. There was a persistent knock at the panes, and the shadow of the trees on the curtain danced with feverish excitement, their whispers incoherent and more fiendish.

On turning back, the figure was just beyond the grasps of the light pouring from my room, almost as though it had teleported through time. I screamed as I jumped back into the bedroom and latched the door. The sound at the window grew more fervid, more violent. The trees cried in ghoulish voices and the room rattled alongside the dancing shadows.

The banging on the door grew more intense, more distressing and I screamed even louder, until through all the noise, I heard people calling my name. Under the bedroom door, I saw two shadows moving at my door, fervidly moving about as they banged on the door.

“Henry, wacha hizo. Open this door!” Stephen called. “What is happening in there? Nini mbaya?”

It was Pamela and Stephen. I gathered my scared self and scampered for the door. Pamela and Stephen rushed in, him with a metal bar while she carried with her a knife.

“What is going on?” He asked as I let them in and went to huddle on the bed, crying and shaking like a leaf in a windy storm.

“I saw her…it.” I stuttered as tears began washing down my face.

“Saw who?” Pamela asked, the two of them standing over me sitting at the edge of the bed.

I shook my head and closed my eyes, running my mind through what had just happened.

“It was very vivid, very…real, this nightmare!” I cried, trying to hold it together, “I am sorry for disturbing your peace. I… I think I should head back home.”

I looked at the time on my phone. It was seven minutes to midnight. 

That did not make any sense! It had been seven minutes to midnight when I had startled awake in my house to the shadow at my bedroom door.

“This can’t be real. Do any of you –” I never completed that sentence because as I looked up at Pamela and Stephen, their faces were no longer theirs but the lifeless faces of my wife - her vacant, sunken eyes, the sad uncanny look still plastered on her face, her sunken cheeks and thinned hair, staring down at me–

I screamed. Another loud banging came from the door. I opened my eyes to find myself sitting on my bed. I was all alone. The light was on, and outside, the wind still bayed and howled. Pamela and Stephen were borderline knocking the door down, screaming to know if I was okay.

I rushed to the door as I put on my clothes, unable to keep myself still. On opening the door, I couldn't bring myself to trust them, as they now suddenly seemed to not be the Pamela and Stephen that I knew. Something strange was happening this night, and they too were in on it. I couldn't trust them.

“We heard you screaming! What is happening?” Stephen asked, barging into the room as his wife followed. Pamela eyed me with a look that seemed a mixture of fear and concern. But it all was an act, I could feel it.

Stephen went about checking the room as I cowered against the wall, keeping them firmly in my eyesight, fearful that if I showed them my back, they would reveal their true form. I checked the phone for the time. It was half past three. I pinched myself just to confirm that I was awake. It all felt real.

“I will go back home.” I said, still eyeing them suspiciously.

“What? Now?” Pamela asked, peeking through the curtain outside.

“Yes. I think I may have disturbed you all for nothing. I probably had a vivid nightmare back at home too. There was never any intruder. I am sorry for disturbing you, but I have to go back home now.”

As I hastily tried to make my way to the door, Pamela stopped me.

“Henry,” She said, putting her hands on my shoulder, “Losing Sylvia was a big blow for you, but I think you never truly mourned her loss. Could it be that the pain you kept so pent up is what is haunting you right now?”

“Come on, Pamela, you aren’t going to psychoanalyze me here, are you?” I asked, struggling to pull myself free from her grip, which seemed to tighten around me with each passing second.

“You are right, I am sorry. Old habits,” She said, letting me go, “But I still think you did not truly mourn her, considering how much she meant to you.”

“I don’t want to talk about Sylvia, please. Let me just head home. Sorry for disturbing you over what had simply been a bad dream. Good night. Tuonane kesho Mungu akipenda.”

“Okay, let me come with you to make sure you are safe.” Stephen said, rushing after me as we came up to the front door.

I turned and pushed him away.

“I will run all the way.” I said and with that, asked him to open the gate for me.

Stephen grabbed me by the arm and brought me to a dead stop. It was a firm grip, and I feared looking at him because what if he had turned into that monstrosity with my wife's dead face?

"You can't keep doing this, Henry," Stephen said, "It's hard for you, I know, but you can't keep pushing us away like this."

"I am not pushing you away. I just want some time alone."

"Henry, you don't have to do this alone," Pamela said, coming up next to her husband, "We have always told you that."

"I feel like I want to be alone. Is that too much to ask?"

"No, no it's not," Stephen said. Pamela shook her head. "But as your friends we also cannot, in good conscience, watch you implode without intervening. Sylvia's death -"

"Don't mention her name, please."

"See, that's why you need help," Pamela said, putting a hand on me. "You are trying to distance yourself from her death and it's hurting you. You don't have to run away from your pain, and you don't have to hide it from us, Henry."

I closed my eyes, feeling the tears well inside them. My throat constricted with pain, and I sighed deeply as I began trembling internally, a sign that I was about to open the floodgates.

"Whatever I did cannot be undone. She is no longer around to forgive me."

"We are here to help you live with that." Stephen said.

I shook my head, almost in tears. I did not want them to see my tears. I tore myself from Stephen's much more relaxed grip and rushed to the gate, leaving them calling desperately behind me.

As soon, as the opened the gate, I bolted off into the shadows, as my own house began looming in the darkness, rushing ever closer toward me like a memory that I wished to forget but which I still could not bring myself to let go.

A Fervid Defense of (Some) YouTube Ads

 

A Play button experiencing a violent deconstruction. A symbolism of YouTube, perhaps? Photo - Dall-e

It's Not What You Think

Ah, YouTube ads.

The bane of our existence; like finding a wet and soggy chip in your chip packet or biting into a stone while eating a tasty hotdog.

YouTube ads - that thing that makes us who refuse to subscribe to YouTube Premium shake our fists in frustration at our phones and computer screens when that ad interrupts our five-minute video for the sixth time – only this time, the whole 40-minute ad is playing.

Who wouldn’t want to skip that? I certainly would want to skip that.

This post is not about that type of ad.

Instead, I write about music ads.

The Rapid Rise of YouTube Music Ads

I can’t quite put a finger to it, but music ads, especially full music ads, have been on a rapid rise over the past few years (I don’t have the numbers though lol). YouTube ads in general, have increased significantly to be honest.

But I have never quite noticed so many music ads before as I have noticed over the past year. Perhaps they have been on the increase for much longer, but I only became aware of them shortly before.

I don’t remember when this came to be, but I became aware of just how many music ads I had been getting on YouTube when one of the song ads that I let play (sometimes I let ads play as additional support to my favorite content creators) made its way to my YouTube playlist a few months (or was it a year and some months?) ago.

I am not mentioning the artist’s name or song, not because I want to maintain some exclusivity for some deranged personal gratification, but because I don’t remember clearly what the song was or who even the artist was. Ironic much? I enjoyed the song then promptly forgot about it and the artist, what a way to make your point, you are probably thinking.

Indeed, this wasn't the strongest way to make my point. Still, what I know is that, for several months, I had this song, which I discovered as a YouTube ad, on my playlist, and that made me happy.

Since then, I have been letting music ads play more often than not to gauge whether I would vibe with the artist or, at the very least, with the song. This has led to me discovering some memorable songs. And, not to repeat the mistake of the first time, I have sought out the artists who leave an impact. My embrace of YouTube music ads is a far cry from the past, when I often thought that music that was advertised was somehow inferior to music that I discovered organically. Let it naturally make its way to my playlist, dear artist, old me said.

But in this age where more and more people are getting opportunities to pursue their dreams, it's no longer enough to make good music; you have to part with a few coins to be seen in this endless void of the ever-evolving technological zeitgeist in order to stand out in the saturated online space with ever diminishing attention spans. 

And I think artists buying ads for their music is a good thing actually. It helps them reach their target audience, or intended audience, without having to waste years rotting in the endless, yet still ever-expanding, YouTube space, waiting for the unforgiving and unpredictable algorithm to maybe, possibly, hopefully, pick it up and begin pushing it.

And from these paid music ads, I have listened to music that has gone on to be some of my favourites.

Some of My Faves from YouTube Ads

Ndikwenda, by Kenyan artist Lano Musician and Greek producer Stavros Zacharias, is one of the earlier songs that comes to mind as one of those that encouraged me not to skip music ads. Come to think of it, it might have been THAT song that made me think twice about skipping music ads.

Since Ndikwenda, I have encountered various artists. Some of them gave me a flash of joy with their music, which I soon forgot; others, though, have become some of my favorite artists.

Gloria Bash, a young, petite woman from Congo with glasses covering half her gorgeous face, sang her way with her soothing, angelic voice into my heart with Toza Bien.

Interestingly, it took several listens for Toza Bien to click, like the realization that you are in love when you see the object of your affection on the seventh date. Or like relishing the true mastery of the chef who made the food you are eating at the seventh bite. I don't know why I used seven to make my point, but I just did.

Anyway, since then, Gloria Bash has managed to cascade her way into my ear with her magnificent Mbele, an anthem with strong vocal performances from her and her collaborator, Yvon Yusuf. She then further wriggled her way into my psyche with the glorious Cascade, a song that sounds like it would make for a sick TikTok viral dance video. 

F Supreme Mabungu and his electric dancers also danced their way into my memory with 6_9, which reminded me a lot of the chants that we would make back in the village during Christmas festivities called malago.

Then, there was Teslah, another Kenyan artist whose two songs, Tujibambe, a Christmas/festive song sampled from Oliver Ng’oma’s Bane in collaboration with the sensational Iyanii, and Ndiguikare, a love song released this past Valentine's that wouldn’t be out of place in a sex playlist, also made their way to my consciousness through a YouTube ad.

J Kree’s reflective My Space, is another music I discovered on YouTube ads that's on heavy rotation now. "My energy sharp like a razor blade, cutting off ties just to concentrate". Whew! Hold it there as I give it another listen.

Then there is Tanzania’s Kenny Guitar, whose song, Mariana, heavily influenced by Spanish ballads, with the Spanish guitar playing prominently throughout, also caught my ears as an ad. This is a song that I see playing at my wedding as I serenade my lovely wife.

Then, there is also Martin’s Doudou (fun fact: his name is actually Martin’s with an apostrophe), to JZyNO’s uptempo Profeh, all the way to Sabrina (no, not Carpenter) from Cameroon, the list is long, and the songs *Chef’s Kiss*.

I think I wouldn’t have discovered these songs otherwise because I am as safe as I can be with the music I listen to. I am so safe that safety experts take Masterclasses from me on how to be safe.

And it hasn’t just been ‘small’ artists who are in on the action. Just as I write this, listening to my playlist, I’ve gotten an ad for The Weeknd’s Open Hearts. I had to skip it, sorry. No, not because it is not a good song, but because I had watched too many ads prior, and so I was suffering from ad fatigue. He is one of many established artists who are turning to YouTube ads to reach wider audiences.

Diamond in the Rough

Indeed, the rise of YouTube ads continues to be a frustrating update to the once beloved video platform, but, man, I cannot help but think of just how many opportunities it is currently providing for new artists who want to reach newer audiences. Or how many opportunities it gives those of us who are risk-averse musically to discover new artists and new sounds.

I certainly have listened to a lot more variety of songs since I began letting music YouTube ads play, and I think I would let that continue. I mean, I don’t feel at any point in my life would I have ever listened to Serbian artist, Electra Elite, whose powerful vocals grabbed me by my collars, sat me down, handed me my earphones, and made me listen to Nista Licno from an ad. Sounds violent, I know, but it was a good kind of forcefulness, the kind that seems to make you sit down and enjoy something almost in hypnosis.

Perhaps this is one more reason for me to hold back from subbing to YouTube Premium, and I think it is one of the most compelling reasons. Now of course, not all music ads are great, but I will take my chances to find the diamond in the rough.

Still, though, YouTube ads remain a pain in the ass! Ultimately, even this half-hearted defense of music ads is not a call for you to not skip ads or not to use adblockers. The emergence of ads has ruined the YouTube experience more than improved it. I am just trying to find the positive in an otherwise shitty experience.

 

The Shadow at My Door: Part 1

 

1: That Feeling of Being Watched

It all started one innocuous evening.

A long day of work had taken so much from me that I was barely holding on. After spending an obscene amount of time struggling with the creaky iron gate, I labored the car into my compound, unable to tell right from left, top from bottom, because the day completely drained me.

I parked the car, got out, and slumbered into the house, dragging my sullen body along like a sack.

As soon as I set foot into the house, I was immediately overcome with a sense of unease, as though I was in the presence of a threat that I was yet to lay my eyes on. A familiar scent hit my nose, and immediately all the fatigue that was weighing me down dissolved like salt in warm water, the brain fog in my brain clearing like actual fog in the face of the morning sun.

It was the scent of my wife’s perfume. My dead wife’s perfume!

That explosion of the rosebud and jasmine struck my nasal nerves with the ferocity of a wild animal, and with that scent flooded the memories: the good, the bad, the sorrowful memories.

The house was dead, the living room beckoning with the faint orange hue of the setting sun, while the stairway stayed solemn and dark as though it was bearing some more bad news.

I set my car keys down on the table that stood at the centre of the living room as the scent brought with it the last moments of my wife.

On our marital bed, her body frail, with nothing left on her except for her bones, sunken dead eyes, and hair thinning on her head, each wisp seemingly falling off each time you stroked her head, a sad scowl permanent on her face.

I closed my eyes as a lump filled my throat and felt the sorrow rush back into my eyes and fall as warm tears; a grief that was supposed to be seven months old still felt as fresh as freshly plucked fruit.

I turned my attention to the stairs, where the rising steps beckoned, the light fading gradually with each rising step until there was nothing but looming shadows at the top landing.

I gave a deep sigh as I walked to the bottom step and looked up. Someone, something was watching me. I could feel it; I just hadn’t yet seen it.

Tentatively, I put my right foot on the first step. I was trembling like a leaf in the wind.

I put my left foot on the second step. I could feel the piercing eyes of this as-of-yet-unseen enemy stare right into my wildly beating heart.

I was breathing hard, every cell of my body screaming in discomfort and fear.

I got to the top landing barely able to hear, because my heart was thumping so hard I felt in in my ears. I put my hand on my chest and gasped, trying to catch my breath and, at the same time, trying to keep the viciously beating heart from tearing through my sternum.

I waddled to my bedroom door and stopped just outside.

My dead wife’s scent was very strong right now, almost as though she was standing right in front of me. No, actually, the scent was as strong as though I was hugging her tightly. I thought I heard someone hum and shuffle about in the room.

I was trembling viciously, my breathing sounding as though I was gasping with each breath. My palms were sweaty, and I couldn’t even wrap my fingers properly around the door now as my finger were benumbed. All coordination was gone. It took all the might I could muster, along with both hands, to turn the knob and push open the door.

As soon as I opened the door, my wife’s favorite nightgown, a red, satin nightgown that she wore each time we would get dirty in the sheets and, sometimes even outside the sheets, dropped to the floor. A slight breeze blew my way from the half-open window and, with it, blew the rosebud and jasmine scent, strong enough as though I was intimately on my wife’s skin.

I had hung this nightgown on her closet door since her death, a constant reminder of the love I had lost, but I knew that it could not easily fall to the floor as I had just seen because I had hung it using a hanger with hooks that held the straps in place. No strong wind would blow it without also dropping the hanger. Someone surely must have moved it. Perhaps I was the one who had accidentally moved it and had forgotten?

I ambled into the room, tears welling in my eyes, picked up the gown and fell on the bed, hugging it as memories of my wife came flooding back. In that moment, I was crying, laughing, regretting, and thinking all at once until a wave of sleep washed over me –

2: The Phantom

I was startled awake and was instantly drawn to the blurry sight of a figure standing in the dark in my open bedroom doorway. I sat up, my wife's red nightgown still held firmly in my hands as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the figure, all at once, becoming clearer yet at the same time, blending seamlessly into the darkness. I rubbed my eyes and looked once again. The darkness seeping in through my bedroom door stared blankly at me, and almost imperceptibly, the shadowy figure seemed to dissolve into the darkness.

I put the nightgown back on the closet door and turned on the light. I looked down the corridor. Nobody was there. I was seeing things again.

The time was 11.53 PM. A short nap had turned into a whole six-hour sleep. My stomach grumbled in hunger. I needed something to eat.

As I sat down to eat the heated leftovers from the previous day, the wind slowly began to howl outside. Expected. This was January, so the dry and warm Kaskazi N/NE trade winds were in their full blow, aided by the humid weather and sweltering heat. But there was something eerie about the wind tonight. It felt as though it was whispering, as though it carried voices of unseen entities as it screamed across the Kajiado plains, howling right outside my house and rattling my rafters and windows.

I leaned back in the seat, turned on the TV and put on one of those terrible background movies as I focused on my phone.

The winds blew harder and at some point, it felt as though it would uproot the trees and even my house. It howled and bayed, like the cries of people in eternal damnation, and the more it blew, the higher it pitched, and soon, it sounded like a theremin in high pitch.

I put my plate down and sat up, the hairs on the back of my head standing up. I was trembling slightly, not from fear but from the sudden chilliness that had seeped into the room.

I walked over to the window overlooking my backyard. My security light was on, illuminating, in a lonely yellow glow, the trees that swayed, creaked, and groaned to the forceful wind. Amongst these trees, I caught sight of a rabbit standing perfectly still, seemingly looking at my window. It then scampered away as soon as I had laid my eyes on it.

Then, there was a gentle, almost imperceptible tap at my front door. Tap. Tap. Very soft, easy to miss. I turned and looked at the front door. Maybe it was just loose dust getting blown against the door?

I went back and sat down, now cozying myself in my wife’s favorite seat, where I continued to be haunted by the memories of our lives until her death.

A short while later, some noise came from my bedroom floor above my head. I paused and sat up, head askance, ears perked. Indeed, there were some faint, albeit quite perceptible sounds of footsteps upstairs.

I lived in a place where my closest neighbour was about a kilometer or so away from me. The lands that we lived in were recently developed suburbs, and thus, there were very few houses in close proximity. I loved this about Village Spring Estate because I had never been too keen on living with a neighbor right next to my walls.

I made my way into the kitchen, my dinner plate in hand, and pulled out a pipe wrench from under the sink. A knife would be too violent, and I hated the sight of blood. I put the cold food into the microwave, ready for re-heating once I had dealt with whatever was making noise upstairs.

I crept down the corridor and slowly made my way up the stairs.

Indeed, the sounds were not coming from my tired brain. Something was indeed ransacking through my bedroom. I could hear the noises of cabinet doors whirring open and the soft thud of things falling on the floor. The closer I got to the bedroom, the more I felt it once again – the unmistakable scent of my wife’s perfume.

I was shaking violently, the wrench rattling noisily down by my side. My heartbeat so forceful that it thudded against my head and gave me a slight headache. My skin tingled, and my mouth dried. I reached for the doorknob and sighed. I psyched myself up. It was my house! My home!

I opened the door with a sudden lunge and leaped into the room, swinging the wrench wildly, eyes closed, and screaming like a maniac. I kept swinging until my arms were sore and my throat was coarse. I opened my eyes to a room in disarray, all contents from my wife's closet, her clothes, shoes and jewelry, strewn down on the floor, spread all over the carpet like butter spread thin on bread, her closet doors wide open.

All except her red sleeping gown, which was laid neatly on the bed, her perfume right next to it, the Jasmine and Rosebud scent wafting gently throughout the room and giving me some major surge of old memories, memories that I was trying to push at the back of my mind.

I turned around and scanned the room, checked the bathroom, empty, in my closet, nothing. I rushed out of the room, down into the sitting room, and checked the room right under the staircase because that would be a good place for an intruder to hide. Nothing.

I scoured through the house, checking every nook and cranny, but came up short.

I then stepped outside, to the wind howling and baying across the flat plains and walked around the parking, looking into and under the two cars in the parking lot, my wife’s and mine. Nothing.

I move around to the backyard, once again, catching a glimpse of a rabbit, which, upon seeing me, scampered amongst the creaking trees and disappeared into the darkness.

But just as I was about to turn, I caught a glimpse of a human silhouette standing among the trees. It was a split-second sight, such that by the time I was shining my light on where I thought I had seen it, it was gone.

Was I losing my mind or what?

It Breaks at The Doorstep

The piercing bars of sunlight snuck into this tiny room through random gaps on the mud wall and the wooden window as the birds sang with exuberance outside.

On one side of the room was a bed that creaked each time a muscle was twitched. It was a small bed, yet two figures were squeezed on its narrow platform and seemed unbothered. A tiny drawer next to the bed held a pale blue ashtray filled with orange cigarette butts and grey ash. An empty bottle of liquor stood next to it and in the air, was the sharp stench of stale tobacco and cheap liquor, this terrible smell stealing every bit of freshness from the morning.

One of the two figures on the bed stirred and pulled away the blanket. She sat up, her face pallid. Her eyes were sickly and ponderous, tears glittering in them. Then she rose slowly, the bed squeaking with each of her movements. The man sleeping next to her grunted and snuggled himself a little tighter.

She jumped over him, crawled to the other side of the bed and pulled open the window, letting the glorious sparkle of the morning light up the room. She squinted as the sun streamed into the room like it owned the place. She adjusted the black faded petticoat that hang loosely on her thin body.

Their three children were squeezed on the floor, huddled on a lean, beaten mattress that had long surrendered, gobbled up by a thick duvet, which had a big hole close to the bottom.

The tall one, sleeping closer to the door kept curling himself further to accommodate his feet in the warmth of the cover. Next to him was his younger sister and then an infant, who started and coughed before breaking into a sharp shrill.

The mother, evoked by the unseating shriek of her precious but embattled bundle, sighed as if she had grown weary of hearing that cry. She reached over and picked it up. The other two sat up, rubbing their eyes languidly as each yawned to the bright sunlight. The eldest one was about fourteen or fifteen while the other was nine.

“Mum why is Janita crying?” The nine-year old girl asked, not really sure if she too should break down if it turned out that hunger was what disturbed the little one. The mother seemed not to have heard her.

The man was last to wake up. As if compelled by his nightmares than his own volition, he sat up with a start. He was wrinkled, but not due to old age. He had yet to clock forty but looked well past fifty.

He had been battered by life and thus, the skin folded on his face like a sack of balls on a hot day. He yawned noisily as he panned the room. All eyes were on him, red and dreadful, sick and mottled with anger, disgust, apathy. Even little Janita had paused her noisome shrieks and was desperately trying to reach for his nape.

“So what are your plans for today, Friday?” His wife asked, her eyes now full of anger. He half turned to her.

“What do you mean?” He asked ignorantly. He did not meet her eyes nor the children’s. He did not want to see the expectations, the desperation, the contempt in them. So instead, he looked down at his feet, almost in shame.

“Where are we headed?” His wife snapped, “What are we to do with things getting worse each day?”

There was anger and frustration in her voice. But more importantly, there was pain, a deep-seated agony from hopelessness.

He turned his eyes to the window, to the vast blueness of a vacant sky outside, to the empty chambers of heaven, up to the callous gods looking down at his misery and choking with laughter. Sweet heavens were now like the liquor bottle next to him, magnificently full of nothing.

“I will do something about it-”

“When? When, Friday?” His wife gave a teary interjection, “After we have all been kicked out of this shack? Do you think we even have it in us to stay in this sun without feeling sick?”

“I will take care of everything.” He repeated himself, for what else was there to say? He had run out of vocabulary just as he had run out of money and opportunities.

“You keep saying that!”

“Just give me time!” He snapped at her, his temple webbing with veins, throbbing rhythmically to the rampant throb of his solemn heart.

Then he immediately felt bad about it. He was the cause of this trouble they were going through. They were as faultless as he was guilty.

“I can’t promise anything,” He said in a contrite tone, “You of all people should know that. I’m doing my best.”

“We could have avoided all this if only you had let me go out and work too –”

“You sit here and take care of the children.” He said firmly. “If I leave then you leave, who will watch the children?”

“Jeremy here is old enough –”

“We cannot leave these children alone. You talk as if you don’t know these slums.”

“I always would have found someone to care for the children –”

“I said I want you to stay home and care for the children. Yaishe.” He muttered as he reached under the bed.

The wife shook her head and sniffled as tears began falling down her sad eyes. She rocked back and forth, trying to keep the young one from crying.

“I don’t know if I want to stay here any longer with you.” She said suddenly.

That startled him. He sat stoically as the seconds passed, each pounding home the meaning, the impact of that statement. He felt his heart combust into a flame, not of fury, but one of frustrations, a culmination of the trouble that had been brewing.

“You are not leaving me.” He said, his teeth clenched, his voice firm, his mind pleading for her to reason with him.

But the wife shook her head as her face wrinkled in pain and sorrow. Tear dribbled freely from her eyes. Down on the mattress, the nine-year-old too began silently sobbing, while Jeremi, the oldest one, sat up, staring pensively ahead.

“I am short of options, Friday.” His wife said, “If you will not let me find a job, then I’d rather leave you and find another way to fend for myself and my children.”

He looked away, still avoiding everybody’s eyes. He reached for his clothes, which he had folded up into a makeshift pillow and put them on as his children looked away. Then he moved along and sat on the edge of the bed and put on the yawning shoes he had pulled from under the bed.

Then he motioned for his son to fold the mattress to afford room for him to maneuver through. He stretched and pulled open the door open, letting in more of those pleasantly warm rays of sunshine. Perhaps these rays signified something good was in the offing. He skipped out without as much as a glance back. In the house, an awkward silence remained.

“I want the two of you to wash all your dirty clothes.” Mother said as Jeremy and his younger sister moved to action.

***

He skipped carelessly over the sewage flowing in between the shanties, passing women who were bent over washing clothes.

He then came upon a dirt road and turned to the left towards the market, restrained deeply in his thoughts. A few days had turned to months, which turned to years that eventually turned to a decade. Time moved fast. Or was he moving rather slow for time? He jerked as a fellow stepped on his toes, bringing back to the present.

How fair it would be if lady luck smiled, nay, laughed down at his balding head, hair thinning not from age but from stress and the many ailments that came with living in apathy and poverty. But lady luck was not smiling at his head. The sun was scorching his shining scapel, perhaps responsible for the delicious smell of something good cooking – his thoughts.

He didn’t look up, not at the groceries, not at the kiosks that yawned from the tire of their equally battered owners and not at the supermarkets that often lacked the courtesy to sell something fresh for once. His stomach made frequent complaints of hunger, drawing a groan, possibly a scowl of murderous intent, from him.

As he passed a two-storey building, something smashed against his head and began trickling down his temples and forehead. Someone had dumped dirty water on him. He didn’t bother to look up. For what? He didn’t want to see that middle finger aimed at him. He just wiped it away as diplomatically as he could with the back hem of his shirt and went on wading through his thoughts.

He touched the little hair that still clung onto his miserable cranium. Too bad he had not combed his hair. Maybe the thoughts would have been kinder if his hair was neater. Trouble, misery. And the sweet scent of something frying. Chapatis tossed into the air. He neared the den. The woman watched him approach.

“Ya ngapi mzee?” She asked, flipping the round flour dough she was rolling.

He gestured for two. She turned and began scrounging for a nylon bag. He responded swiftly, lifting several with blinding agility, dipping them into his back pocket as he melded into the crowd of the slum dwellers. Behind, the woman let out a cry. He ducked into an alley. In these parts, alleys always led somewhere and he knew he was unlikely to come undone by a dead end so he disappeared down that way.

***

But things wouldn’t always be like this. Previously the bad days had always been followed by the good and he hoped this would be same. But the bad days this time had overstayed their welcome. Never before had he been on the brink of eviction as it was this time. Never before had he been on the brink of starvation as he was this time.

God curse that useless President and his love for those suits that look like those worn by that North Korean leader.

Memories jumped back to the good old days. How infectious was a smile when there was plenty; plenty to eat, plenty to excrete, plenty to waste too?

Their shadows would dance on the walls as they hunched over the tiny candle light on the tiny table and brought the mountain of food to its knees. Actually they ate even its knees as the shadows danced, the candle being the shadow choreographer. And a joke was shared too, and if it wasn’t, even a belch was hilarious, a fart was a rib cracker.

Then came days like these, days that just stumbled in and plonked themselves in the room like they belonged there. Days of empty pockets, empty stomachs, empty promises. And good memories would wander away too, so also empty memories. Good times were forgotten, and he would quickly be reminded of them. He took out the bundle of chapatis he had taken unceremoniously. He counted them. Six.

He took two and shoved the rest back into the pockets of his black, ill-fitting trousers that sagged unceremoniously from his thinning waste. Grumpily, he stuffed the chapatis into his mouth as he came up to a narrow street that had a few shops but still plenty of people.

A tarmacked road passed through here. A few feet away, children had converted the road into a playfield, kicking about a football with abandoned bliss.

He spat as he walked up a stream. He was now nearing the highway, where a market thrived.

He slowly ambled up to the market. The traders called at him; Sukuma wiki mkubwa, nyanya freshi. He swallowed the last of his chapatis as he moved in between the throbbing bodies.

The smell of rotting vegetables filled the air as he maneuvered his way between the bodies of people stopping to buy the vegetables.

The then came up to the edge of the road where the vehicles sped past and looked on. Dead at the centre of the road, a black shadow appeared, almost human but not quite. It lifted a hand and beckoned.

Friday closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Perhaps this was the time that he needed to end it. The good times were never coming. His life was never going to change for the better. He would never get that good job he wanted. So, why bother continuing existing in this mortal coil of misery?

He opened his eyes again. The shadow still beckoned with slow, graceful motions. It danced daintily in the road. Maybe he could find the joy to dance like that in death. He smiled and nodded to the black shadow.

He walked much closer to the curb and waited. The road was less busy, but a bus was speeding towards him. A strike from the bus would be instant, he thought, inching closer to the road.

The bus roared closer. He could hear the sweet turbo spool of its engine as it neared. It wasn’t moving particularly fast, but the mass of its large body would do damage at that speed.

He inched closer. The bus got closer. He closed his eyes and imagined a better world. Then, he made a step forward.

A hand gripped him firmly from the back and pulled him back.

He opened his eyes just as the bus flew past him, leaving behind a very strong wake that almost threw him off-balance. It was moving fast and that speed would have put him out of his misery in an instant. So, who was this idiot that had stopped him?

“Oh my God, that bus almost crushed you! Are you okay?” A woman’s voice said.

He turned. A woman was staring at him with some concern. Then, her eyes widened, partly in shock, partly in recognition.

“Faraday?” She called.

He was stunned. Who was this woman that knew his name as it was supposed to be? Faraday and not the Friday bullshit his wife often spewed out.

She was gorgeous, he noticed, her brown eyes intense and piercing. Those eyes flickered as she broke into a smile. Faraday squinted and winced. He bit his tongue as he ransacked through his fusty, festering memories, trying to dig a familiar face to match the woman. And she didn’t spare his slaving with a failing memory.

“Remember me?” She asked, looking at Faraday up and down, seeming to ignore his trouble recollecting her. He hemmed and hawed. Then he scowled as if he had ingested aloe vera juice and looked at her suspiciously. Then he knit his brows and skewed his lips. Flashes of recall. Um...uhh...dammit...she is who she is. Maam are you here to give me a job or not? I don’t know you.

“I’m sorry, I will if you remind me.” He said, keenly studying her to mark out any familiarity. A former employer perhaps.

“It’s Lucy,” she snapped, giggling in excitement, “Lucy Ndeti. We were in the same class in Sky Rise Academy.”

The wind paused. The trees went awkwardly silent. He felt as if he had been rudely hit in the head by a rod. His jaws dropped as his heart took a deep breather. His eyes, blurring with tears and widened with paralyzing marvel, lingered on her as the familiarity finally struck home.

Of course it had to be Lucy. He could see it now.

“L...Lucy?” He stuttered, his lips still moving even after he had stammered out that name.

“Yes.” She smiled more broadly. “Unanikumbuka sasa?”

Suddenly, his memory flew into top gear, and the evocative frames came in a deluge. A blissful, nostalgic childhood reminisce.

The teary evenings in the staffroom for noise making. The awkward, gritty, grounding competition in English and Kiswahili lessons. The strange attraction and the mocking of the whole class when that dripping, uncomfortably wet kiss landed on her unsuspecting cheeks. Then the tears that came after and the embarrassment that followed. And then, the turn around a few years later to becoming closer friends.

And she still held onto that quiet comeliness of her formative years. The beauty still stood, only more mature now. The beatific, large eyes that captivated and never let go, that once made his pre-teen heart flutter and his lips stutter and his emotions gush and his blood rush, oh those comely eyes, they still were there, now more familiar to him than they had been previously.

“Wow, you look like you don’t belong here.” Faraday said with an embarrassed smile.

“I am here for fresh veggies,” she said, pointing to the bag she was carrying filled with fresh veggies. “You don’t look so good.”

Faraday felt a lump on his throat, which then brought tears into his eyes. He curled his toes, hunched his shoulders and cringed as his whole face sank in shame. He looked down.

“Why are you getting vegetables from here, though?” Faraday asked, “Shouldn’t you be getting them from a supermarket at the mall of something?”

“I live around here and this is where I get my fresh veggies from.” She said, “Want to come with me? For a cup of tea perhaps? You look like you could use a cuppa.”

Her voice was mellow and now that he had refreshed his memory, she was too familiar to forget. She had changed little still. Only more grown. And rich, or at least, not struggling for a meal like he was.

What a nasty sense of humor life had. A close friend, or former close friend, living just a few meters from where he lived, drowning in money as he sank deep in misery.

“Okay, Lucy,” he mumbled as he fidgeted and trembled violently, “But I have to admit I am embarrassed.”

“It’s okay.” She said sweetly as she led the way.

***

As she opened the gate to her apartment block, Faraday could feel the wealth in the air. It came from the calming trees which lined the streets, or was it from the large iron gate which creaked sweetly to let him in. Or did it come from the majestic cars parked outside, or the beautiful apartment with pink façade.

They took an elevator to the third floor, where she let him in on a beautiful, spacious room that looked something straight out of a real estate magazine.

“Please take a seat, Farah. I hope it’s okay to call you that.” Lucy said with a smile.

“It’s no problem,” Faraday said, sitting down on the couch adjacent to the door. “Wow, this is nice.”

The room looked beautiful with it’s white walls, maroon curtains which hang majestically on the large windows that let in much of the sunlight.

“So tea or juice?” She asked, smiling benevolently at him.

He asked for water, hoping she would read into his shyness and see that he was dying for something to eat. He actually was screaming ugali and beef stew. Speaking of food, he reached for his pockets. The three chapatis had gone cold now and he wondered what to do with them if he left here full.

“I will make you something small to eat too.” Lucy said as she walked into the kitchen.

His balls retreated further into his crotch. Sweet old Lucy. Still the same with that beautiful heart some fifteen or so years later. Oh, how some people never change. How beauty, sometimes, never fades.

“You look sick, Faraday.” Lucy opined as she emerged a few minutes later with a plate of steaming rice and meat stew.

At the sight of the food, his stomach groaned and the hunger coursed in jubilant palpitations. He cleared his throat as he prepared to speak. He received the plate, muttered thank you and dug in. She put a jug and a glass of juice on the tiny table next to him.

“What happened Farah? You had a great future.” She asked again.

Faraday shifted his eyes uneasily before finally deciding to look at her, though timidly, as of a dog looking at its master after a moment of mischief.

“Lucy,” Faraday gasped, fighting back the tears welling in his eyes as the torture of regret took over him. “Lucy, I... I... I don’t know.”

He paused and studied her. Was she really interested in knowing what he went through? Or was she just being polite? He looked down at the scaly, dry skin of the hand holding the spoon.

“I mean, after my father and mother died, I –”

“Oh my, you lost both parents?” Lucy exclaimed. Faraday nodded. Lucy’s face went glum, her eyes full of sorrow as she looked at him.

“Farah, I am so sorry.” She said. It was more of a whisper, as tears welled up in her eyes too.

Faraday choked on his tears, putting the food down.

“I couldn’t afford to get into university and so I decided to take up a job to see if I could save up enough for college…” his voice tapered off once again as those tragic memories flowed back, those memories he had been trying his best to shove to the back of his mind.

“It was supposed to be temporary, that job, but before I knew it, here I am, almost a decade later. I don’t know how it happened. It’s almost as though I slept one night and woke up today, older and still in the same place.”

Lucy’s eyes continued to water, in sorrow of what had become of her once great friend. She whispered I’m sorry once again, but her voice was chocking so it was barely audible.

“But enough of my troubles,” Faraday said, “I see you are doing quite well.”

“I am doing well,” she affirmed. “I guess for me things just went right at the right time. I went into engineering but soon after uni, I couldn’t land a job. So I leased land back home and tried out rabbit farming. Now, here I am.”

Faraday felt mocked. The pride in her voice plundered that much regret into him. She was bragging. But yet she wasn’t. She was just relishing how her life had panned out. she made it all seem so easy.

He looked around the walls. Photos of the family hang on almost all four of them. They featured prominently Lucy, a man and two teenage children, a boy and a girl.

“That’s your family?” He asked, pointing to one of the photos that had the four of them soaked in the white sands of the beach. Lucy looked up and a smile spread on her lips.

“Yes.” She said. Then she turned to him.

“You are not eating Faraday.” She observed. Faraday sighed. He took a spoonful of the food and stuffed it in his mouth. It was delicious, sumptuous but why could he barely enjoy it? He shook his head.

“I just can’t believe it.” He dribbled as tears finally trickled down his cheeks. “I’m a failure Lucy, a failure!”

“Faraday you are not –”

“Don’t try to make me feel better Lucy.” He cried as he looked at her, “I know what I am.”

Wrapped on her wonderful face was concern, her eyes were bleeding with sympathy, her lips trembling with emotion. But there was also a certain undercurrent of confusion in the way she looked at him. She still was in disbelief that this beaten, scrawny man barely holding it together was the same classmate who had been so bright it had been blinding.

“I’m at that point, Lucy,” He said as he wiped away tears from his swollen eyes, “At that point in life when you have lost the fear of certain things. If you have failed repeatedly, you just stop fearing failure and death. You stop hoping for something better. If anything, death becomes something you look forward to.” His voice broke off as he cried his heart out.

Lucy looked down at him. She took the plate from his agitating hands and took him in a hug.

“I’m sorry about all you have gone through, Farah,” she comforted, “But while misery takes you to some dark places, what you do from there is your choice.” She let him be and looked into his eyes.

“You are like a brother to me, Farah, and I hate seeing you in this situation. Say, do you want any help?”

Faraday nodded.

“What kind of help?”

“An opportunity.” Faraday said without thought. Yes. It was all he needed. “I just want an opportunity for my children to finish school and not end up like me. I don’t want my sins to be visited upon them. They deserve better.”

As he spoke, she sat next to him, paying keen attention to him such that even the dog’s incessant barking couldn’t call her away. The more he went on, the lighter he felt. It was almost as if shackles were being freed from him.

They went on and dug out their past, rekindling those sweet memories of childhood. He spoke endlessly and she gave him all her ears. She also gave him comfort. She was happy, he could tell and he found himself flustered when she assured him with a smile.

Her life had just turned out so incredible that he began to feel jealousy rankle at the basement of his emotional chambers. But it soon gave way to admiration and pride. Pride in her. He was proud that she had done so incredibly well despite being offered nothing but the raw deal during her formative years. He was proud of her. Her energy and effervescence wasn’t because she was bragging. Rather it was born of contentment, happiness in having accomplished what she set out to do. Self-actualization.

Their childhood, their cries, laughter and a little superficial reminisce of that love that never got to be. Divergent was what would best describe their life paths. Engrossed in the power of nostalgia, both were rudely interrupted by the sound of an imam calling the Muslim faithful for evening prayers at a nearby mosque. It was quarter to seven and the sun had already wrapped, darkness engulfing what remained of daylight. The day has flown by, just as Faraday’s life had.

Faraday sighed and got up.

“I have to go, Lucy,” He said, scratching his scalp, looking lost. He fought within himself for a time, but then figured that failing to ask for help would be falling into the same old behavior of letting opportunities pass him by.

“I’m afraid I have nothing to feed my family, Lucy.”

It was about time that he resigned to what he was now - a beggar.

“Do you have your C.V with you?” Lucy asked suddenly.

“Yes,” Faraday nodded, “but I’m afraid it can’t amount to much as I haven’t updated it in years.”

There was disappointment palpable in Lucy's face as she now looked at him rather disapprovingly.

“Faraday, you can’t keep doing this to yourself and your family.” She said, her voice lilting in discontentment. “You can’t just give up on life like that.”

Faraday shook his head somberly but did not offer a response. Lucy picked her phone from her the table next to where she was seated.

“Give me your number and I will see how to help you.”

“My phone has been acting up for a few days now. I left it at home.” Faraday said. “I can give you my wife’s number.”

“Okay then.” Lucy said, getting to her feet. “And your wife what does she do?”

“Oh she takes care of the children.” Faraday said. “Though she has also been doing some odd jobs here and there.”

“Okay,” Lucy nodded, “Does she want something to do? I could use some help in this house.”

“Uh, when you call her, maybe you can ask her,” he said, “but I think she will be okay with the arrangement.”

Lucy nodded. She asked him to sit for a while as she skipped away. She came back with a plastic bag containing maize flour and a packet of rice. She handed it to Faraday, who, overwhelmed with gratitude, stuttered and stammered endless thank yous. She smiled and walked him to the door, where she reached for his hand and squeezed a few notes into his rough palms. Once more, Faraday was elated this time to the point of breaking down.

“Take care, Farah,” she said sweetly, “And remember you don’t have to remain as you are. I’ll call your wife tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Faraday said, “and thank you once more, Lucy.”

With that, he turned and rushed out into the cold embrace of the darkness. He walked on the dappled street under the yellow street lights. Same old Lucy. Same old Lucy. She had been a friend and she still was as she had always been - humble, tender, caring. Oh and that reminded him. He opened the palms of his hands and counted the money.

Four thousand shillings! He let that sink in for a moment. Four thousand! God bless you Lucy. From grass to grace. Perhaps there was reason to live after all. Lucy had given him reason to live.

***

Darkness had fully enveloped the land when he found himself trudging through the littered streets of his sorry neighbourhood. Many had closed shop, with a few wrapping it up. Silence was beginning to bear the night.

A lone streetlight, which had been installed four years back as a campaign tool for the area MP, dispersed the yellow floodlight far into the slum, but only stray lights streamed the street where Faraday walked. He came up to a group of women shaded in the darkness, their thighs glittering in the weak light. The night gals were out in their glory and they tried to call at Faraday. Tempting.

He branched from the main street down a dark alley, which was a short-cut to getting home. With no light to guide him, he squelched and splashed into the sewers but again, he didn't care. The iron sheets of the houses rattled from the woofers blasting as people welcomed the night. He walked with his eyes over the shoulder.

This alley was bad, with volent robberies a norm, but he felt safe because the night was still young. He dipped his hands into his pocket and thrust the four thousand shillings in them. then, he remembered those chapatis, now dried and breaking. He threw them away.

Then he reached for the four thousand shillings in his pockets and once again pulled them out, stull in disbelief.

He walked past three men who grunted greetings to him. In front of him, another man walked towards him. Then, the man slipped just in front of Faraday –

A heavy blow at the back of his head sent him face first into the black sewer waters. Before he could recover, his whole body exploded in pain as punches and kicks and the strike of a rod rained on his defenseless self.

He opened his mouth to scream but a vicious stamp on his face arrested it as his jaws broke, a few teeth falling off too. The knocks on his side broke his ribs and there was no reprieve as he was bludgeoned for almost forever.

When they were done, he was a mess, blood seeping through his cloths, making them cling to his body. He was violently ransacked. His pockets were turned inside out, where they found a few coins and a note which he had written a few days ago.

“Fala,” One of the thugs said as he kicked Faraday repeatedly on his head, “How are you walking around with nothing?”

“Check the socks,” Another said.

Faraday, unable to move much as his body drowned in a sea of pain, felt them take out his shoes and socks. Nothing.

“Check in his underwear. These days they hide their money there too.” One of the robber said again.

“Wewe, I am not putting my hands on another man’s crotch.” Another said.

There was some push and pull. Faraday tried to move, but the pain would not allow him to move. Then, he felt it. One of the men opened his zipper and began groping around his nether regions, up to this anus.

“Hakuna kitu.” He said as they all proceeded to violently stamp him again. Then all was still.

“Fala. You are full of nothing. Next time have something for us to steal.” He heard a distant voice say before the multiple feet faded.

An alarming silence hang over him now. He coughed as blood choked him, vomiting thick spats of it. In waste, he lay as blood pooled below him, seeping into the murk. His eyes, blurred with tears and blood, looked up to the clear sky. The stars sparkled with an allure he had yet to witness, scintillating in magnificence as if a beckon for him to join their adornment.

They seemed to be calling and he was eager to respond. They were full of endless promises, granting him endless possibilities but if only he could touch them. He stretched the terribly shaking hand with such dogged determination than he had lived by. Then he touched them as the sky blasted into a bright white light.

A dead smile broke on his dead face. In his right hand, clasped tightly and protectively in his closed palm, was the four thousand shillings.