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.