“Allah took some time to prepare before creating man and the universe. He didn’t just literally wake up one day and mould Adam. And fill his lungs with the breath of life,” Mwanaisha Imam’s words at the mosque back at Eastleigh floats in the shallowness of her mind.
She
is seated on the second-last seat of her campus’ bus. A rather short girl with
light complexion she is. Her face’s colour’s face is like that of Ahmed’s mandazis, which he bakes each morning near Mwanaisha’s house.
Her
fellow students join the rest on board in haste. Finds themselves a vacant
place to sit. At last, the practical session is over.
After
sinking onto the seats, each of them momentarily jumps to and fro; enjoying the
comfort of the seat. Mwanaisha sighs with deep relief. The other students’ lungs
breathe in and out. It’s evident that even everybody is bored to the skin.
Mwanaisha
slightly stoops and cleans the bottom part of her buibui by lightly rubbing her left palm along and over it. The
specks of dust settled on it gently flies. And before they escape through the
window, she coughs irritably. She supplies each bout of cough with an almost
inaudible “excuse me.”
As
if to add its torture on her, more plumes of dust flows into the bus. She
half-way opens the window on her side, and then beckons another student seated
near the opposite window to do the same. Now, the dust whistles through one
window, and escapes through the other one.
The
sun is also intolerable. It’s as though the angel tasked with the
responsibility of controlling it had picked a quarrel with the earth. And
probably kicked it – lowered it towards the atmosphere.
“Ah! Manze! Hii solar
yote nayo si inabore. Why don’t they hasten building our own
studio campo ya Nai,” fiery words of
anger ensue from angry mouths against the journalism department of Nairobi
campus. Anyway, at last the driver takes his position. The bus’ engine coughs
impatiently. Then it takes off.
Meanwhile,
Mwanaisha is additionally trying to imagine or hasten the possible termination
of this Ramadhan month. Such thoughts are pioneered by the violent rumblings of
her stomach.
The
ceremony of Idd-Ul-Fitri would put an end to this “month of Islamic
starvation”, as Mwanaisha’s fellow former primary school pupils used to refer
to it. And also would it usher in a new month.
She
had awakened her mouth today morning with a simple suhur meal.
Nothing
else.
In
real sense, who had declared it mandatory for every Muslim around the world to fast
during this month? Her mind is in wonderland. Prophet Muhammad-peace be upon him? Yes…..No. Oh! A gasp
escapes her mouth. She realizes she is sinfully exercising little faith on
Allah’s commands. She gently taps her tummy.
And
promises; “don’t worry, baby. This evening I will cook and feed you with a lot
of delicious iftar meal.” The way she
does it reminds her of the way she had been lulling her sister’s baby to sleep
several years ago.
Then
it happens
She
sees him. He is a student who is of an intake below hers. He is relaxed on a
seat in front of her on the opposite, right flank. Well structured outlook,
beautifully done hair, a killer smile, that well fitting MJ-Michael Jackson
T-shirt, a pair jeans wear and elegant black leather shoes.
“Buda Kip wewe, ebu nisukumie namba ya ule manzi na uache za
ovyo manze”, Mose, Kip’s friend screams at the latter. He promises to do so
soonest- before the bus surpasses another vehicle.
As
journalism students, they believe in displaying high degrees of exploration.
Especially when they goes out for any function; every one of them must and
should have as many numbers of new friends as possible, more so female
ones.
Mwanaisha’s
heart gives a beat. Her soul and heart goes for him as immediately as when she
had initially spotted him. But she has to prepare. Does fire not take some time
to ignite; to widen its flames?
He
stands up full length. Slowly and deliberately walks to the front. The bus’
rails and sideway bars on which he holds on provides him with efficient
support.
He
walks back, regularly adjusting his trouser’s belt - checking whether its zip
is tightly secure from the light gale of air coming in from the open window
panes. He had felt as though to strangle a small call. But before calling out
to the drive to stop for a moment, the pestering contents of his bladder had
gone silent.
He
sinks close to Mwanaisha-just next to her. Her seat could accommodate two
occupants. And she is alone. Here is a beauty. Being a Christian and her Muslim will not rob me of this chance;
Kip’s heart silently beats and says, full of hope.
And
also whispers roughly. She strikes the
eye as being so tender to the touch of fingers, so attractively slender, so
humble and dignified; exactly my choice of ladies. However, he is somehow
reluctant to start blowing the fire with his mouth.
But
his journalistic spirit plots against possible defeat. How will he learn to
face newsworthy sources – especially during interviews if he shies away from
addressing her? He coughs. Only a dry
cough succeeds in escaping his mouth.
They
are familiar with each other. He knows her name.
A good
starting point.
The
preparation for his dry run - or rather rehearsal - before the inception of the
program is successfully finalised.
“Mwanaisha,
you know I have already concluded you are like an angel. Truth let it be told.
Especially when you are dressed in this robe resembling Pastor Muiru’s when I
used to attend his services in town at the Maximum Miracle Center, along Haile
Sellasie Avenue.”
Starting point two.
Her
lips expand a little bit. Contracts slightly too. And flattens into a smile. Damn, they are thoroughly arousing! After
pouring out this complement, his eyes travels from those very simple rosy lips
to the bottom of her buibui - her
thin slender shoes displaying her toes arranged in a space at the tip. And back
again to her face.
“Asante sana, kaka. But I believe
elegance and beauty only belong to angels at heaven. Mikaili, Jiburili and the
rest,” an answer is provided. Both Kip’s and Mwanaisha’s lips collaborates in a
simultaneous smile.
“Why,”
a simple question.
Another
soft smile spiced with softer laughter. She scratches her belly before
answering; “Heavenly angels are made of Allah’s pure holy light. They are
honest and trustworthy. Their manners are as clean as their buibuis. Sinless souls. No wave of
desire can sweep through their bodies. What about man?”
A
confident end of her monologue with a question, taking after her Imam’s.
Kip
feels as though she can see his past. He had been igniting relationships with
many girls. Only that the embers of each of the dying relationship could not be
re-energized by his continued ‘opportunism and mutual respect’ - as he used to
refer to promiscuity.
The
bus abruptly breaks at a bump at Juja town. The back part rocks and bounces to
and fro. “Wewe dereh wacha ufala, kwani
umebeba masacks za waruh kwa hii buu,” the likes of Devih, Amoh, Cynthia
and other backbenchers shout at the driver to do his business behind the wheel
reasonably.
Kip
cannot manage to monitor (through counting) the number of trees and buildings racing
around the far horizon when one gets a look at the outside world.
She is a colonizer; a
real imperialist of the heart. A thief of attention.
A sexy rose in which a bee cannot escape
with ease.
Her
great knowledge is appealing and amazing to him. His heart is prompted and
pursued to fall in love again; to revert to the union and healing power of
Christ’s cross.
In
Kip’s phone-a Samsung Galaxy -, Konshens song; “gyal sidung,” perfectly being mixed with “gal a bubble” by Deejay Kalonje is playing. The music is reaching
him through a pair of earpiece. He unplugs the one fixed in his left ear. And
sticks it into her right ear.
Her
head immediately journeys to another world. Up and down her head rocks. Her
legs are also tapping the surface gently in rhythm with the song. Kip’s
head-rocking and surface-tapping is going in unison with Mwanaisha’s. Both of
them share simple laughter when they realize such an exciting piece of
coincidence.
The
music comes to an end.
What?
He
has to rewind it. His forefinger and the index finger chases up and down on the
phone’s screen. The music is successfully replayed. In the process, he slightly
and maybe unknowingly brushes her
chest.
Bubbles
of exciting things unknown to her swims through her body. And shakes a little like
a person in coldness yearning or getting ready to absorb some warmth soon or
later. Kip notices this change. And passes the question to her;
“What
is happening the way it should not?”
Mwanaisha
shrugs her shoulders. Says that it’s due to the cold touch of the wind coming
in through the window pane. “It’s biting into the deepth of my skin,” she adds.
Kip stands up. Stretches such that his arm passes and towers over Mwanaisha’s head.
He shuts the window pane.
“Perhaps
the weather is alerting your body to use your sweater,” he remarks amid more
and more flashy smiles. Mwanaisha unzips her hand bag. Takes out a red-spotted
sweater. Puts it on.
Kip
and Mwanaisha sends their eyes journeying outside for exploration. Other
vehicles are either speeding past them or going along the opposite direction. It’s
as though they are racing for a trophy at stake. The former Thika road had been
upgraded to the current Superhighway.
Both
Kip and Mwanaisha can see the Babadogo buses and Matatus connect from the highway to Outering road through a flyover
which is just a few metres ahead. The university bus is comfortably gliding along
the road along the lower lane.
“Cheki, cheki Kip,” Mwanaisha gently tugs
at Kip’s shoulder. He retreats to the bus; ready for whatever she has to say.
“Look
at these vehicles going in our direction. The way they are speeding as fast as those
belonging to the likes of Vin Diesel in that movie we had watched before the
beginning of the freshers’ night last Friday,” she laughingly remarks. They
both laugh lightly and pat each other on the shoulder. “Oh yeah, this kind of
racing happens in the fast and the
furious”. He well-supports her point.
The bus screeches to a halt. The
driver parks it outside Mt. Kenya University Towers, Moi Avenue. All the
students alight. Mwanaisha stretches and yawns broadly.
She was pressed by a small call
while at the bus. The presence of Kip beside her helped suppress it. She also
placed one of her legs on top of the other in a crossed manner.
As
they journeyed, she could exchange the legs occasionally. But now, whatever was
irritating her bladder is threatening to have its way.
She
shows her lecture pass to the guards at the gate. Rushes inside the building
and comes out. Finds Kip waiting for her return. She is emphatically cleaning
her hands off watery spots with her handkerchief.
They start walking together after
biding goodbye to their friends. Mwanaisha has a feeling that something
passionate is in the making between the two of them. She isn’t worried that she
had spoken comfortably to a non-Muslim.
And
a male one in this case. Especially during this month of Ramadhan when purification,
holiness and abstinence are being upheld. She will fast for more three days as
an atonement and compensation for her sin.
That does not worry me,
either.
They cross the road to the other
side of Tom Mboya Street, near Koja bus station. Walks past the Odeon bus
station and the Tuskys supermarket
and stands near the postal office. He ensures that she boards a Matatu home to
Eastleigh. After saving the Matatu’s registration number in his phone, he waits
patiently until it takes off. Then he walks along the same street towards Ronald
Ngala Street to catch a Matatu home - home to Buruburu.
Mwanaisha
and Kip have been meeting regularly. Especially after classes and in the
computer lab during conducting academic research. On each occasion they do meet,
Mwanaisha’s heart re-launches a fresh stronger preparation for him.
Stronger
during each occasion. She knows that her father would strongly be against her
plans if perhaps he gets to know of the whole affair maybe in the making.
Another day. After several weeks.
The two almost bumps on each along the stairs of MKU Annex. The pair exchanges
greetings - a simple hug. After this, she says that she was going down to
explore the streets.
To
see if the fare to her residential area is still stagnant. He had also decided
to go up the building to explore. So
they stand there and start chatting about several topics. The oncoming varsity
examination. The ongoing online unit registration. Teaching methods of their
respective lecturers.
Then
about that very first day in the bus.
“I think man is also perfect in some
way. Considering how meticulously lecturer Rokembe had marked my Radio
production unit CAT for this semester,” he remarks. Then he cocks his head on
one side.
And recalls her unfinished statement. Their
conversation while en route from the Main campus. He asks her about the crooked
nature of mankind. Then in a slow confident voice she replies.
“Man’s
body is full of promiscuity and lust - too doggish and piggish. Like pigs and
dogs, he has the wish to multiply. To battle and kill.”
She adds that man’s soul contains wickedness
which can barely secure a room in Allah’s bungalow. “Hearts made of clay are
always fragile and weak. And prone to mistakes and failures,” she wraps up her
answer.
Kip
always feels something jump slightly in his stomach when she talks of anything,
especially religion. He does not admire Islam. Although, a classmate of his Sheikh
- severally takes him through free Muslim culture and religion sessions.
Days
come. Days go. The two are now almost close friends. Each day after classes,
they walk leisurely around town. They exchange a lot about movies, music, and
the climate. Likes and unlikes.
It’s
during the progression of lunch hour. Or when it’s so cold that a cup of hot
tea is necessary. Spicy smells wafts through the air from restaurants and
enters into their noses. Sharpens the appetite for something delicious.
Kip desires so much to hang out with
her at any of the joints. But his pockets lack the heaviness of taking care of
such a wish. He does not shield this reality from her knowledge. Her
preparation to fall in love with him heightens every time he openly confesses
of having only bus fare.
Wow! He is
captivatingly open and frank. Exactly my option of guys.
Mwanaisha
is happy that the moon is still confined to the clouds; Allah’s swinging room
along the sky. The month of Ramadhan is still not over. But when the moon would
break free from its house and start again going round and round the earth,
another month would be born. Mwanaisha does not have to burden Kip the
responsibility of providing meals. She is fasting, just like any other Muslim.
Mwanaisha mostly contravenes Allah’s
commandment which forbids fornication. She sleeps with Kip in her mind’s bed. Will
the angel of doom in heaven blow the trumpet which is always fixed to his mouth
to terminate human history, hers included?
Regularly
she wriggles along the bed like a worm. Her arms are clinging around his neck.
Their chests pressed against each other. Their lips close. Their breathing
rates comparable to that of lovers from a strange planet-not earth.
Allah destroys the party. He
instructs the cock at heaven to crow happily. Its wings flap loudly. Cocks on
earth hear its jubilant kuu-likuu
outcry. And then repeats it in encouragement of each other. The angels at
heaven likewise assemble for salat-asubuhi
– prayer at dawn. At this point, Mwanaisha’s eyes slowly open up. She sits
on the bed. Joins the angels in prayer.
Maybe Kip himself is also preparing
for me. She thinks so. Hard it is for her to divine his stand. However, she
almost makes a conclusion out of pure guesswork. The way he keeps sending her
texting messages - saying that he only wanted to say hi, good morning, good day, good night.
The
gentle shake of his body whenever he hugs her – his tendency of accompanying
her in the Matatu home. Saying he is
going to check out the price of some item in Eastleigh. The way he keeps spreading
and shaking his legs whenever the two are together is also telling.
One fine Sunday, she decides to gauge his
stand. To put an end to her guesswork, which has led to her losing some
considerable weight over the few past months? She is standing beside the gate
of Mater Hospital. She had deceived her mother that she was going to the
hospital to see a sick friend.
Mwanaisha
can see a flurry of cars, Matatus, buses, heavy transit – many vehicles journeying
along Mombasa road; some either to Nairobi, or others to Machakos, Mombasa and
their environs. She scrolls her phone’s contact numbers. Finds Kip’s and then calls.
“Hello…mambo
dia…eeh niko fity…but fity percent…wallahi….uko wea…tao?...ukweli nimekuwa
msick mbaya…heartache….at Mater…kam pliz…nakuexpect basih..Okay.”
Her
voice is surely sickly, but with an almost notable touch of pleasure and
happiness. She smiles. A full Beyonce smile. The smile of her tactical
proficiency.
Kip alights from a South B estate - bound
minibus numbered 11B. He is dressed in a white T-shirt, a red pair of jeans, a
red pair of suppra shoes and a black
cap. Is he going for a date during Valentine’s Day? He has no time for the
questions scribbled on the people’s faces waiting for Matatus or alighting.
Kip’s and Mwanaisha’s eyes meet each other’s. Mwanaisha’s
health status hits the mark of one hundred percent immediately. Each of them
runs into the arms of each other. Remains closed with each other in an embrace.
Their
hands are holding each other’s at the elbows. Looks into each other’s shining
and teary eyes. Their lips are about to unite; to merge – to momentarily get
married to each other. To generate passionate heat.
The
preparation is over!
