I stay with my big brother at some flats so far from the main road sometimes we don’t even see the need for brushing our shoes because the distance from the main road to our digs is fully murram. Which means if you leave the house reeking of some kick ass cologne and in neatly brushed dark shoes and a white shirt, you’ll get to the stage sweating like a Luhya man having sex, and looking like you just got trampled by an elephant in the Mara. To avoid this, there’s always the option of hopping onto a motorbike and paying 50 bob for it to take you to the bus stage. But we are wise men who passed Math and Economy classes in school and were always taught to look into the future; that 50 bob could be used for Chapo-Madondo during lunch hour, or for buying some cheap flowers for that girl at the office that you like. She will take a whiff at them and marvel and say, “Wow. I love them, they smell so nice. How much did you get these for?” And you will tell her to guess and she will say something like, “4500” and a voice inside you will almost burst into choking laughter but you will get yourself together and smile and say, “That’s why I like you, you’re so smart” and she and her soft orangey breasts will both jump into your broad chest for a long hug. Everybody goes home happy. See, gentlemen, never underestimate the power of 50 bob. (FYI, ‘orangey’ is totally a word, I didn’t even know until Ms Word suggested it for me.)
I have absolutely no idea what my brother does for a living. I swear to you guys. He leaves the house at 8 a.m. (sometimes at 7 or even 6), wielding countless documents, a bulging stomach, dressed in suits so sharp the guillotine would be jealous (I hate having to explain some of these punchlines, so somebody please explain to the rest what that means hapo kwa comment section.) Speaking of the chap’s suits, I like all of them except this one he recently added to his collection; a striped bluish three-piece. He says it’s a classy suit that gets him stares (which could, depending on how you look at it, be in awe or bewilderment) wherever he goes and some decent folk have even asked him where he got it. I told him I wouldn’t give the contacts of the person who designed that suit to my worst enemy (although I would gladly give it to my ex’s new boyfriend without batting an eyelid.) I asked him what he was thinking buying that suit and he said he WhatsApped the designer a photo of Connor McGregor wearing a similar suit and asked for the same one and that’s what he got. And I said to myself, “Well, congratulations Sir, you just transformed yourself into a two-legged zebra.” (If the zebra stripes were blue, of course.)
Anyway, this story is not about that ridiculous suit.
So my brother leaves the house the other day at his habitual times and I wake up at 12 p.m. as usual, because even though I’m jobless and my life is a sham and the only interesting things in it are Chapo, sleep, cheap whiskey and porn, the Good Ol’ Man Above always makes sure I have nice dreams during the night that always make me unwilling to get off bed early in the morning. I go to the living room, flunk the door open to get some fresh air and sit my ass on the couch to watch some series whose title I can’t really remember right now because it was crap and the main character kept insisting how much of a better rapper Lil Wayne is than Jay Z (is this even a topic that warrants a debate?)
Soon as I sit down, a weird tiny figure catches my attention at the corner of my left eye. I stare at my door and there’s a goddamn baby standing right there. Looking me dead in the eye. Still as a statue. Holding a gross shoddily half-eaten banana in hand. He has no pants on so I can tell he’s obviously a boy, which is kind of a disturbing sight for me, for no apparent reason. His lips are a disgusting mixture of yellowy things and saliva so I’m guessing that’s where the other half of the banana went (instead of his stomach like a normal person). His originally white attire now looks like something lifted out of some Game of Thrones scene featuring pigs. For a second there, and this is me being honest with you guys, that little human scared me off my hoots. One; because I don’t really like babies (I will smack a b***h if she told me she was carrying my baby.) Two; the little human was smiling at me (in a very creepy way. And I know that for some of you, a smiling baby is supposed to be good and cute but this one wasn’t smiling in the “do you wanna play” kind of way. This one was doing the “I’ll burn down your house with you in it when you go to sleep tonight if you don’t bring your ass out here right now to play with me” smile. He wasn’t playing around)
Now, ladies and gentlemen, before we move any further, it is very important we re-establish the fact that I just got out of bed. And, when a human being gets out of bed, there are those first five or so minutes when they are confused and just need some peace and to settle into the new environment. It’s a scientifically proven fact, tested and prescribed by the very able doctors over at the I-Just-Made-This-Up-And-You’re-Buying-It Hospital of Medical Geniuses. Plainly put, I was in no shape whatsoever to reason, play, or even engage with that little creature of mass destruction. So I started devising genius ways of getting rid of him before he burned down my house. At first, I loudly tap the table to try and scare him away but he just remains there, unmoved, and still wearing that creepy smile. So I whistle but he still stays put. I even “shussshhh” and “kwenda” him but he remains unmoved. The goddamn little rascal. Then I pick up an empty soda bottle from the floor and throw it towards the staircase and signal the little fella to “go fetch” but nothing. He still just stays glued to the spot. Creepy smile even getting bigger. And then you know what he does? You know what the hard-headed little rascal does?
He freaking waltzes into my house, like he owns the whole goddamn building, and sits his little pretty ass right next to me (a little too close, I might add. Like, personal space, dude.) Still smiling. First of all; who lets their baby out of their sight and into another person’s house when they just woke up? Secondly, and this one is for the scientists out here, is it possible – or even remotely normal – for someone to be smiling that long? No, really, what are you so happy about, the rising price of unga?
So I decide, you know what, I’ve had enough of this shit. And I do what any normal human being would have done; I softly pick the baby up, give him a soft kiss on the forehead, take him out towards the door and shut it. Then I go back to the couch and I’m like, “C’mon Ian, that’s just inhuman.” So I open the door again, come back for his gross shoddily half-eaten banana (he had left it on my sweet couch, can you believe that?) place it back in his hands like a responsible adult and shut the door (with a padlock, this time.) Then I go back to the couch, take a sip of some water, sigh and say to myself, “Phew, that was close,” before unpausing my series.
Blissful week, people. And don’t leave your doors open.