by Margaret Muthee Download pdf ~ epub ~ mobi
How did this happen? My life has been reduced to eating, reading, sleeping, hours with a shrink and some god damn music therapy session. I lie on a slim bed staring at the high white ceiling that seems to echo my screams every time I exhale. This usually is most of the time, knowing that I am locked up in this place instead of being home with my Gracey, at work with my friends, or out somewhere in the country sipping a Tusker and taking in the fresh breath of the outskirts of Nairobi.
On a weekend like this it would be party after party with John, Elsa, Mark and Marto, and sometimes, just sometimes, Gracey. Where are they? Do they even know I am here? Ouch! That hurts! Arrgh! This room is too small, I cannot pace around without knocking my foot on this metallic bed or on this drawer that serves no purpose. Who told them I need juice and fruits? I hit it again, this time intentionally and even though it hurts I savor the pain and collapse on the bed, back to staring at the walls and ceiling.
My eyes dart around the room. On one side blue curtains flutter letting in the light, the gush of wind, and the fresh scent of roses coupled with other flowers I cannot name. On another side is a painting of a butterfly. The splashy display of vibrant colors defines the efforts that went into it. My eyes rest on a board pinned to the wall. I repeatedly go through it, noting the different activities for each day of the week. Today being Wednesday, it reads Music Therapy.
The few times I’ve gone for this thing, I did not like. I am used to the beat of reggae, raga, hip hop, and Nigerian music that we dance to at the club. Here, there is none of that. The music guts you to sleep. When performed it is even worse. The dance lessons are more upbeat but I still do not like it when someone is looking over me, testing my performance.
Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! Argh! I drag myself out of bed knowing that if I do not, some damned nurse will come for me. If only they were younger, I would wait for one to get me out of bed. I would even pretend to be sick, real sickness, not this one that they are imposing on me. Human weakness is the reason I am here.
Mrs. Arao is assigned to me this week. Man, I do oathe that mama. She will make me take my pill in a second no doubt about that. I really do not like to anger her. Something about her reminds me of my mother. I cannot dare play around with her.
I shuffle my feet towards the corridor, where I meet the last person I would have wanted to see today. Mutua. This old man has really gone nuts. Yesterday he almost beat me up over some stupid scrabble game. He would not agree on the spelling of treasure.
“That’s the spelling.”
“No. There is no word like that.”
“Ask everyone here.” I had insisted.
“You think I did not go to school, fool?” he had said casting me a blow.
Fred, a janitor who never speaks half the time I see him, saved my life. He literally had to drag me out of the hall.
Shaking off this memory, I turn around to see Mrs. Arao walking towards me. She waves at me. I walk faster towards her, a thing that only happens when I am in trouble. Mutua raises his head, which has hitherto been bowed, his eyes are glowing, they burn me like a flame.
“Hi,” he says, his face twisted in a smile that I cannot exactly interpret.
“Feeling better?” I ask, looking at the sores on his face. I did give him a scratch.
I walk on past the reception, where Linda is seated like a toad, past that banner that says ‘recovery is our first priority,’ and into the music therapy room. What am I recovering from?
I know too well that I am not sick!
I am one of the first people. I walk to the furthest corner and lean over a window that overlooks the hills, a field, and a flower garden. This scene takes me back to the town park, where I first saw Gracey. My heart aches for her especially now, and my mind goes on a trip to the night before I got here.
~~
It starts with Gracey. She has turned my huge heart into a small drum that beats with love. It is dark when I walk into the house and instead of the usual kiss, she welcomes me with news.
“I am pregnant.”
“Eee? By who?” I ask.
Not that I do not want to be a father. I am just not ready, not with my crazy service job and a car loan. I need more time. And a feeling of anger and disappointment seethes through me and turns me into something, something I would rather not talk about.
“It can’t be my child,” I say.
“You are denying your child?” she says.
“How can I be sure?”
“I never want to see you again,” she says.
I step out into the night, thinking, my steps sinking into the sand, writing a story.
~~
Mrs Arao storms in, interrupting my thoughts. She is our music therapist today. I am certain she is going to sing Amazing Grace, and people, especially Dida, the old man with a crooked face always crouched at the corner, will cheer even though she sings only this song and never any other. Is it the only song she knows?
We sit in a circle to share positive energy. Normally, Mutua sits next to me, but today I cannot stand him. Not after what he did to me. So I pause at a corner, waiting to see if he will come, and if he does I will move to another seat.
When the music starts, he shuffles across the room, stands midway, and then turns back. He sits next to Sheila, a chic who will not utter a word. Now that is real sickness. I hear she killed her boyfriend. I have no idea whether this is true or not. When I asked Nina, the other nurse , Mrs. Arao over heard it and before Nina could answer, she came over.
“It is not written on her face,” Mrs Arao said, and then walked away.
Sheila does not seem like a killer. If she did kill her boyfriend, the bastard must have deserved it. Watching her, she seems so calm. Mrs Arao walks in and I realize the only empty chair is the one next to me. Mutua should not have gone. She walks over, pats my back, and sits.
“Lead us in prayer, Mutua.” She says.
“Not him!” I whisper, remembering the forgiveness principle and the fact that he will bring out the previous day’s story in the prayer.
After the prayer, Mrs. Arao bursts into Amazing Grace. Her voice is like a tornado about to break the house.
~~
The moment I walk into Club Nomad, I see Leila seated on a high stool, sipping on a Tusker Lite. I love her confident pose, the way she shows off her body and twists her long neck. There is something about the way she moves it, her earrings dance, brushing her soft skin as her eyes dart across the room. She is higher than everyone, closer to the heavens. Then there is that short chiffon dress she is wearing and the pearls around her elongated neck. The black trench coat and a pair of black boots complete the look, hiding her swaying hips as she walks to the dance floor. I join her.
She does not resist when I draw closer, invading her private space, brushing my skin against hers, and finally holding her. She turns her back towards me, and stretches her arms. I fumble for a moment, wondering what she is doing, and then I figure it. I take off her coat, hung it on my seat, and so we dance, her arms in mine, her body clinging to mine. I am conscious I do not want to annoy her, this light that I have found on this dark night. I loosely hold her. But she leans closer, her face bowed on my shoulder, her cheek slightly touching my face, her heavy breasts heaving, resting on my chest. I stop breathing for a moment.
“Let’s get a drink,” I say.
And she follows, her hand in mine, past men whose eyes are fixed on soccer on the TV, past the chatty wild ladies, and to her high table. Our voices compete with the booming music. The DJ is on a high tonight.
“So what’s a lady like you doing out here alone?” I ask.
“Cant those without men enjoy a night out?” she responds, sipping on a Tusker Lite, and looking me straight in the eye. I beckon the waiter.
“Another round,” I say.
He asks her to pay the previous bill.
“I’ll pay,” I say.
The music is drowning, and so are the drinks, and lights, and everything. All I remember is our arms round each other, walking down the stairs, before I black out.
I wake up in a strange house, a house without my Gracey. I look around the room. I do not recognize the tall brown cabinets standing side by side like cousins, nor the paintings or the portraits that seat around the wall, glaring at me. I force myself out of bed and I’m searching for my clothes when she walks in, draped in a short towel that hardly covers her breasts.
“Slept well?”
“What time did we leave the club?”
“A few minutes past midnight.”
Different thoughts race through my mind. I never get drunk that fast. She must have put something in my drink. She leans over and kisses my lips. I cannot resist her.
“How did we get here?”
“Your car. You picked it up from the garage. I tried to stop you.”
She’s now all over me, kissing me, breathing another life into me. She feels warm on my skin. She takes me to another place. I toss her on the bed and take her into my arms. It feels nice to hear her explode in pleasure.
~~
“Peter, how are you fairing?”
I want to kill the person who just got me out of that stupor. Mrs. Arao nods her head, urging me to continue. It’s that time when people share about their week. What is nice about being in prison? I do not say this aloud. I am still staring at the linoleum floor when Mrs. Arao repeats the question. She moves to the center of the room and stares directly at me, as if she is watching, waiting to catch a falling star.
“Eh, week hasn’t been bad,” I start.
“What stood out for you?” she prods.
Twenty pairs of staring eyes make me so uneasy, reminds me of the time in primary school when I got a question wrong and everyone laughed at me. For a moment I try to make sense of my surrounding, to read everything, anything at all, that might have gone on in the last few minutes.
“I have learned to live a day at a time and to make the best out of my time here.”
“That is a wise decision….” She goes on and on expounding my point. It is as if that one point is one piece of glass that has been broken down into different fragments which can be picked and still function as the original. I pay attention for a while before I fade out.
Half an hour later, Mrs. Arao is still yapping about how we should be positive about life. Linda swings into the room and interrupts her, whispering into her ear. Mrs. Arao then summons me to follow Linda out.
“Your second wife is here to see you,” Linda says, showing me the door.
I can almost touch the sarcasm in that rusty voice. I can almost tell that she hates me for letting Leila into my life. Who said I have a second wife? Gracey is the only person I want to see. She is the only person who can truly understand what I am going through. Not these vagabonds who laugh about everything. I watch them as I walk out. Mutua is falling off his seat. Whatever is wrong in his head, I do not know.
“Did you find Gracey?” I ask.
“Leila is the one who is here. You got her pregnant, remember?”
“She trapped me!”
Linda seems confused. We are already at the reception where Leila is waiting. She walks towards me, arms outstretched as if she is a bird ready to fly. I hate how she always tries to embrace me when she visits. Lately, she has been coming twice a week. The last time she visited, she found me playing chess with Fred.
You see, I have decided that Fred is the only person I will spend time with in this place. First, he is not like those god damn fools, and second I have vested interests in him. He knows every exit in this place and keeps the extra set of keys.
Linda leads us to the visitor’s room and walks away, shutting the door behind her. Leila sits and asks me to join her. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts about the life I had before I met her, the life that I had hoped to lead. I pace around the room, combing my hair with my fingers.
“What do you want?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“I have instructed them to send your salary to my account.”
“You are sick!” I say, my voice fading off.
“Who is in a mental institution?” The words sting. They ring in mind like a bell.
“Wait until Gracey finds out what is happening.”
“Gracey is never coming back.”
“Get out!” I shout, pushing her towards the door, tears welling up in my eyes. I sit against the wall, pulling my shirt to wipe my pain away. Linda and Fred watch me from a distance.
~~
The night has fallen and there is a light shower of rainfall quenching the earth. We are in the play room, Fred and I, engaged in a game of chess. Dida and Mutua were here too, playing draughts and telling stories of their younger days. As usual Mutua is dominant in both conversation and game. I watch them throw hands into the air and at each other until Dida passes by us on his way to his bed. He is talking to himself. Mutua follows, dragging his plastic sandals on the floor as if this shuffling would bring back the peace.
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask Fred.
“Sure.”
I have waited for this day for a long time. I go into the kitchen and draw the weeks’ pills from my pocket. I mix them into the coffee and stir in two teaspoons of sugar. I return just in time for the next move.
“Your turn,” he says, a wide smile on his radiant face.
I pass him the coffee and look out the window as he takes his first sip, then the second, then the third. The rain is washing away all the dirt in the gutters. I can smell the dust oozing out. I can feel the fresh air as I unlock the door and walk into the rain. I stretch my arms and let it embrace me too.
~~
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Margaret Muthee is a trained journalist and Freelance writer living in Nairobi, Kenya. She is keen on developing her creative writing skills. Her first short story, Escape, was written during the 2015 Writivism Programme with the assistance of mentor Richard Ali, and is published in http://www.onethrone.com/
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Also in This Issue
Short Stories
Poetry