by Sanya Noel
He had an interesting head, this man. Overly sized and contoured to the extremities of a higher power’s artwork. But it was not just the shape or the natural sideways inclination of his head that struck you at first sight. His nose was a miracle. Narrow, pointed and rising from the blackness that was his face, it stood out like a jagged hill, beckoning the winds and clouds of flies that accompanied him. I reached into my pocket to check if I had a handkerchief. His corner always reminded me to check if I had one. He sat on a broken Coca-Cola crate on the street edge, darting his eyes here and there, intent on getting his days bread. It was a tool of some sort, that head. There were those with stumps in place for arms by the other corners too, but this one’s tool of trade, if I could call it that, was his head.
The head was a common sight though, one I had grown indifferent to. I had stopped being concerned now. Nobody, not even he would make me pay any attention. I and my troubled mind, with Lyra demanding to go back to college and with my father calling from back home, insisting that I had to send the necessary. No. paying attention to this attention seeking sympathy demanding beggar was too expensive an issue, and dropping a coin or two into that bowl was the last on my mind. But on this specific morning, my mind refused to even acknowledge his presence. His head did not strike me. Not in any manner different from how normal heads struck me. There was no shocking effect to it. I had seen it yes, but no acknowledgement came forth. Not any longer.
There’s however always a reminder. I had barely walked a few yards from his not-on-my-mind place at the corner when my phone screeched, a tad bit louder than usual. It was Lyra. “Honey, you forgot to take your yesterday meeting notes,” she started, “and the flash disk with your drawings from last night is still here too.” I hated meetings. Showing up late meant all the eyes boring into you, and Mr. Bowman would never let you off lightly. Architecture, they had said, was a well paying job. One would be able to support himself and his wife and daughter. One would also be able to pay his wife’s college fees and his mother’s chama fees and his old man’s daily evening comfort at Mama Kawira’s with fellow wazee, they had gone on. That you don’t have to struggle so hard to get a job, they had also said. Maybe they had been right. Maybe they had just not meant that it would be in Nairobi when they had said it. Little wonder it had taken me two years to find a job.
Lyra was waiting at the door, smiling as I came forth. She was freshly dressed, hair combed and lipstick done. What was up now? She seriously wasn’t expecting me to warm up on such a chilly morning, or was she? “I have them with me,” she welcomed me. Her tone was troublingly cool, like she had been meditating on a statement or a thought. “Joel,” she began again. I hated it when she called me that; she only did when she was dead serious. But her face said it all anyway. There was an embattled calmness to it, like a sea waiting for the waves from deep down to reach the surface. “Will you come inside now?” She smiled reassuringly, like everything was cool.
Her abandoned college education still bothered me. It haunted us all. A mechatronic engineering fourth year dropout, she still had aspirations of going back to college. ‘Maybe pursue mechanical engineering, it is less taxing, and I can take care of Lydia while at it. Or even better, just do a business course.’ That this was an eventual resolution still hurt badly. Campus pregnancies messed up peoples’ careers big time, but not their entire lives. I mean look at us, were we that bad?
The TV was muted, like she had become bored with the morning shows. I suspected it had been in that state for quite some time; she had been thinking. I sat across her, the coffee table in the middle. These were our normal positions when we discussed our house issues, like boxing ring stances, Lyra at her corner and I at the other end. “Joel, you know I love you.” Then why are you taking me through all this? I almost blurted. But of course I knew she loved me, she treasured me and Lydia to the heart. I was damn sure of it, and loved her in turn. I loved Lyra and adored our daughter, Lydia. “Edwin called this morning, says he may have to sue but hopes he won’t have to.” But why had the son of a bitch been so quick to bail us out? Stand up for me when I had to take Lydia and Lyra to hospital? So as to hold it over my head? To win Lyra’s favor? He had never really gotten over Lyra after all, even after Lyra told her the pregnancy wasn’t his, giving him a relief after the chicken almost peed in his breeches when he learnt about it. “But that is not why I want us to talk,”
“Come on, I’m all ears.” I was growing impatient. Mr. Bowman would surely bore a finger sized hole through my skull today.
“So what is it now?” She looked at me straight in the eye, but I had that feeling she wasn’t really looking at me. She must’ve been concentrating on my nose or something. There was something terribly amiss. I hated this talk already. “I got the email, Joel,” she leaned back and looked at the ceiling, “MIT have confirmed it.” My mind was far away now, not at any specific place though.
“When?” I heard my voice ask.
“This morning, they’ve given me a fortnight.”
“And what do you think? Are you ready? Willing? Are you……” I let it trail.
Tears glistened in her eyes, but not a single drop fell.
“It is Lydia. The question is Lydia.”
I left her standing there. She did not know what to say. I did not know what to say. There was work to be done. There were drawings to be submitted and meetings to attend. There were workmates to joke with and a boss to watch over my shoulder all day. I hated myself for my life, I hated Mr. Bowman for being so mean and intolerant and….. I hated the world with its grouchy grey weather. I hated the wind for beating relentlessly at my face.
At the corner hunched on the edge of the street sat the beggar with the interesting head. He was grinning now. Why was he so amused? Was he in the know too? I pocketed and leaned forward, resting my chin on the scarf around my neck. As I passed him, I swear I heard a voice, part a howl, part a laugh, quarter a sneer, the rest a titter. That morning, the whole world laughed at beggars.
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Sanya Noelis a poet and story writer. He is currently in his final year of university studying engineering at Jomo Kenyatta University of Agriculture and Technology where he also heads the JKUAT Poetry Club, a club of creatives and students with literary interests. He is working on his first poetry anthology and at the same time also working on his first short story collection. He does engineering designs besides reading and writing and enjoys doing competitive athletics during his free time.
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