I snored. That was me. Oh no! That was I.
(As my obese English teacher always wanted it. Don’t bore me with that “teacher of English” thing. I am an adult and its okay to be guilty of violation occasionally)
Yes that was sure my deafening snore. I had stayed with myself long enough even know my chuckle in a dream. Thirty years in my skin. No one was allowed to know me too well. At least not well enough to know that I laugh when sleeping.
A potential friend said that handsome men never snore. Do they?He didn’t mean it. Like he didn’t know I snore. I ignored him because though there was nothing more than fur that sprout at the banks of my sagging chin I didn’t quite think I resembled a pig. A girl once said she didn’t like my fingers. But is it not normal to mismatch someones tastes and preferences? Especially when you have nothing to do with her let alone her fingers?
I snored again. This time louder. It was meant to be an alarm. An alarm to send her to the kitchen. I had rehearsed it for months.
She was not beautiful. She was gracious.
Her lithe exceptionally shaped neck perfectly fitted on her curvaceous body which accentuated the adequacy of her endowments. She was that girl! The girl who could kill even when she didn’t dress to do so. Sauntering through town with her many would die. She broke their necks. She took their breath away. That’s how i fell for her. After she hit me like a ton of bricks. The difference between me and other men she murdered was that she gave me a ticket to an after life. Such a girl just needs to smile at you and it rains on your desert. She just needs to say “I love you” to resurrect you. You know that one lucky day that all motivational speakers talk about? That day happens when you meet such a girl let alone have her attempt to smile at you.
If we were still not married I would call her a marking scheme of beauty. But now we were married and we were supposed to behave so, at least my father said so.
He said she was supposed to cook my meals and if she sends me to the kitchen I carefully serve her overly burnt offerings marinated with sodium chloride to promote her to sole custody of the kitchen.
Even if I loved her too much i was ready to try my fathers tired wisdom. Especially the Magadi one.
We had agreed that we would spend our first night in the newly built house doing whatever it is that people do on the wedding night. Missiles or firecrackers mission. Then we would proceed to our honey moon.
It must have been a long night.
Humid morning breeze kissed my taut face. I opened my eyes. One at a time like a chinese.
Blue curtains. White walls. The house must have been repainted. Overnight. My eyes once again parched on the screaming blue curtains. It reminded me of my saturdays. I heard my laughter. The raucous laughter that would escape my mouth when i saw a student on those blue pyjamas. They always looked green to me. Like ugly green. I didn’t like green. Possibly it reminded me of Kales. Those things that turned poisonous end month or maybe because it reminded me of chameleons. I didn’t hate chameleons. I loathed them. Then feared them. Then loathed them again.
You know school is the weirdest of all places. Especially when you risk drag yourself there on saturday. Like where do people where pyjamas until 1pm? No wonder they dozed through the preps. They looked hilarious to me on those oversize pyjamas that looked like they were in competition with windsocks. I used to call them hospital curtains. Heh..funny right? I attempted to laugh. Then sharp needles descended my system like a battalion of vultures. From the head to the thighs. By the way thailand should be added to the dictionary. Don’t be stupid. Don’t laugh! I am sick or dying. The pain migrated to the left leg. I didn’t feel my right leg, from the transformer downwards!
Yes I smell alcohol!
The white walls! The curtains! Hospital.
I tried to remember a thing but i only had hazy memories. Especially that part of “you may now kiss the bride” I didn’t do it long enough but i did it well. Well enough for the quarter of the church to benchmark. Including the pastor. But not too well to risk any saint knowing that this is an art i had perfected.
I had seen my mum close her eyes at the scene. She must have thought it a sin.
But what was I? Her 13 year old kababa?
I also remembered the jubilation with which we left the reception. Then we slithered. Then we drunk a little bit. Just a little bit. Then we drove. We both were driving. The three of us in fact. We giggled our laughter reverberating through the African night. Then we pecked. Eyes on the road then on her. We kissed just a little bit but with dangerous passion. I was driving! She was driving me crazy and the alcohol was driving us to this.
That’s when the accident happened.
“He has opened his eyes, ” they said rushing in.
My family was there save for the one person I was dying to see.
“Where is Tasha! Where….., ” I shouted hysterically as my mum tried to comfort me.
Her eyes had turned into twin rivulets. Tears gushed out. She was shaking.
“You lost her son, ” she said between sobs with her obvious Kamba accent. Actually hers was accident. One that you cant erase but just embrace for life.
I felt my tears for the first time. They gushed out uncontrollably. Torrential tributaries had burst their banks.
I looked at the three members of my family, my friend Jack and the young nurse who seemed engulfed by the white coat than i was by melancholy.
I touched my wedding ring. All was left was a moon without the honey.
Then i thought “what if i knelt here and asked this nurse to marry me?” Or at least “can I take you to honey moon?” Weird right? But who would take a mono-legged concupiscent creature?
precioustonny 