The special visitor.

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Your mum makes her last push. A push that sends you leaping in air onto the green sheets on that thin bed. You make a quick scout around, and notice three young women in short white dresses beside your bed. Each has a ka-pin-like thing on her hair. Watching you. They have no clue you’ve been hearing them plead your mum to thrust harder. You find the conditions out here so queer. So you yelp, because you are not used to seeing people around you. That never happens in your previous station where you’ve been enjoying good stuff in there all alone. You’ve been a boss, your own boss. You are also hungry since you’ve not fed for the last two hours. Whoever houses you has been struggling to get you out over those two hours. You are crying because you want to be taken back, also because you feel the emptiness in your young belly. The three ladies smile at your groan. You hear them tell your mum “congratulations”. Only you can’t tell them what you want as you haven’t developed speech.

Some guy breaks into your ward, gasping. The three nurses can’t hold him back. They try to restrain him from holding you but he refuses to listen. He wants to lift you in his arms only hindrance is you are still connected to your mum through the umbilical cord. He gazes at the ceiling and bursts into sweet melodies. Thanks God for being so kind to him, to his wife, and to you. He narrates how patiently he has been waiting at the reception, and how he frisked when a newborn yell from this room hit his eardrum. Tears role down his chubby cheeks. His and your mummy’s eyes lock. He grabs your mum and hugs her. Their mouth lips interlock as the nurses busy themselves to conduct the remaining delivery procedure.

Your dad vows to forever remain grateful to Ruiru Dispensary and wish that his son becomes a doctor one day. It’s Saturday 15th April the year 1995. Your mom is so elated she admires and wants to forever gaze at you. It goes without saying you’ve broken her womb’s virginity now that you are the first ever fruit of her womb. So you inhale your first oxygen in Kikuyu land – in Tuition.  That’s where your dad works and resides. Ruiru is this town along the famous Thika Super-Highway, on your way to Thika, Kiambu, and Juja. But in 1995 the highway thing wasn’t there, it was just called Thika road.

A day old. Your mum takes you to church. It’s a fine Sunday morning. The sun is apparently still figuring out whether or not to rise from the North today cause its already 8 and it hasn’t shown any signs of life – it’s still buried deep in the snowy clouds. You must be very lucky. Lucky in the sense that you are born to believers. So many chaps craved this chance. Instead, they ended up in sewage, some in flowing rivers and the current swept them away, some in latrines, while others didn’t even get a chance to get out alive – they were assassinated by their purported moms possibly due to alcoholism or promiscuity. Anyhow, while in church, the mothers’ union chair announces the presence of a special visitor – you happen to be that special visitor. A loud applause from The First Baptist Church believers follows. (The remaining part of the service will come later, in a different post).

The next day, your dad seeks a paternity leave. He works at Alpha Knits – an Indian owned company that deals in knitting cloths, ranging from Maasai shukas to cotton socks. Could be he played a role in the  socks you are in right now, or the beautiful Maasai Shuka you walk around with bragging daily. So he writes to the MD a letter and has to deliver it physically. Forget about these days, where people just sit behind keyboards, and just press keys and buttons, and type one or two or at most three paragraphs and command the text to their bosses. In the 20th century, you had to appear and deliver your letter in person as long as the MD was a rank higher. The MD or any other boss wouldn’t waste ink replying. Their responses were verbal and instant. The company is kind enough to award him a one and a half weeks off.

You see, the bad thing with being born in the midst of Kyuks is that you never live to squander your monies. The best thing they do is instilling a freaking saving culture in you. Your daddy has lived here for almost a decade. Seventy percent of households here are Kyuks. He is this quiet, taciturn guy, he never has issues with people. Like father like son,hehe. He’s just content with the little pay he earns. He wonders every time some chaps earning 100K flock the streets  demonstrating in the name of demanding a three hundred percent salary increment (these days) while most of them cannot give a single account of how they spend their current earning. The best they do with their money is drink, drink, and drink. Drink chang’aa, drink busaa, and beer. And spend the rest on these mamas that prepare the drinks. Something funny, or common, these local brew makers are ever widows. So brewing is their major source of income because they also have kids to take to school and other needs too to cater for. Though they never force anybody to spend an entire salary on their delicacy. But your dad is not of that kind. So you are lucky again.

So you decide to take a whole hour to write this. You want people to know who you are. You want them to know why you’ve always been that calm (you inherited that from your dad), and you also want them to know why you behave the way you behave. You want to let them know how you always feel bad when they just walk here, read your posts, and walk away like  nothing happened. Never bothering to leave a comment, or click one of the share buttons. The few who bother hit you a whatsapp text expressing their sincere gratitude and telling you how you write so well. You are always tempted to remind them that there is a comment section in the blog. Hahaha we love you guys for taking time out of your busy schedules just to walk to this place to read our thoughts. You see, we cannot make it without you.   

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18 thoughts on “The special visitor.

  1. 😂😂😂 Kali .. I left my comment . 👌dope, easy to relate with, fiction hapo.. 😂paragraph one, kali 👍, you will tell me what that style is called. thumbs up 👍👍

  2. Nice effort to come up with that.
    May I just say that I find the sentences a bit too shot, they break the fluency of reading the story…e.g “Their responses were verbal. And instant.” Those are two short sentenses that ought to be one anMany more. Otherwise great effort, keep it up and keep sharing. I’ll read them and comment.

  3. Haha so you decided to tell us(your friends) who fail to use the comment box at this platform…
    Anyway, I fell in love with how you’ve narrated this life journey, since very early in the days. Like one who was literally witnessing hehe!
    But my emotions were a bit swayed to the contrary when you were mentioning the unlucky ones who end up in sewages, flowing rivers, latrines etc. I really pitied
    All in all, I’ll be waiting to see the rest of the church service.
    Keep writing

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