Month: October 2016

The Word Hunter

the-hut

The read suffused all the sinuses of longing in him. Its elusive end left a rueful smirk on his face. Everyone who adored literature like he did had challenged him to dig his teeth into the yarn. He despised much hyped stories. In his heart was the quest for the less appreciated stories. According to him, these harbored untouched goldmines. How he loved to be among the few to have savored the toothsome edges of a read long before the mainstream readers knew of its existence. So when they had told him of this one, he was reluctant. Donning a studious affectation especially when he heard of the crispy and snappy sentences he so much relished.

After dismissing the voracious readers openly, he drifted behind them just to have a peak of these sentences. They had known were the middle of his fault lines lay. He searched for it and found it. The opening left him gob smacked. It was the one to die for. Like those tantalizing movie previews that film maker use as bait to lure cinema lovers to troop to cinemas on Saturday afternoons ready to be rocked away.

Satisfied by the opening abetting sentences, he sat to enjoy his repast although writhing from guilt. The words were simple in their complex dignified diction. The rain pattered against the thatch outside thus enhancing the sweetness of the tale. The writer right off the snap kept him on tow. The juicy parts of the narration were drawn out professionally by this man of means in the world of words. Every picture was accorded its rightful description. He could see the rivulets of sweat run down the protagonist’s brow when he was wallowing in acute temperament.

Even when the wind blew from under the gap between the wooden door and the mud floor, he did not feel it gnaw on his toes. The man was evidently lost in the eccentric plot that proved to be his pot of tea. Save Best for Last floated off his gramophone but that only served as a backdrop to the delicacy he was enjoying. After all the woman struggled to be heard in the soft hum of the rain.

Neighbors talked. They openly displayed their inadequacy to understand what he had become. Some said he had been bewitched for being too brilliant. Others, whispering from one person to another, indicted that he had crossed the path of a Kamba woman. Feeling betrayed, the girl had sneaked a Kamutee on those coffee drinks he relished. How else could anyone spent so much in useless pieces of paper?

Temporarily withdrawn from the intriguing tale, he threw a quick glance at the much adored part of the house. Just to be sure that there was no water dripping into his treasures. The wooden shelves stared back. The intricate patterns of the books made his chest rise with bubbles of pride. Those words in their millions spoke to him so much about gratification than all the posh villas and sleek modes of transport they all endeavored to achieve.

the-drop

Someone once suggested to him that he needed to find a beautiful woman and settle. The man was offended. He fidgeted. Trembled from anger. Walked out without saying a word into a bush to read his books. And emerged hours later gleaming with pleasure. The only voice of a woman he could listen to was those of the well picked characters in the books speaking meaningful things devoid of much overrated affection.

He was not ready to sacrifice his limited time wooing a fellow human being into letting him poke between her thighs. Everything denuding love or anything edging towards the same seemed ridiculous. Apparently, he just could not wrap his head around these mysterious behavior. It was beneath him to accord special treatment to someone just because of…love. He knew they would vociferously fault him for this yet it was clear it all melted down to coitus. Why then would anyone kill the creature he claimed to so much love once he unraveled that he fucked someone who wasn’t him?

Sometimes the snow comes down in June, sometimes the sun goes round the moon, just when I thought our chance had past, you’re going to save the best for last. The song came to a cringing stop and so was his story. Contended, he stared at the strands of soot hanging from the traces and its blackness. Listened to the rain hum on. And then his heart pounding peacefully. The hunt was not going to end. Not in his lifetime.
#thewordbrewer

These Bugs

sunset

He lost his job just when he needed one badly. What would he amount to? After all those fruitless years at the force? What would he say back at home, how’d everyone look at him? It then occurred to him how he had been boastful of his little job in the city, of his big ghost plans. He was staring at a possibility of being used as an excellent analogy to the mantra that you should be good to others while rising for you might need them when falling.

The thrill of arriving home like a prince was no more. How he had loved how they nearly worshipped him after he bought them cheap vodka. He loved to see them squirm at the burning drink in their chest and pretend not to be anything much while he sipped away his ice cold beer patting him on the chest like a comforting sponge. He enjoyed their drunken scuffles.

Suddenly his heart shuddered. Without a job he would soon end up being one of them. He hated to envision himself begging for twenty shillings from people who have jobs.

“Can I have mine?”

He tried to spell out their way of demanding and almost fainted. He said it so well as if he was seasoned. He loathed the reality so much that he was on the verge of breaking. The unity in hunger for cheap liquor that had killed many and rendered others permanently blind beckoned.

The city enticed him to stay on longer, just to look around for something to stick out. He chose to spend his last monies in the quest for another source of shield from the shame of his vulnerability. If he played his cards really well, no one would discover his new little secret.

With every sunset he trudged back into his rented apartment a little more disappointed. No job in sight. The harsh reality he had been wondering over was no more a mystery. The few connections he had made over the working years had disintegrated into nothingness. They were all too occupied. They had a life to live and an economy to live up to.

Since he left, all back doors had been sealed off. No one had the balls to risk jail terms and even worse execution. His boss, after they were caught, was arraigned in court and sentenced to death. Was he in a better bus, he would have rejoiced. Perhaps make a toast with a few friends.

The little savings eroded away like top soil on a farm with crops planted along the slope. The prices of commodities were unbelievable. He had never felt the strain of the economic belt when he had continuous stream of dirty money. Every time he boarded a matatu it felt like they were grinding the thin rope he was holding on to. And so he chose to walk like Jonny whom he had known to walk across the label of the bottle of his favorite drink all his drunken life.

Soon, house rent was due, then followed a string of exorbitant bills; water, electricity, food and trash collection. No matter how much he tried, the ends won’t just meet.

The reality of ending up in the lush aura of the village dawned. Shame was lying in wait to hop onto his shoulders like a monkey so he could carry it wherever he went. The wrath of hard hustle and abject poverty beckoned and then the landlord put a bigger lock on his door. Over his smaller one.

That evening he strolled across streets. Past desperate looking people huddled at the city square trying to bear the hunger cries of their young ones. He walked past shops with sale tags slung on the door. Past youth walking about, looking tired and in their hands holding brown envelops. And finally, with the money he had received from the sale of his phone, he entered an agro vet shop reeking of kinds of drugs.

He announced, with a smirk on his face, that he couldn’t sleep in the dead of the night for in his bed were bugs. They won’t let him sleep a tad. Only that he didn’t say which bugs. He parted with 200 shillings in exchange for the sachet. He would lick it in into his system, board a matatu heading home and wake up dead in the arms of his loving mother.
#thewordbrewer