The Yard

The dorm was named after a bishop. It was furthest from the admin block, Away from teachers, from watchmen and the rest. Behind it was the sin city. All contraband made it way into the compound over the fence behind that dorm; Bread, donuts, mandazi, juice, avocados, sugar. We had a small economy, a sub economy. It thrived. It made some random boys village merchants, and wealthy, by village standards. Two hundred bob made you rich, very rich. You had bragging rights; you were the boss with a complete posse of cohorts. All you needed to do was make runs between the shops and the fence, where luxury starved boarding school kids waited with bathed breaths. That and trust. They waited for simple luxuries, for bread and juice. It meant giving the awful sukuma  wiki a miss, and respect and bragging rights, for loudmouths.

Between the dorm and the fence, was a space that was slightly scorched. A lone tree stood at the middle of this space, donning a weepy face, forlorn, about to go teary at any moment. It was lonely, forgotten. On any day, it was just that, a semi parched space with a lonely tree. But occasionally, it transformed, it became something else, christened. It became the yard. For, at the school gate, someone had written prison, bringing into life what we believed, and whispered about, or mentioned deprecatingly in reference to the school.  On such days, lonely tree had some company, loud company that cheered and jeered. And patted her and caressed her and hugged her. Their minds were on something else, but the tree didn’t know. And it doesn’t matter if you don’t know. She enjoyed her moments.

It was the place where issues were settled, the way men do, but by boys. Knuckle to knuckle, hand to hand, till a victor emerged.

It is on this space that I had an appointment one day. Because of briefs, my briefs, my new briefs. And because of Node, and against Node. It all began at the football pitch.

I am not a Coward

I am not a coward,. Or so I think, because I fight my battles, sometimes, walking away is fighting, fighting to win. I am feeling terrible. I feel like a traitor. The feeling that comes with self-betrayal is one of the feelings that a man will find hard to live with, you toss in bed at night, you ask yourself endless what if’s, you wish that time may reverse a bit to that moment, even when you know that you will still run. You even fear looking at the mirror (thank heavens I do not own one). Okay, it is not that bad, but it is bad.

I feel terrible because two men confronted me at night on a deserted road. Two men, well built and visibly drunk. They talked shit, bullshit. I was not impressed. I turned round, they were behind me, and told them what they said was not cool. Cowardly move, they were not impressed. They became agitated, one reached out (wrong move boss) to hit, I grabbed that arm, twisted it and my brain felt he belonged in the drain. The other one moved, I didn’t see him, I sensed him. Instincts, that is important. In Tae kwondo  training, you don’t see your opponent, the move is unpredictable. You sense it. That is how you avoid defeat. I dodged the blow, it was well aimed. He could have gotten me clean on the temple and boy the breeze that my face felt just after the blow missed, the impact could have been, well “impactful”. I swept him clean off his feet. I was tempted to send him to the sewer too, but I was mad. This was defense, not attack. I went on the offensive. I went for his nose, one jab and he staggered a bit. I am not sure from what, the jab or the alcohol. One round kick, clinically executed. To the drain. I looked at them, slowly straightened my clothes and walked away. You should know people, imbeciles.

All that because I had looked back, well at them while looking back. I stared back, at the road, long enough to piss them off. I am been walking from the shopping centre, had gone to get myself some fries for supper (life as a bachelor, you know what I am saying).It is late, but not very late. I am lost in my own world,  I can’t even remember what I was thinking about. Then I suddenly see shadows moving next to me. I am a bit startled but not visibly. Then I hear the voices, two male voices. My very fertile and over active imagination kicks into motion. I briefly glance backwards. The road is deserted, save for a lone figure I see back there, moving towards the opposite direction. There is another guy coming towards us. But he is a bit far off. If these guys are to make a move on me, they will be done long before these guys realize what is happening, if at all they will bother, and that is if these guys are the kind of guys that make moves on lonely, weary travellers along empty roads. But this place is safe. No, every place is safe and people get attacked. I increase my strides, but I don’t seem to be making any progress as moving away from them is concerned. I decide to look back, you know, longer like someone checking whether there is a mat coming. No mat.

Now I am a bit worried. No I can’t lose my phone, my sleek, new Samsung gadget that I tap tap on when I am in a place where I want to feel snobbish, or when I want to show them that pia mimi, I am somewhere. I love my gadget, it took my hustler self( howdy VP Ruto) a pretty long time to afford one. I aint gonna lose it. I am not going back to those Nokia phones that are marketed on the premise of simplicity. Nor I am doing Chinese, the love between me and China starts and ends on Thika Road. Heck, I can’t even mimick their accents, how fake(I almost said unoriginal)  can they be. I am not losing my phone. The times when a chick went like, “give me your phone I key in my digits” and I went like, “I forgot my phone at (fill in your favourite), just flash me and I will get your number”, are long gone. I now have a phone. Well. It may not be top of the range but it is not that thing that Apple or Samsung have put in a cabinet in their museums and wrote, “this is what Nokia used to call a phone”. Man must self-preserve, (survive is for losers).

Crap. Kwani who does he think he is. Hawa ni wale mabarbie wa Ngong road hujiona sana.Nkt.

No. this conversation cannot be about me. It has moved from some other guy, their friend, to me. They have stopped talking about the fun they had just had, to me. They were mad, at me. ME. On a deserted road at night! This is not cool. At best, it is gonna get scruffy, at worst, well, it is gonna be shitty, downright shitty. I panic, for a moment. But then what eees? I can defend myself. But no, they may be having weapons. A metal road, a wooden rod, well, plank, a knife, wooden hands, a gun even (what a mind conjures when in defense mode)

No, I was not looking at you, I was checking out for a mat. I am not a Barbie ( that’s lame). I don’t live near here (lamer). I am a cool guy.

They are not impressed by my coolness, or lameness. I don’t care. I can fight. I come from the brave stock, we are brave people. We stand up for ourselves. We fight till we can fight no more. After all didn’t my grandmother once kill a giant python that was about a kill kid even after all the men had ran away, tails ( no pun) coiled between their legs?  Didn’t my dad look a lion, wait, lions in the eye? I can fight, and I will. I remember Charlie, he was brave, very brave. He could have easily passed for a gladiator. Charlie, my late fierce grand dad, now that was a man. Then they attack, and well….

I didn’t fight. Oops, I shouldn’t have said that. Nobody fought. I stopped walking, and let them go on ahead, complaining bitterly. And then, I did what brave people do. I took a mat, and paid twenty baab for a destination a stone throw away. Because, at times twenty baab equals bravery.