My Walk Home

It's weekday, so workday. I'm staring at my computer typing, clicking, scrolling then scratching my neck before I repeat the process. Come to think of it, 1000 mouse clicks a day could be a number I surpass.

 

Beads that hoist our curtain up, bump as a gust of wind makes its way through the only window in the office. Occasionally a colligue walks in for pleasantries or a task. When my tummy rumbles because I left home without breakfast, I think of walking to the mid section of our floor to get some tea; sometimes I get the brew, other times I ignore the rumble because I fear the pot might be empty, after I'm a little late, and I'll feel shame walking back with an empty cup. 

My shift ends and as I stand before the lift door, it pings and the electronic lady-voice says it's 'Going Down'. It briefly excites me, but the thought vanishes as I realize it's not yet FurahiDay. 

Outside I'm met with a bustling city. Slow pacers, striders and some halted, possibly waiting for company to pace with. All in different shapes and sizes but with a common goal - to reach their destinations; some home, some to clubs and others to night shifts. The tall buildings deny me a view of the horizon, a breathtaking scene I realize I have missed. 

I start my pace. One step, two step... 

"Habari Anko, naomba 10 bob" a homeless kid approaches. I don't have any money on me. 

"Si leo, maybe siku ingine" - I say in an effort to send him away, but it doesn't work. I quicken my pace but the little champ replicates my action. 

"Anko tafadhali, nipatie tu yenye uko nayo. Angalia kwa mfuko, huwezikosa kitu...." some of his words are blown away by the wind as we are now almost running and I'm surprised he is keeping up.

He eventually gives up and I resume my normal walking speed just to admire graffiti on a Matatu that sped past me, not minding the color on the traffic lights. Impressive art, bad manners. 

Rain. 

The paces turn to 100m dashes to verandas or inside buildings as fellow pedestrians try to avoid getting soaked, but I am determined to get home so I force my way through the clusters of people sheding from the rain. I am now at a street where the oldest profession in the world exists.

'Mambo sweety, kuna baridi si ukam tulale' 

I manage to be polite enough that she lets my arm go after lying that maybe next time I'll consider it. She has a pretty face, I feel sad for her. I push the sadness to very last, dusty, drawer in my memory files so that I quickly forget as I understand that I can't be of any help to that situation at the moment. 

A man running, falls face first in the middle of the road and luckily he missed a puddle. I picture myself walking over to help him up. I don't. I keep walking. I question my morals. I shelve them.

The last stretch to home had no building with a verandah and the rain, as if to tease me increased its capacity. I yielded and stopped to observe the niche. 

Everything now moved in slow motion. Rain drops collected and made streams, and the more they fell the bigger the stream grew. Air was moist, thick and fresh, but too cold for my olfactoral system to warm it up before it got to my lungs.

I was itching to get home. What if I took an Usain Bolt dash to my door? But I'd soak (I had initially written lower, lol) like a sponge made ready to scrub. But I've got nowhere else to go, I'd just change clothes. My mother's voice features 'Don't try, you'll end up getting pneumonia'. I stay put.

The clock takes its time to turn. A minute waiting, felt like ten so I chose to induce music through my beloved headphones, to kill the anxiety. 'Sipendi mangoma za Kenya, KWENDA!' - Khaligraph begun.

Eventually the wet drops quit falling. I took steps through the murky stretch to the house. Climbing the stairs I grunt in response to a greeting by a neighbor that I barely heard because of the blasting music in my ears. We barely have a relationship. The only time we speak is when our paths cross, which mostly happens at the staircase.

THE END.