In Pursuit of Happiness

Am sitting on the wheel barrow, waiting for the sun set, to welcome the cover of darkness, for the journey am about to make must be masked in darkness-to hide my tears and restrain the anger that consumes my veins threatening to burst free from my burning eyes.

I watch the last ray of light-burning red ray- flicker brightly across the Nyeri skies, momentarily pausing to illuminate – deliberately I have always assumed- the beautiful Aberdares ranges that surround my village, at that moment, looking at the burning ranges, standing proud and majestic, I am suddenly swept by a chilling surge, it is as if the ranges are talking to me, voices filter through my eyes, ‘don’t worry’ they seem to say. If I had my way, I would hold the sun hostage, and force it to shine brightly above my village, there would be no darkness, no sun set. But it can never be, and as if reading my thoughts, the bright ray turns on me, looking at me straight in the eyes, blinding me -as if to warn me to abandon my evil trail of thought- , and then suddenly and without regard, the ray retreats and disappears behind Nyeri hill, leaving me clinging on hope-hope always near, yet so far, darkness sets in, it is time.

I grudgingly rise, make my way inside the house, and light the lantern -the layers of soot covering the glass, dims the light emitted by the burning cloth, just the way I like it, dim enough to hide my face, bright enough to seek his face. “Mother, am gone”, she turns her face away from me, pretending she does not hear me (she has pretended not to hear me for two years now). I don’t buy her pretence though, even though I have never seen her cry, I always see her swollen eyes, her protruding veins that run across her forehead, her heavy breathing and even though she tries very hard, I have never missed her suppressed mumbled cry, as I leave the house for my every day journey.

“Wheelbarrow, where do we start today? I think out loud, and as if to answer me, the wheelbarrow lets out a squeak so familiar as I push it towards the gate. My journey is always dictated by fate, I always ask for a sign, to lead me to where I am supposed to go, so I stand at the gate, holding the handles of my worn wheel barrow, waiting. Yesterday, the sign came in form of a sudden strong wind that blew towards Ruring’u, I followed it and sure enough I hit the bull’s eye. Suddenly, a motor bike races past me, I can’t make out the figures bundled together, clinging dangerously to the bike, but one thing is for sure, that is my sign, why you ask? It is simple, a speeding, overloaded, motor cycle on a slippery village earth road, means only one thing; that those individuals must be coming from where they all go, lost places that are always found, dens that are not a secret -the place I must go, Ngangarithi it is.

“Am lucky today”, I convince myself, as I hastily meander through the dark paths (familiar shortcuts, tattooed at the back of my head by sharp razors of experience). Ngangarithi is not far from my home, besides I went to school in Ngangarithi Primary (where I had my first encounter with English) Mr.Kamau was a bus driver who ate bananas for breakfast, and Mary was lazy, why was it that Mary had to be the lazy one? because if you asked me, Tom never provoked any signs of being Proactive, what with his pen always missing and unfinished homework…anyway, I learnt many things, for instance did you know that ‘L’ and ‘R’ do not sound the same?

Thirty minutes later, I am well in Ngangarithi,I  can see Namu’s homestead-Namu, my first crush in form one, tall, light skinned, with a smile accompanied by a set of beautiful dimples, Namu who made me spend my savings (fifty shillings to be precise), to accompany him to Havana dance club in Nyeri town, Namu who showed up to the dance with some other girl clinging on his arm, and constantly rubbing her behind against his storage facility or holding cells, Namu, who left for Eldoret without even saying good bye, Namu who broke my heart. I pray that I don’t meet him, of course I want to meet him, but not today, not in my rags, not in sweaty form, and my dusty cracked feet. Maybe when am all washed up, dressed in my pink dress, the one that flows with the wind and rests well on my buttocks, maybe then. I practically race past his house, a door opens, “shidwe” I curse, “I won’t look back, I won’t look back”, I don’t look back.

I arrive at ‘Majengo’, well into the night, I can tell-most of the shops are closed, the lit paths are deserted and its relatively quiet save for the numerous barking dogs and a dingy shack behind the butchery. I take a deep breath, and start towards the shack. The place always keeps on changing(the walls are always painted differently, different signature streams of urine marked patterns from patrons who stagger while urinating hence, unintentionally creating master pieces on the wall, but there is always a winner, at the far end of the wooden structure, a splash of thick substance decorates the wall, perfected in a bout of diarrhea). The first time I accompanied my mother to the dingy joint, I vomited and cried hysterically, it could not be…I refused to believe that such a place could be anyone’s home…

But today, two years later, standing at the very same spot, I do not cry, I have cried enough, neither do I vomit, I hold it in. I walk in with my lantern (it comes in handy for the place is not well lit). The welcoming tunes blaring from the radio, marks as the official manifesto and code of conduct of the frequenters of the den. Hear, one song states as follows, ‘the thirsty ones always know one onother, and they must help one onother quench the thirst’, onother one emphasizes, ‘if you are looking for me, find me under the table with my fellow thirsty ones, ‘onother one consoles, ‘don’t worry, wait for the night to set in, because when it does, AIDS goes to sleep’…

I don’t have to look for him, I know where to find him, at his favorite spot, under the table at the far end of the den, dead drunk, wet with urine, and blood a stained shirt (his blood or someone else’s blood), we shall know tomorrow. I walk towards him, escorted by numerous sets of droopy eyes, and tingly hands wanting to touch me, these drunks cannot touch me-Wanjohi, Jeremano’s father once spanked my behind, he wished he hadn’t, for I turned on him with hell’s fury, kicking and screaming, the broken bottle run well across his face, twice.

“Father, it’s time to go home” I tell him as I kneel besides him, nudging him to wake up, it will take a while. It has not always been like this, like today when my father is lost, a shadow of himself, a drunkard….there was a time when he was different. Back then, when we would wait for him at the 2nk bus terminal the whole day, to come back from Nairobi. He always brought us Nairobi bread, a huge loaf that we would eat for days, and we would sit on his laps and he would listen to our dreams and urge us on. He taught us how to eat raw coffee berries, and sweet potatoes and mother would always threaten to beat us, but she dared not, for we would hide behind our father. At school, our stories began with my daddy did this or that, he was our hero, the coffee farmer, the business owner, the matatus driver…

I drag him out of the den, and help him on the wheel barrow, he lifts his head to say something, ‘father, what is it? “get me my bottle”, he replies, I die. As I am about to leave, a firm hand grabs me from behind, I turn to face my assailant, its him, kariuki, the owner of the den. Back then I would argue with him, curse him, blaming him for my father’s deteriorating condition, not today. I know what he wants, “father I am coming”, I shout at him as Kariuki’s firm hand leads me to his filthy kitchen, there is no ceremony, no sparks, he pushes me to the floor, tears away my underwear and plunges inside me, and as he sweats on top of me, I know that I am paying for  my father’s drinking debts, saving our quarter acre farm, five minutes later, I limp out of the den to find my father snoring on the wheelbarrow, he has urinated on himself again, my privates parts are itching, its midnight, I grab the wheel barrow’s handles, it’s time to go back  home.