Meditations of Pilipo the Existentialist

ANGST

MEDITATIONS OF PILIPO—THE EXISTENTIALIST MAN

A novella by

Godiah Rocky Imbukuleh

Chapter One

You have your truths, I have my truths—as for the only or absolute truth; it doesn't exist. (Nietzsche)

It was on a Thursday afternoon when I began to realise just how fuzzy my knowledge of him was. I was on a two weeks' leave from work and had just finished preparing my lunch. I was about to sit down to watch a movie on the laptop when my phone rang. I switched on the laptop, placed a plate of fried githeri on the table and then picked the call. It was Wakachala calling. It had been about seven months since the incident and we had not met since that time. I was living in Bungoma now and Wakachala was working and living with his family in Nairobi.

"Hey man," he had begun.

"Hey; how is the going?"

"I am great and so is Ruth. She has recovered from what happened." I remembered Ruth and smiled. She must be a tough woman to live with what happened, I thought but did not tell him.

"Listen man; have you talked to Pilipo recently?"

"No."

"When was the last time?" Wakachala asked. I could not remember. I had tried to call him a few times after the incident but he was out of reach.

"No. I guess since the incident. Have you?" I asked curious to know. I missed Pilipo somehow; he was arguably the most interesting man I had ever met.

"No." Wakachala said. There was prolonged silence on the line then he said:

"Have you watched news recently?" I had not for almost a week.

"No."

"Man; Pilipo is a terrorist; maybe not the Pilipo we know or knew but some guy with a similar name. He is on the FBI most wanted list. Check it out on YouTube or internet news channels."

"What!" I was really surprised.

"I got to go," he muttered, "Be careful and talk later."

I quickly connected my laptop to the Safaricom network and launched the Mozilla browser. I flipped through Kenyan News channels on You Tube and found the story on KTN then on Citizen and all other channels. I went to Google search and the story was on Al-jazeera, MSNBC, Sky News and even Fox news. There was no picture of him but intelligence reports had captured the name and that he was the brains behind the recent explosions in Nairobi. The target had been the parliament but no one had died. It seemed the timing had been wrong and someone had alerted the people working there in time to escape to safety including the sixty members of the Kenyan parliament. That had been in February—three months before.

The following day I went to Lugulu Girls where we knew he worked to trace his whereabouts. The school lay on the Webuye—Kitale highway and I had little trouble locating it. I was ushered into the deputy principal's office by the gateman and settled on a rather cosy chair in front of her desk.

"How can I help you?" A good looking middle-aged woman asked me politely.

"I need any information on the whereabouts of a teacher who supposedly teaches here," I muttered. She sat up straight and eyed me for a while.

"Which teacher?"

"I only knew him by one name—Pilipo," I said.

"Who?"

"Pilipo."

"Philipo! Like Philip?"

"Yeah; a brawny, tall, dark and jovial man?" I could sense already that she had no idea.

"I am afraid we have not had a teacher with such a name."

I reasoned that maybe he used a different name while working there but she was no longer sure. She, in the end, said there was a male teacher who suited my description but had resigned from teaching almost a year before. I journeyed to his alleged home village—Brigadia and no one knew anyone with such a name or the name I had been given by the principal of Lugulu Girls. I called Wakachala and told him about my findings. The Pilipo we knew, apparently, did not exist.

Reports on news channels indicated that he had joined ISIS (the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria); the terrorist group fighting to establish Islamic states all over the Muslim world, and against American and Western European civilization. Pilipo always seemed strange and very intelligent but he never looked like a terrorist. He was a person I went to high school with and we had plenty of fun. He was someone I understood and at times I admired because of his intellect and humour. Hitherto, he had not been arrested and I had failed to trace his family or establish his origins apart from my memories of him when we had first met while he was a stubborn but a tiny boy in form one at Naitiri Boys High School. Even Wakachala who went to the same primary school with Pilipo did not know anything about Pilipo's family. He merely remembered one or two incidences that involved Pilipo; prominent among them was Pilipo fighting with another boy called Musa, who was older and had a very fearsome friend called Master King Kungfu. Master King was feared by all pupils at Narati Primary School but Pilipo had beaten Musa so severely that Master King had been forced to join in and rescue his friend. To his surprise Pilipo had turned out to be faster and better than him. He had pooled together and beaten them so dexterously that they had all taken to their hills to save their smugness. Another incident occurred when Pilipo was punished on the morning assembly for soiling the latrines with his faeces. He was then whipped in front of all students and the teachers present. Those were the only things Wakachala remembered about Life with Pilipo in primary school. In fact he could not remember whether Pilipo used a different name at that time or not. Eventually I gave up the search for him but his influence on my life remained enormous at least as far as my worldview and religious beliefs were concerned.

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Chapter two

The existentialist says at once that man is anguish (Jean Paul Sartre)

Pilipo awoke with a start, he had a nightmare. In the dream, he was being hounded by the ghost of his former best friend who had passed away a few years back. He pushed the sheets and blanket away from his naked body. He had realised he was sweltering under the sheets; an unusual thing early in the morning. The air in the room was heavy and stale but he was used to it. He lay motionless, stared blankly on the white ceiling body. The whiteness almost hypnotised him. He wondered why he would dream about his former best friend in collage. They used to discuss the hereafter together, and at some point they did agree that such things as demons, spirits, and souls did not exist. He remember one day, at Ngara in Nairobi; he had felt tired of reading and had ventured into one of the numerous pubs commonplace. Nyambune, had text him saying he was going uptown for supper. Having been reading Toni Kan's short stories that told of the uncertainties and brevity of life, he had replied saying life was too short and that he wanted to enjoy his drink for that moment. In those days, while studying for the masters degree, they would hang out together, Nyambune, Baraza and he. They were like birds of a feather, united by their passions for literature study and discourse. They would discuss poetry, drama and philosophical issues on their way to hostels; in class, in their rooms and in cafes. No one among them ever wanted to lose an argument. They would make bets, research on the internet, in dictionaries with an aim to win points of view and their little bets. It was an exciting friendship conceived in the camaraderie spirit. In July the same year, he had learned of his untimely demise. He had been out of reach on his cell phone for some days and, had failed to turn up to defend his project proposal. It had seemed ominous and during the defence, Pilipo had checked on his Facebook wall, only to see posts wishing Nyambune's soul a rest in peace. This had shocked many of his classmates—the silent kind of shock that renders one immobile for some time. The first words to cross his mind were those still vivid from Joseph Conrad's novella The Heart of Darkness: The horror, the horror! And he was later to learn that his death had been occasioned by a horrific road accident. He had been a very bright chap and very articulate. He had a philosophical sense of humour that always made him funny and cheerful and they knew they would miss him. From then Pilipo had started living life with suspicion. He no longer saw himself as a successful man in a future living life to the fullest and dying from old age but rather conceived life as riddle or a poem.

As he lay still in bed thinking, he tried to figure out the best imagery to capture the nature of life. In fact at this point, his life seemed like a poem so that defining it, understanding its past, present and future was going to be challenging. Perhaps like Plato said, poetry was merely an imitation of life thrice removed from reality, not good for rulers as it makes them weak through catharsis, eliciting emotion that lowers their resolve. But to him life at this point, was gestaltism, the sum of its episodes and components being unequal to its meaning. Like optical illusion, a mirage, or, interlaced images on a television screen, painted 15 frames per second; too fast for the eye to notice. At times like the rainbow, betraying the light's components, or like the animation in movies, simple images intertwined and rendered slowly to the screen, shockingly real like a nightmare or a revelation; and, like painting on the wall— a Monalisa painting, smiling yet crying . He wondered whether, as people called him, he was an atheist. He never used to believe in religion before he lost his friend but now as he thought deeply about religion and death, he realised there was God, the absolute knowledge, the pioneer of everything. Not, merely because of fear and coming to terms with his immortality, but simply because he now thought he understood the true nature of God. He is not a specifically finite being, like the Judea-Christians and Muslims will have us believe but conversely infinite. It (not him) is not comprehensible. God is beyond human knowledge. He is some kind of energy encompassing even human beings. A human being's soul is part of this energy so that, when one dies, the physical body that used to constitute him is simply discarded from being part of this God. It loses identity which is merely 'personal history ' and 'experience' to join the omnipresent energy otherwise known as God. His thoughts flipped to wonder about magic, witchcraft and spirits? He was no longer sure but he realised that witches can simply summon and harness souls that have not joined the God energy. Upon collecting these forms of energy, they can assign tasks. Magicians can manipulate this kind of energy (jinni) to perform some tasks .Spirits are simply souls not under control. They can be either evil (used by witches for evil purpose) or other (undefined).He again concluded that hell and heaven as professed by popular doctrines were illusions. This startled him in spite of himself. He stepped out of bed and headed to the kitchen. He knew his two friends and he were going to kill someone on that day and this thought made him shook with mysterious fear. He tried not to think about it as he fixed himself bread and egg sandwich, and a mug of hot black coffee.

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Chapter three

Love is so short; forgetting is so long (Pablo Neruda)

Moi University main campus was a lush expansive place with new buildings being erected to take care of the bourgeoning number of students that was unprecedented in terms of enrolment. The administrative building stood conspicuously on the left turn after the gate, a few metres into the university as a symbol of art and enlightenment. But this early promise by the founders had been squandered by the lax and corrupt leadership that had seen the university stagnate in its progress and fall down the pecking order among excelling universities in Africa.

Further beyond the administration block, in the seminar rooms opposite the student centre, I sat still at the back listening to the professor of religion talk about the historicity and validity of the Christian Bible.

"Emperor Constantine, who was Roman Emperor from 306 CE until his death in 337 CE, used what motivates many to action - MONEY! He offered the various Church leaders money to agree upon specific 66 mythical stories that looked holy enough that would be used by all Christians as the word of God. The Church leaders gathered together at the Council of Nicaea and voted the "word of God" otherwise known as the Bible into existence."

He said and paused briefly to allow for the shock to sink into us. He went on talking about the Qur'an, the Torah and other religious books before turning to the phenomenology of religion and signing off. I was taking an elective course in religion as part of my degree program and I found the course worthy my curiosity.

It was during those early years as a freshman at Moi University that I learned a lot about life and its absurdities. I took an interest in the existential meaning of life and the psychology of humanity and my life changed completely. I realised that to live a normal life one must pretend a lot; that one must try to subscribe to the cultural believes and even religious beliefs of his immediate community. I didn't like it. I wanted my immediate society to be more liberal. I felt people should be allowed to express themselves more. I conceived it as wrongheaded and outright immorality for society to glorify conformists at the expense of non-conformist because ultimately, the modern society was created by people who refused to be part of the norm. People like Galileo, Newton, Einstein, and Da Vinci refused to be just conformists to the status quo and strove to invent their own worlds and that gradually led to the modern world.

In truth, the Catholic Church, as the religion professor once said during one of his classes, had been among the most retrogressive organ in history in relation to human advancement. A clear case, professor had cited, was that one of Galileo who was put to death for simply proving , using his telescope, that Earth was not flat as the Scriptures said but spherical. And, during that lecture it was not lost on me to ponder on issues affecting Africans. The main reason Africa has not produced many renown innovators and great scientists is because it's grounded in oppressive and primitive culture. I thought of the female genital mutilation exercise that is still glorified by communities such as the Maasai in Kenya, cattle rustling among the Samburu and Turkana and payment of dowry that basically led to objectification of women. Then of course, there was religion itself that had colonised the minds of Africans, especially African women and often substituted with superstition and concluded that Africa needed visionary leaders to change its fate.

Those were the few moments I would think about life ideologically, otherwise, most of my leisure time in campus would be spend playing football, watching popular American television series (Prison Break, Season 24, and Lost were hit television series then), drinking or listening to music. I was a big fan of reggae music then and I would find solace in it, sometimes, pondering on how amazing and beautiful things always emerged from the ugly—reggae emerging from bitter colonial past, slavery and the middle passage. Then later I learned how R n B music emerged from the blues—the sad songs of slaves. How rap music was a reaction to the sordid and pathetic life of the Harlem and many black ghettos in America. How post election violence brought Kenya a new constitution and how the Rwanda genocide brought them peace and stability among many others.

It was at Moi University that I first fell in love. I had been seeing her around campus for a while and she turned out to be a friend to my classmate. I would always feel weak and enchanted whenever I saw her. Then she had disappeared out of my sight for a long stretch of time, and this made my heart yearn for her sight. Then I saw her again. She was not voluptuous this time, nor was she the most visible lady in campus, but there was just something about her. Her gorgeous looks, her pride, her smile, her innocence, her gait and her gracefulness made her seem surreal and angelic. She did not notice me but I was bewitched by her cheeky smile that hung in my memory like a beautiful scar on an ugly face; and I couldn't say anything: I wouldn't even articulate this seduction to her. But how beautiful was that moment!

Our love had blossomed, with its excitements and disappointments but eventually it turned out to be an unforgettable learning experience and we parted three years later. I certainly managed to keep nice memories of her. In fact she lingered in my dreams after we had parted for a while. In some of my dreams, I told her what was on my mind. Bye my love, I think I loved you, my love for you was marvellous: I would think of you beautifully, never erotically but fondly akin to a childhood sweetheart, when we met at the onset of our relationship, you were all I could think of, you were my preoccupation like a computer-maniac kid ,and I could look in your eyes and see my future, the feeling was breath-taking wholly enchanting, yet we learned to love and to make love, we promised to trust always in the heat of lovemaking, we clung to each other when we felt unsecure, when we felt unfaithful, we sang songs, got drunk to fulfil our curiosity, we made love and promised to always honour our commitment and we always felt the tagging forces that pulled spuriously at our chords, we always felt it was too good to stay like that forever, we shared this fears in those sad stormy moments but we never invoked calculated solution-maybe we were prepared for it, maybe we hoped the course could be favourable, maybe I got too realistic, maybe you got too optimistic. Dreams eventually faded and my life moved on.

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Chapter four

We are all prisoners here of our own device (California Hotel by Eagles)

I had little contact with Pilipo and Wakachala during these undergraduate years. My life had evolved, ostensibly, to a more measured one and I was absorbed by the rigours of study and research but I was still a big fan of football and alcohol at this stage in my life. Every Friday, in company of Muchiri, Paul and Marcus, we would, immediately after classes walk leisurely along the Moi University Academic Highway that opened to a bus terminus which had evolved onto a market of sorts. We would, sometimes, eat roasted beef in one of the butcheries there before moving yonder into a nearby forest we used to call 'Harvard' or 'Golf course' because it was an expansive farm with lots of woods and grass. Herein were women selling local brews 'busaa' and 'chang'aa'; and occasionally men would slaughter goats and sell meat to us. In this forested area, on such days, students would be seen in clusters strewn all over. They would be discussing issues loudly some cursing in drunken stupor but from time to time, roars of laughter would follow. We would be at Harvard till dusk and then excitedly, we would negotiate our way back to the market pubs where we would order beers, mostly just one for me, to last a few hours before going back to my room where, on some nights, my girlfriend would be waiting. Eventually, my four years at the university were over and after my graduation I kind of reconnected with my old life and sought out Wakachala and Pilipo among other friends. I already knew the importance of networking in the job market and therefore every friend mattered. The union happened in Nairobi city. I dug up my first job there working in a bank for the most part customer care, although, I would discharge other duties as well.

My decision to go to the city was occasioned by a call made by Wakachala one night. Having completed my university studies, I was now back home. I loved reading novels whenever I got time and it seemed I was going to be reading a whole lot of them because time was in abundance. I was sitting outside our simba, a boys hut in a Luhya home, listening to country music. The sky was turning dark and it was hardly dusk. The chilling air sniffled rapidly at my feet akin to a puppy out on a hunt for food. The clouds looked peculiarly dull in the backdrop; and I was tempted to think they were already missing the sun. The banana plants in the foreground shook slightly in retaliation to unnecessary provocation from the breeze wondering about. The jacaranda trees stood firm and still in an obvious contentment with the still atmosphere. The soothing music wafting in the air from a Radio defined the uncertain mood. I thought of what or where I was going to do or be in a couple of weeks, months and years in vain. Darkness set in and I did not know what to do next in that air of uncertainties.

My mind turned to my heroes and dreams. In my adolescence days, I always dreamt of being a professional footballer, like Rivaldo, or a pro wrestler like The Rock, or a great scientist like Albert Einstein, or a great writer like Chinua Achebe, or a great teacher like my high school English teacher. All this earlier fantasy shaped my love for sport, movie and academics. At that moment, I loved Wayne Rooney as a footballer, John Cena in wrestling, Albert Einstein in science, Chinua Achebe in literature ,Denzel Washington and Tom cruise as movie stars; philosophy, physics and literature as areas of study because of that. It was as if I projected my failures in these fields to these stars who had had a higher level of success especially in the manner I wanted to excel in their respective fields .It was hard for me to love someone without any internal projections of my failures and fantasies. It seemed I could only love someone with the qualities that I failed to achieve when I wanted to.

Sitting outside the simba listening to music and meditating was a pleasurable and comforting experience. Smooth music and heavy thoughts intermingle and lead me into pondering about issues affecting humanity, and in my youthful mind I tried to describe them with wary and romantic notions. I conjectured that as humanity, we were in the Movement towards chaos, that the world was changing, people were evolving, and I called it Darwinism. The subconscious was turning conscious, I called it Freudianism. Received opinions flew in the face of facts like Israelites spurious claim to the Palestine land, test-tube babies, and nuclear weapons. In my mind, I felt darkness visible in those niggling times and wondered if it had always been like that. I realised that fear was just the mind playing games and technology was trying to rival God: if ever there was one. These kinds of undefined thoughts got entangled with music and I lingered in this state for long minutes till it was very dark. Then my phone had vibrated heavily towing me out of my reverie. And as I looked at the screen I saw that it was Wakachala calling. After the usual chit chat and teasing he invited me to the city.

"I would love to share my house with you man as you find your feet," he had said.

"You belong here man."

"I will come two days from now," I had assured him. I had looked at the time on the phone and it was half past midnight. I rose and moved the recliner into the house, locked the door and slept.

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Chapter five

Life can only be understood backwards but it must be lived forwards (Soren Kierkegaard)

Two days later, I arrived in the city weary and a bit desperate. My first stop was at the K1 club House on Koinange Street where Wakachala had promised to recover me that night. I had entered chosen a seat further from the door with no particular reason and had ordered for the cheapest drink available--Richot brandy. On my left was a group of three African men and a woman plus two white women. In the midst of their discourse the white lady, whom I later learnt was known as Cynthia, changed the topic to Kenyan writers and she mentioned having read Meja Mwangi and wondered where River Road was. I quickly understood her curiosity because some of the books written by Meja Mwangi had been set on River Road and were full of sordid and exciting episodes. I could see why someone coming to Nairobi might gravitate towards tasting the dangers and exhilarations of the street. The other Africans guys really had no clue and they tried to change the subject but she insisted and an awkward silence enveloped them. I quipped, '' Hey, which meja Mwangi's novel did you read?'' and she turned to me and muttered, ''The Cockroach Dance.''

I told her, ''Hell, let me take you to a River Road Drive.''

Then we were off in her BMW, and she was really into me, or maybe I was imagining things. Her curiosity leads us to those risky joints on River Road, and eventually we end up in Deep Inn, a low life club on the street. The entrance to the club is a long winding stairs with no railing for support and at the left turn into the club, parking girls crowd our movements. The place is full and suffocating with humanities. We cannot stay and we are quickly attempting to find our way out but it is not long before we are robbed off our possessions. I lose my phone and money while they are dispossessed off their phones, jewellery and money at gun point. The incident happens on the stairs when we are getting out. The gang had sandwiched us, having seen white women, they knew they could make a kill out of it. A knife had been pressed against my rib firmly and was almost piercing my jacket, while two other robbers were strangling the women and asking them in broken English for money. Eventually with their hands all over my pockets and the knife threatening to negotiate its way into my lungs, I gave up. The women on the other hand were struggling and pleading for their lives. When the robbers were sure they had taken everything, they let us go. It was a traumatic experience, and although I had heard such stories before, I never imagined they would happen to me. Our return journey to K1 was quiet and uneventful. They dropped me off Koinange Street and went in to pick their friends. Having no phone, I didn't want to wait for Wakachala. I knew Pilipo was studying at the University of Nairobi for his second degree and having talked to him earlier in the day through text messages, I remembered that he was staying in HALL 10 room 214. So I made my way there; slowly across University Way, past the University of Nairobi gates, through the tunnels and emerged on the other side of the expansive Uhuru highway. The pathway to the hostels was forlorn and moonlit. I went by the graduation square, up the stairs into the hostel and his room. Luckily, I found him and his two friends smoking marijuana. He was very excited to see me and I quickly joined in the shindig though not for long. I was exhausted. It was not long before I got in between the sheets and slept heavily.

Pilipo insisted that I stay with him for at least three days and I couldn't turn down his request. In actual fact we had fun together. Pilipo had taken an interest in classical education and this came after he had engaged the poems of Christopher Okigbo, the Nigerian poet, who had a decent mastery of Greek ancient culture, and would reflect his knowledge in his famous poems. He gave me some of his poems to read and tried to explain the classical images he was fond of using in them. This engagement with Greek mythology drew me to specific heroes and concepts about God. One day during our discussions with Pilipo, I started thinking about human suffering as reflected in Greek lore and my wishes were that human suffering should be ascribed to God, as retribution, so that we could always accept and assign meaning to our woes and suffering, and even turn to God in totality like Sisyphus, who was said to be happy despite his suffering ,his punishment was to keep rolling a big stone uphill but before reaching at the summit the stone would roll back down ,and he did this for eternity yet he was said to be somehow happy with his task. Or Prometheus, a god who gave man knowledge of fire from the Zeus alter and was condemned, whereupon he was bound on a cliff, whereat the birds would peck out on his liver during the day and at night it would regenerate and he accepted it, or Tantalus, who was condemned to terrible hunger, and food would be teased painfully at him yet he could not reach it, or what happened to narcissus, condemned to admire his image forever until he died by a god nemesis. In the end, pain brings one closer to God than anything else.

Pilipo laughed a lot about my suggestions. He said that these were just mythical stories and that I should focus on enjoying the little life I have still left in the world and especially on finding a job. But his company was always challenging intellectually and superb.

I must say what united the gang right from the early days in high school to the future events that would define our destiny was lack of fear. From an early age Pilipo had realised that fear was a major weakness and that things that people feared, most of the time, were illusionary and vague at best. This had dawned on him like an epiphany, one Saturday starlit night. He was seated outside his hut, earphones plugged in his ears listening to music on an n73 Nokia phone. It had been a hectic day right from school, marking papers, to home—attending to domestic matters and later watching football where Manchester United won, but the key event of the day was testing for HIV in a local clinic. As a matter of course, anyone visiting the VCT must have thought seriously about death. Libama, One of his learned philosophical friends and colleague at Mitua Girls High School then, had once asked him what he feared the most .He had answered that fear itself was his worst nightmare. And as he had reflected on this idea, he felt the real question should have been what motivated negative human instincts? The answer, he had realised was fear itself. He had noted, through his meditations, in the few occasions he would attend church service that religious faith was heavily reliant on the faithful fear of the unknown, the enigmatic nature of most supreme beings and stuff like that. He also knew that fear transcended religion: fear would make one afraid of venturing into business, travelling, boozing, and making love. Fear made peter deny Jesus thrice, it made people act cowardly and perhaps its worst manifestation, he had realised when as a kid, walking alone in the dark could elicit frightening and ghastly images in his consciousness. He would mistake small bushes for someone crouching ready to pounce on him .He knew that fear weakened one's resolve and judgement and galvanized people into superstition, delusions and religion, taming them in a cocoon of status quo, tradition and boredom because many people were afraid of being non conformist. He had to overcome immense fear and after overcoming his fears of death and the unknown, he had made it to the clinic. He had met a doctor who was an old friend and he had shared with him rather casually his statistics that roughly 20% of people examined from Brigadia, his hometown, had tested positive. Luckily, he had tested negative, yet the statistics implied that some of his friends and kin may be victims. Pilipo thought about sex: what a deed! Culpable, subtle and yet life determining like a speeding drunk driver. He wondered were humans to live that long? Were they to live free of fear like the past generation? Or perchance, they were destined for doom amidst all the modern ailments, cropping up unannounced prompting ad hoc and rash treatment constituting more of experimental therapy. But why an undertaking so pleasurable, so exciting, so natural be so vicious and treacherous like a snare set for an anticipated animal! And why the gods should be so punitive like humans are predetermined machines, impeccable and immaculate? What was that compelling forces pulling him to such indecisive dispositions, perhaps he realised, he ought to ease his conscience and not merely satisfy it

These thoughts led him into pondering on the nature of death. What happens when people die? Do they, according to popular religions get judged and appropriated into evil n good, whereupon cast into hell or paradise respectively? Or perhaps like he would figure out, death was just eternal darkness like an abyss or otherwise nothingness! As he sat looking at his phone, he thought of a human being as a computer or a smart phone ; the integrated circuit as the central nervous system and the operating system and other system applications, the human psyche and java scripts such as 75—able to run virtual machines, threading, uploading etc as part of the network which connects the phone to the internet servers. He conceived the network as the spirit and then asked himself what happens to the networked java scripts when the phone is destroyed? They simply die as well. They plummet into nothingness. To him death was Nothingness.

Pilipo was a sex addict and had lots of girlfriends in and outside campus. He tried to introduce me to a few of his acquaintances to a less degree of success. I was not a big fun of sex, at least not near his standards. I fancied romance before sex and had little affection for casual sex but Nairobi was a sea of beautiful women and handsome men. It was a city selling sex at every turn with little romance. On the last day of my stay with Pilipo I lay in bed arm in arm with my Pilipo engineered girlfriend, and as I watched her sleeping, I remembered how strange and almost rueful my first sexual experience had been.

The evening after the experience, I had stared at the blinding brightness of my phone sheltered by the darkness of the night in my simba, memories of my day's adventure receding deep into the subconscious, the feeling, null and void like nothingness, the exercise hardly sentimental, somewhat detached, merely psychological: yet, I asked myself, who was to judge? Life was but illusions. I had wandered off, flapping about like a trapped bird. I had anticipated on my next trail of thoughts drifting in and out of my consciousness. What was sex? And was it that good after all? Or was it sheer aggression—a vexation to the human spirits? In the end the winner takes it all, unknowingly, and the loser bears disappointments. Those are thoughts that clogged up my mind after the experience. Having waited for the day for too long, it just did not live up to the expectation. In fact, it was not long before the first love turned into disappointments—the usual story for a young man at the age of 19.

I had met her the previous day. I had made a conversation, she had smiled wryly, I saw her eyes, and they were dark and simmered a reminiscent of Catherine, my first fascination. Her soft gaze bore endless promises, she had disarmed my psyche just like Kate had-but what promise did she hold: delightful memories, lustful moments, and a broken heart? Or like Kate intoxicating beauty, overpowering into near neurosis! Eventually it just turned out to be pure lust and infatuation. My romantic education had begun. The effects and heartache that Kate had inflicted on me lingered. It would be four years later that I would fall in love again. This time it would last for a few years.

I rose and took to the showers. The showers at University of Nairobi were full of very cold water. It hit my body like needles piercing my skin. I left an hour later and Pilipo was there to see me off. He sent his greetings through me to Wakachala and promised to meet us up the following weekend.

Chapter six

If you can't fly then run, if you can't run then walk, if you can't walk then crawl but whatever you do keep moving forward ( Martin Luther King Junior)

Disillusionment, the near fatal euphemism for desperation engulfed my supposedly auspicious transition. Life could be tormenting. Life had no formula, only luck. I gazed into darkness .The chaotic and daily events tainting my banal solace. Trading accusations on the rational against ingrained paranoia had formed the backdrop of my due surrender to forces beyond my control. I yearned to be away, to drown my soul. Yet I could not because of that burden or perhaps in spite of it, that belief in a rain maker. I had felt despondent like Orpheus felt upon losing his lover and like him; I would descend to the underworld to beg Zeus of my happiness. My happiness came eventually. After spending a few weeks with Wakachala in Nairobi Lang'ata estate, walking the streets and knocking on doors asking for jobs, I managed to secure a job with Kenya Commercial bank. They welcomed me and I immediately felt important and focussed. I started paying bills, shopping for groceries and taking my two friends out. We always went to River road clubs, Simmers on Kenyatta Avenue or Sabina Joy which was a favourite of Pilipo. It was during this time though that I would think a lot about my girlfriend during my undergraduate days in Moi University. One day while at Florida 2000 I met her, though she was then married to some guy. We met accidentally but we managed to hang out because, apparently, she was there by herself. And as it turned out, it was Karaoke night where those present would request beats and lyrics for their favourite songs and sing them addressing their lovers. I had requested the sound track to the song Time after Time by Cyndi Lauper. And I remember singing to her. You are there lying in your bed ,seated somewhere or maybe walking .Your mind is far away wondering if am okay .It's all a flashback, memories of our past warm nights almost left behind, tender kisses, songs we sang together, hard times and tears that we shed. Caught up in circles, confusion is nothing new. Soon you will have your case and argue that am walking too far ahead. Time after time you would tell me to go slow, to keep pace with those memories. But know that it's your call if you are lost you can look and you will find me time after time. When I was through, a round of applause rang out and I saw her tearing up. I hugged her closely and for a moment relived those beautiful moments we had in campus. We met a few times after that then she moved to Mombasa and our meetings dried up.

I realised that since our time together, and in fact since my high school days nothing had really changed much. I still liked ordinary clothing, food and places. I still drank, loved women, and I still watched movies, listened to Reggae music, did not like rules nor respected politicians. Nothing had really changed in life-as far as I was concerned, just some little adjustments here and there. The roads were still awful ,farming was still a gamble and government was getting more corrupt .Perhaps the only thing that I had learnt was that life when it became boring was like death itself; death therefore was all too familiar in all life circles. Marrying was like death, drinking was tantamount to dying slowly, eating well was death in itself because it brought about weight problems and diseases .I would have like to worship God in truly but I had my doubts; which denomination could I follow, why were there so many denominations in Christianity if indeed God was one. Did people really believe in God when they attended church services or was it because they feared to think of what may befall them if they died: the fear of the unknown?

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Chapter seven

If you stare into the abyss for too long the abyss will stare back into you (Nietzsche)

My first encounter with the traumatising effects of infidelity in a marriage and the resulting consequences occurred when I met Tom. Tom had been a collage mate a few years back and had married his college sweetheart in a colourful wedding that took place in Webuye Guest House. I had taken part in the organising and was happy when it had turned out successful. Tom had got a scholarship to go study for a masters' degree in medicine at Kumamoto University in Japan. He had invited me to his farewell party and we had had fun. I had laughed at the name of that university which had a vulgar meaning for the equivalent word in Swahili. In fact since that day, I had forgotten about him. But one Sunday afternoon, he called me, having found my contact on the internet. We met at Yaya Centre in Nairobi and he bought a few drinks. We chatted a lot about his experiences in Japan and was glad to learn that he was then through with his studies and was in fact working as a doctor at Nairobi Hospital. But it was when I had asked him about the wife and family that I realised how deeply troubled he was. He had just arrived home from work the previous evening and found his wife in bed with his best friend .They hadn't even bothered to bolt the door. He had entered and sat on a chair near the bedroom door. He then had looked at their perplexed faces, his head seething with anger. They remained immobile mesmerized by the unfortunate turn of events. Tom had yawned loudly like a fish flung on the shore. He was like a trapped bird flapping when he saw an opening .He stood, got out and locked them from outside; picked a machete from within re-entered n attacked them, killing both in the fray. He had locked the house and at night set it ablaze. I didn't know what to tell him. As I sat there with him drinking whisky and talking about the best kind of investments to make in Nairobi city so as to take his mind off the incident, my mind wandered far off to something Pilipo had shared with me in his room while we were smoking marijuana with some three other guys who had sat quietly listening to him quote philosophers and other intoxicated thinkers. He had said there was always a void, an emptiness and therewith, subtle qualms whenever you are praying, you are working or when you are relaxing. You start doubting—am I really talking to God? Am I really enjoying my work? Why should I live, work hard, be rich then die? Then he had asked us:

"What happens if as perfectly normal as you are, you contract a deadly disease? You become handicapped and or you lose all the people that you love?"

We didn't take the question seriously though but he had tried to answer it himself.

"That is the emptiness that engulfs you when you lose hope, when you are desperate, when you think you are going to die. I would call this absurdity of life; Sartre called it meaninglessness. The idea is that you ought to embrace this absurdity for you to live a truly 'authentic life'. If you want to be happy regardless of what happens to you. You should know that eventually you will die, that something can go wrong anytime and you will come vis a vis with life's absurdity .After acknowledging this, try to assign meaning on to your life, Like Camus showed in the 'myth of Sisyphus' life is full of meaningless struggle. Like Sisyphus, pushing the rock uphill then it rolls back endlessly. He would do this happily because he had embraced the absurd and found meaning amidst the absurdity. In accordance with Nietzsche, life is some kind of eternal recurrence. You are living now, the way you lived a million years ago and you will be living similarly a million years to come."

One of his friends called Malips had then objected to his ideas; "If you think too much about the bad things in life that can happen to you, you will never enjoy your life. Just enjoy what you can enjoy and when time comes for you to die, you die."

Pilipo had thought about it for a moment then said, " You are right but also remember, running away from yourself is an inadequate way of dealing with anxiety or a problem like Achebe once said."

"You see, taking life as it comes is what matters,' living the moment' for one to live and enjoy life to its fullest, he should first rid himself of the superstitions that will inhibit his freedom. He should not anticipate any life beyond what he has, or after dying. Instead, he should seek to have mastery over himself, his convictions and his emotions. Like Nietzsche said Mastery of the inner self is better than mastery of others through imperialism, use of force or subjugation."

"But you know, boredom is what causes discomfort in life. In fact to me boredom is the source of all evils. How I live is not important so long as I am not bored." Malips had said amidst our smiles.

"You are right my friend even Kierkegaard thought that boredom was a real enemy of mankind; he said that people will try as much as possible to avoid boredom. That boredom emanates from repetitiveness abound in life. One should therefore fashion out a life that is unique and live like a free spirit. Finding meaning is through making decisions, resolutions and accepting whatever consequences that might arise. So whatever action you take ask yourself; can I live with the repercussions? Don't worry whether it's good or bad. The alternative solution if you can't bear the weight of your actions is suicide."

I sat there wondering whether the wife was just bored as my friends had raised the question of boredom as a source of evil and wondered whether she deserved the punishment again like Pilipo had said, actions have consequences that we must either accept or commit suicide.

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Chapter eight

And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who couldn't hear the music (Nietzsche)

I shared Tom's troubles with my two friends the following weekend .We were at i-Club on Kimathi Street. They were all quiet for a while before Pilipo stirred a little, scratching his head in bewilderment and spoke.

"I am from this pointless interview, disappointed as usual. Not that am a failure, far from it, every time I attend interviews, I come second based on some tired excuses ,such as I am overqualified, am too young ,I am not married etc." He paused and looked around the club. It was filling up and the merry-making mood was rising to fever pitch. Wakachala sat silently but busy texting away on WhatsApp probably flirting with some chick or maybe chatting with his wife.

"Man!" Pilipo was probably getting drunk. I was the one buying and had bought a 750 ml of John Walker which was now halfway empty thanks to Pilipo.

"There is a very gorgeous girl in this club, she's really sexy and I want her, or I want to bed her because she is so overpowering. But thank God, I can't because am so broke, I can't afford to even buy her a few drinks." Pilipo did not enjoy being broke, and as I had realised I didn't enjoy seeing him look so miserable. But, sex notwithstanding, I was enjoying the dhaluo music blaring out of those dull speakers.

"Let me reminiscent why am here .Oh! Am here to drown my sorrows, I had so many expectations that am going to just wish them away. After all I am existential. Am feeling quite good, you can only feel this way after a glass of John Walker. So much for the much touted philosophy of drunkards, and in any case I am here to enjoy, aren't I? "

"This Tom fellow of yours; where is he now?" Wakachala finally asked, pocketing his phone and filling his glass with a beer of Guinness.

"He is at work," I said.

"Whaat!" He was a bit surprised. "And the police?"

"They got no idea; he said he had already reported that his wife was missing and possibly died in the fire."

"And the kids?" Wakachala was sounding terrified.

"Only one kid; he is in boarding school here in the city."

"I see," Wakachala murmured.

Pilipo did not know what to say. Alcohol was clouding his feelings. He actually felt nothing for Tom and his dead wife. Maybe because he did not know them but again he wondered why the news had shaken Wakachala more than him. Maybe he was not normal. His mind instead went back to his only time he worked for pay back in Brigadia, at Mitua Girls. They would pay him about eight thousand Kenyan shillings then, which was a lot for him staying in the village, and at home; being fed by his mother with no extra responsibilities. He would use his first pay to buy a phone and later he got into a habit of buying cheap local brew for his friends in the village. They had a favourite Chang'aa dens they would frequent: Wa Chekewa, Mandizini, Muwolu, and Baraks . He remembered those times with nostalgia because he was happy, simple and contented. But his time at Mitua Girls came to an end when he got a scholarship to study for his masters' degree. He remembered that moment after a few days when he went back to clear from school. He was pleasantly astonished. Some of his students sang songs, ingratiating songs to him and he knew he would miss them. They had shared some of those academic moments that would define his legacy .They were undeniably part of his 'initiations' into the teaching profession. And Pilipo realised then that parting could be such a sweet sorrow. Yet a less noticeable and yet even more significant was her former principal's, Mrs Murunga, forthcoming dispensation of magnanimity that she wore ,in a way thus that gave way to a more amicable confrontation in spite of herself . He remembered that she was a very kind woman in the manner she had let him go with his last pay midway into a school term.

"How is everything going for you?" I asked Pilipo in order to bring him back in our conversation and change the topic. He had seemed a little pensive and sad.

"I have kept a low key, pretending not to care. Yet everybody is talking-saying how good they are doing, how nice they look and how better they are .I chose this path because I had to. It's all about satisfaction, even if I no longer partake in drinking fiestas, or talking my mind away, or even sharing in putting away sumptuous meals. I have had a fair share of these flavours, suffice it to say, I am turning a new leaf: a situation of expediency .And like any liberal minded individual, am learning something on personality politics. That natural aesthetics in living a happy life is primarily bound on first, accepting your financial condition positively then living comfortably and creatively within your financial situation." We all burst out laughing. It seemed to us Pilipo was torn between being funny and mourning his impecunious condition. He was mercurial, sometimes oscillating between happy and sad; yet, always hilarious and unpredictable.

"What are your take on religion nowadays?" I asked Pilipo. I always knew he was agnostic from our past discussions and in his intoxicated state I knew he would offer us an interesting take on religion. This actually got the attention of Wakachala who was eager to learn the latest Pilipo's philosophy on religion. Pilipo had influenced all of us in matters religion. He had challenged us into bearing out many of the Biblical and Qur'anic teachings early on after high school and, as a consequence, the three of us had always been agnostic, although, Wakachala was still sympathetic to Christianity than the two of us.

"I heard your voice; I had thought it was overdue. You taught me these: You said it was now time, time to believe, time to be orderly, to define my life. I accepted in awe .I revered in your timely presence. That I shall believe in logic in cases of inconsistency. Then I asked; who are you? And you answered that I should be agnostic. And that I will employ only a positive lie. Then you taught me again saying I shall not pursue revenge. That I shall always aim to protect my life forthwith. And that I shall not trust without evidence. Later you will assert emphatically that I should always go for the best available. You stressed on exercising regularly and living within my means creatively .I heard clearly when you said that pursuing further education is my basic ambition and thereby professing my knowledge will form my livelihood. Then you added that I eat moderately while being friendly to all people and that I shall always speak my mind lightly. Eventually you instructed me to be adventurous and reciprocate of good gestures. Basically, I ought to live and let live .Interestingly; you pressed me on good maintenance of the body hygiene reminding me that it is mandatory. Out of the blues you shouted silently that I should live independently and that I aim to enjoy reading."

Wakachala chuckled slightly and asked, "Who told you these things?"

Pilipo did not answer at first. He eyed me then Wakachala and also laughed.

"It was a dream I had a few years back after reading Frederick Nietzsche's works," Pilipo finally confessed.

"I have found it really useful."

"How come you remember every word then?" I asked.

"I wrote them down immediately after the dream and later committed them to memory."

We again laughed, loudly this time around. Wakachala had ordered food—fried goat meat and it was served. We ate silently enjoying the Madilu system music that was now playing. After the meal we parted and promised to meet again at the same club the following weekend.

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Chapter nine

Man is born free but everywhere he is in chains. One man thinks himself the master of others, but remains more of a slave than they are. (Jean-Jacques Rousseau)

We did not meet again with Pilipo the following weekend. He, in the long run, graduated with his masters' degree and began teaching part time at a few universities in Western Kenya. And in a while he was employed permanently as a teacher at Lugulu Girls High School. The country had promulgated a new constitution and jobs were being created in the counties. I applied for an accounting job in Bungoma County and was invited for an interview. I called Pilipo to inform him about it and he was happy to host me. As usual my time with him at Lugulu was exciting mentally.

I arrived at his place in the evening and found him lifting weights while smoking marijuana. I joined him in the act and was a bit rusty with heavier weights.That night as I sat on the sofa in Pilipo's living room, watching news on KTN television channel, Pilipo was busy cooking, and the sound of frying beef sizzling on the sufuria sneaked into my consciousness. Presently it started to rain; at the outset teasingly, then heavily. I sat lazily, listening to the concoction of sounds mixing up in my head. And, as a matter of course, during such rains in Lugulu, there would be a blackout and Pilipo had to light an oil lamp to illuminate his cooking. On that night, interspersed by numerous power blackouts, I lay awkwardly on the chair listening to the sweet rapping of the rain drops on the corrugated iron roofing while encircled by darkness. I twisted on the chair, trying to find the most comfortable position and as I lay contemplating at the screen of my phone, memories of my girlfriend flooded my consciousness. At once she would smile teasingly, always her presence radiating some comfort, some gravitation towards the impeccable fulfilment. I made silent wishes. I will see you some day-- surrounded by the green lush, smiling and edgy-- and you would not have to pretend anymore. I'm sure you'd smile and giggle, make believe as of course and I would look into your eyes, admiring your legs and boobs. Thoughts would engulf me: of eroticism and love-- of adventure and ecstasy and I would fear for you then, for disappointments and shock. The wishes dissolved into thoughts about the rain and the storm whispering loudly on the outside and the image of her receded into nostalgic and nebulous desire, then into an iota of ecstatic revelation, before dying off into a sadistic emptiness. And as if on cue, the lights were back on. I grabbed a bottle of wine on the table to drown those delicious but poignant thoughts but I realised it was empty and smiled.

Pilipo served the food and we ate in silence. He was a good cook. The beef was delicious and the ugali well moderated. I wanted to continue our discussion on religion that we had had in Nairobi, so I asked Pilipo:

"Why don't you like religion? Even just its functional aspect?"He smiled, licked a meaty bone, swallowed before speaking.

"The trouble with dogmatic thoughts especially religion is their refusal to be subjected to logic which, ultimately, creates faith for those who need it and contempt to those who are more sceptical. You should read Nietzsche. According to him, we have slave morality, i.e. definition of what is right and what is wrong from the weak, poor and illiterate people's perspective which in design implies that obedience, altruism, servitude and being submissive is good and will be rewarded. Whereas the opposite: arrogance, lust, selfishness and pride are evil and will be punished. These belongs to doctrines such as, Christianity, Judaism and Islam .According to Nietzsche, these are life denying practices. One should aim at being free from these superstitions. He contrasts the slave morality with Master morality which asserts that being powerful, hardworking, sexy, stylish and educated is good and rewarding; and, the opposite bad and unacceptable. It is widely believed that Nietzsche's thoughts heavily influenced Hitler's philosophy. But for me the attractive aspect of his thoughts is his view that we should always aspire to be free, independent, unique and powerful. In short appreciate life."

I listened slowly and marvelled at his knowledge of religious thinkers. I wondered about the nature of virtues and vices and how they were created.

"So, which morals are you guided by? I mean, isn't there some form of creator who guides this universe and its course and therefore our lives?"

Pilipo who was now through with his meal thought for a moment. Power had been cut and restored for the umpteenth time. Now it was a bit stable and he struggled to blow out the flame on the wick of the kerosene lamp whose light was no longer necessary, at least for a while. I washed my hands and sat anticipating his answer.

"Jean Paul Sartre's existentialism is arguably my map of life. Sartre posited that existence precedes essence, which is to say that a child must be born first before it can fashion out a life for itself through the decision it makes and the consequences it must face, contrary to Kant's assertion that one's life is already predetermined by forces beyond him, which in Christianity would mean God. Sartre is less concerned with such forces, he wants people to be more responsible, to acknowledge their strengths and mistakes; and more importantly, live with the consequences. But for one to realise this, he must first accept that this world has no meaning and that it's absurd; and that there is no God. Because, he doesn't want individuals blaming him for their foolishness, mistakes and recklessness .And thus, there is no life after death, so no rewards or punishment for doing good or evil. What matters is to find meaning and happiness, yourself, within your life and live with the ramification of doing so. To an existentialist the end does not justify the means, because the end is within the means."

"That is deep man!"

"Yeah; you should read books to understand this world. There are existentialist books in literature that can help you shape your philosophy on religion on top or reading other world religious thinkers like Confucius, Tao, Buddha and Muhammad."

"I think I should man. I love reading no doubt but I hardly find good books to read." I said. Pilipo went to the drinks cabinet and fished out a bottle of Furaha brandy. He got the glasses and a bit of lemon water and mixed the liquor in the glasses. We sat opposite the table no longer watching the television but discussing issues. He talked about thinkers he thought would enlighten me more on the nature and function of religion and as the liquor hit his brains he got more specific about books.

"Waiting for Godot, an award winning play by Bucket poses a number of characters waiting for ostensibly, a man named godot, at a forlorn tree who is supposed to give or take them somewhere. This waiting which starts with two people gathers others who to their surprise discover that they are waiting for the same thing. This waiting as the play unfolds becomes extremely repetitive, mimicking the everyday repetitive and thus boring life. Once in a while a boy will come to them and reassure them that godot is indeed coming yet he never comes, even at the end of the play, instead, we are taken into the psychology of waiting. That eventually we get used to it. Some of the characters start questioning whether godot exists, whether he is human and if whatever they are doing is just useless. They even wonder why they are there, waiting. But they realise they have only despair to go to, the better to wait. Some realise rather painfully that they should commit suicide to escape their absurd situation. Of course! All these allude to the Christian doctrine. Waiting for Christ to come and judge perhaps."

We laughed loudly about those characters. And I grew so curious about other books that he had to think for a longer time now to remember their contents.

"Sartre's play 'No exit' juxtaposes three characters—two beautiful women and a handsome man. Of the two women, one is apparently a lesbian. The man is really attracted to this lesbian, whereas she wants the other woman who is tragically in love with the man. So in short they are in an absurd situation. Sartre would later say they are in hell. Their room or cell has a no exit door. They can't get out. They later realise after starting to converse that they are dead and are in fact in hell. They all had been killed. That was the last thing they remember. The obvious eternal sexual tension according to Sartre implies that 'hell is the others'. They contemplate suicide but they realise 'they can't die'. They have conflicting qualities but are thus forced to co-exist forever. "

He put in the stereo a Ferre Gola CD and we were soon enjoying the beautiful voice of Ferre Gola and his other vocalist.

"I need more books on this topic man!" I tell him. He is on his feet dancing to Madilu Sytem's song Nzele and then when the song is over he says:

"Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky analyses the psychology of a guilty conscience. That hiding a crime is a more painful experience than punishment for the very crime. The main character engages in utilitarianism by killing 'the most hated man in the town' and the wife. He thinks that the deed is a greater good for the majority of the people. Yet the psychological torture the police play on him is too much, he surrenders himself."

"Interesting," I mutter. I can see he doesn't want to go on with that topic. He has for the moment got uninterested. I am interrupted by a text message from Helen. I had been flirting with her at work recently. She would usually act like a very principled Christian hateful of sin and temptation but every time we met I would see in her eyes the desire to have me. In my intoxicated state, I can see her smiling, flirting and wooing me; feigning a secular inclination. She thumbs her scriptures, flipping pages, scanning and skimming--spinning like a whirlwind pulling me in her vortex ,a concoction of beauty ambition and chastity—pretentious, ostensibly, pleasurable to her mixed up sensibilities. And as I get deeper into the dynamism of seduction and enchantment, I come to my senses. Yet the gravitation is so charming.

I can see Pilipo dozing off maybe because the music is so soothing. Bunny Wailer's song Mellow Mood takes me back to those moments in the backstreets of Kitale town walking about, I would stagger and stumble entering a joint before another and I would find satisfaction in Mbuni ,Villa and Makuti. I would have ecstatic moments. English football would excite us. I felt homely and natural--sated and manly-- prowling and sampling, dancing and eating 'mbuzi choma' and the music was mellow and memorable. Dj Ken would rock us to euphoria. In those days we were happy--I was alive.

After a while, I feel calm and tipsy amidst the freshness and allure of the new facade. Celine's timely call calms my nerves-- what a feeling! corrupted by music and liquor-- braced by novelty and freedom and as the Elizabethan story spins on and on and on the history set; and her mercurial and capricious attitude permeates my mood-- I calm down my fears and hopes shrouded in the eerie job I am hunting that inspires sacrifice than hope .Yet I can feel her love and the feeling completes my life. And, as this thought of seeing but not seeing--enjoying but not enjoying transports me away to utopia, fantasy and meditations; Uncertain ambitions frighten me, I shout at Pilipo that I am off:

"Let me tuck in now. Oh sleep transports me to slumberland."

In the morning of my departure to Nairobi, Pilipo wakes me up. He has already prepared breakfast. It is Monday but Pilipo is not going to school. The teachers are on strike. In fact they had been on strike the last couple of weeks and I am surprised how easily I had forgotten about that. Over the breakfast, he tells me that some of the teachers are traitors. They go to school to teach when they are supposed to be on strike.

"They hover around some are hungry and desperate, some, idle and myopic traitors betraying comrades and as I grow tired, sick, disillusioned and disenchanted I think of going far away--further from these traitors, these cowards. Yet I smell a fragrance from afar, this flower, this gem and I am hesitant and bewitched by prospects of seeing her severally. The duty calls for my presence but this future, these moments can be improved and improvised and in those days seen laminated in romance I would risk all and give all because I must truly live this life." I smile at his poetic language. He is a smooth operator who knows how to speak ordinary speech in a poetic way. A few minutes later, he sees me off on Lugulu market. In the bus back to Nairobi I think a lot on his ideas and Nietzsche's ideas on life and religion. I will have to buy those books in bookshops all over the city.

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Chapter ten

Men rise from one ambition to another: they seek to secure themselves against attack, and then they attack others. (Niccolo Machiavelli)

Narati Primary School was a famous school in Brigadia because it had existed for a long time and had been a place of enlightenment for a majority of people in the locale. Its significance arouse from the fact that it was the first colonial primary school to be established in the area immediately after independence in 1963. The school, with three protracted blocks made of bricks and cement hosted over 600 pupils who poured in every morning, save for Saturdays and Sundays when few if any of the pupils in standard eight would come for extra tuition. The school sat next to a rough road surrounded by villages on either side of its compound.

It was a Monday morning. The chill that detained the breeze wafting about masked the dusty roads and dry leaves that lay still in anticipation. From a distance children walked hastily, there images burgeoning as they drew nearer the gate of the school. Further inside the compound, a man stood still, a cane in his hand; watching them carefully. One of the pupils saw him and broke into a nippy ran towards the entrance. Others fell in synch and the whole group was now running. Further behind them, other pupils sensing danger also came running. And soon the whole file of students strewn across the expansive road was running.

The man had been early today. He wanted to teach his lessons early enough before attending to other less pressing but more exciting engagements. He was a handsome man: dark, tall and fat and bore a jutting belly that left him looking better off than he really was. Not that he was a poor man. He was the headmaster of the school and that had given him opportunities to make extra money through tendering kickbacks and other forms of discount available when purchasing material for school projects, when footing recurrent expenditure, or even in rare occasions that he would organise a fundraising for the school.

After punishing a few of the pupils for late coming, the man disappeared into a classroom at the end of a singular block. The sun rays began to gain ground and the school compound filled up with small young bodies in red and white uniforms chattering excitedly, scampering and trotting about. Soon they were organised into clusters by school prefects and cleaning of the latrines and picking of litter commenced. After about an hour, the man emerged from the class, and walked briskly to his office waving to other teachers at a distance, and they would wave back meekly: always flashing phony smiles in the process. The pupils eventually got settled in classes and the usual learning activities began. In the staffroom three teachers were busy marking pupils' work amidst their usual chit chat. Conspicuously, a chair sat unoccupied in the far corner from the door.

"She is obviously running late today." Alice, one of the teachers remarked inertly.

"Yeah...it is a Monday morning. You don't want to imagine how busy her weekend has been, do you?"

Mbone remarked.

Agnes, who was busy writing notes, stopped writing for a moment and stared at Mbone for what seemed like a stretched time. Mbone kept quiet, no longer sure of what to say. They never liked her presence in the office because she was ever critical of what her colleagues would say. She was known to be a devoted Christian around the school.

"Why can't we discuss something else, colleagues?" She muttered hesitantly. The room grew quiet and the air uncomfortable. But it was not long before she came in. The women in the room pretended not to have noticed her entrance but they all stole glances at her from time to time. She was dressed in what would pass for a dark sarong and a multicoloured chemise. The blouse was well cut at the bosom exposing her large sized breasts. She was an attractive woman by any standards: voluptuous and charming.

Settling behind her locker heavily, she garbled, "G'morning guys?"

There was a subdued murmur from others which passed as greeting anyhow; but soon, the place was quiet.

As Ruth settled on her bureau, her mind was in turmoil. Her husband had been around since Friday but he had told her, he would be departing in the course of the day to Nairobi. She loved her husband but he no longer keyed her up. He was a busy man who would only come home once a month to be with his family. They had two children and the family was ostensibly stable. Ruth's husband was a humble man, easy going, pleasant and sociable. He loved going to church in company of his family and was among the very few men who would walk by his wife, sometimes hand in hand—with children trotting in the rear on the Brigadia market as they made their way to the Makutano church.

But Ruth was not utterly happy in her marriage. She was mostly lonely. And because she was a beautiful woman, she drew admirers often, mostly male who prized her figure and looks. Some of them would be brave enough to let her know but most kept it to themselves. She loved herself and people loved her body. She enjoyed the attention she received from men: an assortment of men. And as she sat behind the desk in the staffroom marking pupils' work she wondered why she never felt the same as she used to in the arms of her husband. Was it possible that she now resented her husband?

Her thoughts were rudely interrupted.

"Ruth, how are you this morning?"

"I am fine; thank you."

The headmaster shook her hand and the grasp lingered a bit longer that the other teachers in the staffroom noticed.

"You should come pick some books from my office in the course of the day."

"I will." She answered unsure of herself.

The man walked out of the room and the sound of his footsteps receded with his exit.

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Chapter eleven

Curiosity is the lust of the mind (Thomas Hobbes)

Wakachala sat still on his new couch that had been shipped in the previous day and smiled. His fortunes were rising faster than he had expected. He was only 35 but now with a beautiful wife—the envy of the neighbours— beautiful children in expensive private schools, a good expansive four-bed roomed house and a good government job in the city. He worked as an accountant in the ministry of education and recently he had completed his doctorate degree program at the University of Nairobi. He moved tentatively about the house inspecting the furniture that had been fixed not long ago. Stepping on the rug, he thought the house needed a new one. Ruth had mentioned the idea the previous night but the idea had not sunk till now. He thought he was lucky to marry a woman with such a refined taste— a woman full of class and beauty.

Ngrrr!!!! Ngrrrrr!!! Ngrrrr!!!! Ngrrrrr!!!

He was roughly startled by the vibration of his phone. He moved a few paces to the centre of the living room and picked it up from the small table.

"Hallo?"

"Hey, how is the going man? Long time no see!"

"Heey...Pilipo. How are you? I must admit, this is quite a surprise."

"Yeah. I had been away in Sudan and now am back. I've been trying to catch up with them boys in the neighbourhood. And you can't believe the bitter gossip' am gathering, man!"

"Hahahaha!"

Wakachala couldn't help laughing. He had known Pilipo for 20 years now. They went to the same primary and secondary school and only parted in college. But it seems his friend had never changed a bit. He was a very curious man.

"Tell me about it!"

"Man! Let us meet at Ambassador. There is also something about you that you must know."

"You are scaring me now, man! What is it? You know I am scheduled to travel in a few hours?"

"This is more important, believe me." Pilipo said in a solemn voice. Then added,

"I will be there in an hour's time."

After Pilipo had ended the call, Wakachala sat for long minutes on the divan thinking and debating with himself whether to ignore Pilipo's pleas or to honour them. He did not know whether to trust Pilipo's words or not. Pilipo was a funny man. And he remembered stories Pilipo would put together to entertain other students when they were in school. One story involved Jack rescuing their favourite teacher in high school from a murderous pack of villagers who had caught him having an affair with a married woman in her house.

One day while at Naitiri Boys High School, a student came running and stumbling on beds shouting that comrades should wake up and go rescue 'Wamrich". At first many students thought he was sick, but the guy persisted and didn't sound like he was joking. So Pilipo took it up to organise a platoon of boys who would go to the rescue of their teacher.

Pilipo had gone into other dormitories gathering boys he thought were militant enough and in twenty minutes he had twenty strong boys under his command. They had sneaked out of the school and headed straight for the Nyange village that was said to host their beleaguered teacher. They were all armed with clubs and knives. They approached the village, then the house, as directed by one of them who had mapped out the operation. From a distance they could see a house full of people buzzing with an eerie excitement. Pilipo had then ordered them to storm the house and catch all those men and women interrogating their teacher by surprise. So they had stormed the house and just before entering one of them had shouted:

"His students are coming! Guys get ready to fight or run!"

But no one it seemed was prepared for a fight. So they all scampered in various directions leaving behind a weary and dismayed man whom the students were quick to recognize as Mr. Wamrich. They had also found hidden behind the curtain that partitioned the single roomed house into working area and bedroom, a woman at the centre of the conflict. She was an attractive woman in a simple dress, and it seemed she had not really been ruffled as much as the man had. She wore a diffident look of an innocent lover and she didn't look particularly shaken by the dramatic turn of events. And as the students commanded their teacher rather politely to escort him to his school residence, he did not protest or even answer in affirmative. He merely rose to his feet and led the way. And Pilipo, later, would insist that he tried to take the woman along but she wouldn't move. She wanted to remain. So, they had accompanied Mr. Wamrich up to the school gate and before letting him enter the school compound, they had given him a piece of advice. And at this point Pilipo would laugh hysterically whenever retelling the story. And he would say,

"Well, I told him, Sir. That was very heroic of you, but as you keep telling us, sometimes it is not good to be a hero especially if you want to live a long life. Heroes die young and more often idiotically. "

The teacher had just about mumbled a thank you before tottering through the gate much to the surprise of the watchmen who could not tell whether the people outside the gate were students or just his friends, nor did they bother to ask Mr. Wamrich what had happened to him. Maybe they knew before hand, maybe they didn't. Pilipo and his gang had slipped back to school through the fence and swiftly tucked into their beds, all smiles, and they would tell and re-tale their adventures for many days after. No one among their audience, including Wakachala, did verify the story but in class the very next day, they saw Mr. Wamrich bearing bandages on his face. They didn't need further proof. That had been twenty years ago.

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Chapter twelve

What most men desire is a virgin who is a whore (Shakespeare)

When the headmaster came back to the office, he found that Ruth had gone to class and there was only Mbone working from her desk in the staffroom. She was somewhat surprised to see him back so early but he merely smiled at her. They all monitored his movements it seemed. It was just a pity that his office was annexed from the same building that housed the staffroom, and that he had to pass through the staffroom on his way to his office. He did not speak to her but gently walked to his office. There was only one thing on his mind—Ruth. He was in love with that woman and it pained him that she was already married with children to some man in the city. They had had their moments already and he was sure she felt the same way. She was the sweetest woman he had ever known—far much better than his wife. She was refined, funny, witty, adventurous and above all good in bed. Before their affair, he often felt that his sexual life was dying. But presently he felt energized and alive.

He recalled what he told her the very first time they met on a date and smiled. He sunk in his chair and let lose his legs on top of the desk before him. He leaned back on the recliner and thoughts ran riot in his mind. Before he met her all his life he had been searching for a magical moment when time would freeze and emotions would run over. Such an instant, as he would picture it, his foot would stop mid-air; his mouth agape, his stomach empty and eyes dilating, and he would take in the breathtaking image of the woman of his fantasy. The magic would fill the void in his life: the loneliness. This had become his fantasy, his obsession. Not that he lacked friends and lovers, but they made his life even less exciting. They were all the same; fascinating at the onset, demanding after a while and utterly boring in the course of time. Maybe he had a social or a psychological problem .Perhaps, he was an introvert, or like someone had advised him, he needed a different exposure.

When he first saw her, he had been smitten by her sheer beauty. This was uncommon. He had been held spellbound in a trance, hardly conscious of other teachers and parents around him. All his life he had dreamt of that moment when he would lose himself in a sweet surrender to his yearnings and passions. And when it had struck him unawares, he had sighed and trembled like an never before. He thought he was sweltering all over his body but he never bothered to check. But the moment had been short-lived. In a flash it was over. The object of his desire had gone. He wanted to approach her but he wouldn't— he couldn't. He had failed to take his chances. Later as he would confess, his heart couldn't take it. He felt like dying, like a coward and indeed he was.

This flow of thoughts was thwarted by a soft knock on the door.

"Come in." He said

She walked in deliberately and gracefully, then stood hesitantly at the edge of his table .She gave him a triumphant smile. As she put on her little body language charms, she kept her eyes on him for long periods and they held their gazes for a while quietly and calculatingly.

"He will be travelling today." She muttered softly.

She read the wide grin that he flashed at her and she knew he was excited by the turn of events. She knew he had missed her deeply.

"At last some good news."

"8.00 pm would be the right time."

"I will be there, "he said softly then added, "I hope you are sure because it can be too soon and anything can happen on the first day. Shit happens!"

"I miss you; but you know best. I can't say for sure but he told me he would be travelling at noon today."

"I see. I will see what to do then. Please pick those books from the shelf below. We don't want to have other teachers fabricating all manner of theories when they see you walking out of my office empty handed." He sounded concerned this time round.

Ruth picked up two copies of the Oxford English Dictionary and walked back into the staffroom shutting the door behind her.

When Ruth joined the school and on the very first day noticed the amorous reaction of head teacher towards her, she guessed intuitively that he will be infatuated with her and wished that it would not turn ruinous to relationships she was hoping to build at work and to her marriage. She had called her husband and told him about it. He had been concerned too but he trusted her too much to have any doubts that she might eventually give in to advances of any man. He told her that he trusted her and that she would be okay. He had advised her to tell him from the very beginning that she was a married, religious and faithful woman. And this, she did. But the man never gave up on her. He kept trying over and over until eventually Ruth had agreed in spite of herself that they grow to be 'just friends'. It had worked well at first, and he had even called on her when the husband was around. He came with his wife and the youngest child, and this had completely won the trust of her husband in their friendship. But it is this experience that would change how Ruth fathomed love and happiness.

Ruth resumed her seat behind her desk and placed the two books on the edge of her desk. She sat back and relaxed. The excitement of having him tonight was starting to build, and she felt her blood warming up. She sat for long time thinking and in her fantasy she began to write and brain storm. True love is between friends and blood relatives. Relationship between a man and a woman can never be termed as true love unless they began off as friends, or they became friends along the way. Romantic love is basically a fantasy--an illusion of sorts. At this point she wondered whether either of her relationships with her husband and her boss would qualify as true love. She thought for a moment then resumed her scribbling.

If a woman falls in love with a man, the man pulls away, or fails to love her back and vice visor. It is all about ego and conquest. Or, simply put, a game of self evaluation in terms of how many people can you get if you wanted to(for men and some women) and, how much can someone spend on you to show your worth (for women). Good sex can keep some women tied to a man and some men tied to some women. Men basically want women who can scream in bed, moan and beg to prove their manhood. Women want men who can make them reach orgasms and who can appreciate their bodies, beauty and personality. Sex cannot, on its own, make a man love a woman. Men basically don't feel so impressed by their sexual prowess than by their ego to just conquer some pride. A man would rather seduce and marry a very proud and highly sought after women than a woman who is the best in bed. She thought again for sometime then went ahead to quote from a novel she was presently reading. Leo Tolstoy once said that the worst place for a man is the bedroom. Men, however muscular or prolific, can never always satisfy a woman or themselves. A man will love a woman who makes him feel very comfortable in his skin. A woman will probably love a man who simply appreciates her and takes care of her. A man, however in love, can cheat on his girlfriend or wife with a woman he deems more attractive just to satisfy his ego. A woman might not. And like De Sade wrote, before he became the father of sadism, risky sexual behaviour is what brings the most satisfaction to many men. Whether it is cheating on their wives with younger girls or, making love to other men's wives, they find more satisfaction in such risky behaviours. The same thing probably applies to women. It is true as the famous country music song goes, 'too many times, married men still think they are single'.

Ruth's musing was soon interrupted by the kitchen maids who were serving teachers tea. She shelved her note book and rose to serve herself a cup of tea and groundnuts.

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Chapter thirteen

It is perfectly monstrous the way people go about nowadays saying things against one, behind one's back, that are absolutely and entirely true. (Oscar Wilde)

Pilipo had decided to go personally to Nairobi to understand why his pay had not been adjusted seven months after submitting his masters' degree to his employer. He had been at the TSC early, after picking up the pass at the ground floor tellers and assigned to meet the HR officer on the second floor, he had crept up the stairs on to the podium wing and ushered myself in. He had settled on a cosy chair after a desk at the entrance to the office and smiled. The brown, Kamba (or Kikuyu) lady behind the desk had smiled back at him, and without even saying hi, picked his pass. She saw clearly that he was there for a pay upgrade and smiled again before catching his gaze.

"What is this about?" She had eagerly asked while fingering a log book.

"I did receive a letter of acknowledgement for my masters' degree early this year but so far no grade or pay adjustment."

"When did you graduate?"

"Last year," he had responded.

She had been on her feet and soon had returned with a register. She had fumbled through the pages against his TSC number in vain.

"Please check your name here," she had pushed the book towards him. He had run through the names of people who had submitted their papers for upgrading and marvelled at the number of submitted degrees by former P1 Teachers. They must have been over 1200, on the waiting list. Eventually he had found his name, and noted that about 70 people had submitted their masters' degrees for the upgrade that year alone. He had showed her the name and she had picked the book, looked at it and shook her head.

"I am afraid you are on the second phase of upgrading. We are still handling the first phase that ends on January 8th 2014."

He had protested saying his friends who graduated with him had been upgraded and this had disappointed the woman because she had gone to consult another guy a few desks further and from their muttering, He could hear the man telling her "wacha akupe majina yao, we will undo the grades ndio asilete shida." Pilipo knew all was not well.

She had came back and told him to give her the names of those friends. It would have been stupid and malicious to give them names in Pilipo's thoughts.

"I have forgotten," Pilipo had said.

She had sat back and smiled. "Just go home and wait, by next year Feb you should be okay," she had said with finality and Pilipo was soon off, not disappointed but relieved. He had taken the next bus available to Kitale, and had been lucky to get the last seat on Easy couch. It was at the tail end of this journey that the tragedy was set in motion; after connecting from Nairobi to Kitale, to Brigadia, he had met Agnes, a colleague of Ruth, who had told him about her suspicions about the affair between Ruth and her boss. Agnes was well aware of the long friendship between Wakachala and Pilipo. She trusted him. Pilipo had had sex with her several times well conscious that she was a married woman; their relationship had grown cold in the last few years though and he could see in her eyes that she really wanted him. Maybe out of her preoccupation with the Ruth affair, he was not sure but he did welcome the challenge. That evening they met at the Ambassador hotel and compensated for the lost time before Agnes made it home to her husband. Pilipo had then called Wakachala about the matter soon after.

The Ambassador bar lay at the heart of Brigadia market. It was the most popular joint and therefore it was the meeting point of the few people who had political, commercial and social influence in the district .It consisted of an L shaped building fronted by butchery and an adjacent hotel. The front door gave way to the bar with old but comfortable couches lying on either side of three adjacent tables. The isle joined the bar that stretched on both sides, and that was laced with long stools. When Wakachala arrived, he was quick to spot Pilipo despite the many years they had been out of touch. Pilipo had grown fat and muscular but that was to be expected. The restaurant was almost empty and Wakachala knew only too well that it was too early for serious patrons of the club. He settled next to Pilipo on a high stool sighing heavily much to the amusement of the waiter.

"You must be tired." The bar woman said.

"You're damn right!" he muttered," I need a cold beer for that matter. "

"Hey Pilipo! " He shouted patting him on the shoulder

"You don't look so happy to see me mate!" he said softly.

Pilipo did not stir; he went on seeping his Coca-Cola, while staring blankly at the space above the counter.

The barman served Wakachala two cold Guinness and left. Wakachala was quick to fill his glass with the frothing beer, took a deep gulp before slamming the glass on the table.

"What!" Pilipo exclaimed. "How long has it been since the last bout?"

"Bout?" What do you mean by that?"

"This kind of drinking is pathological like a bout of diarrhoea to me."

Wakachala refilled the glass and downed it again before turning round to Pilipo. He eyed him for a while and noticed he was not in his element.

"I think you might not like what I have to tell you," Pilipo said reluctantly, "it is about Ruth."

Wakachala sat still for a while sipping stubbornly at the drink. He beckoned the waiter and ordered three beers for his friend and two for himself. He hadn't wanted to drink heavily on this day but he had a feeling he would need more alcohol in his system for details he immediately feared touched on his lovely wife.

"I hope you have the details and the plan," he said.

Pilipo nodded.

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Chapter fourteen

Man does not control his own fate. The women in his life do that for him. (Grouncho Marx)

The night was cold and dark. From a distant, the cricking sound of insects mingled with croaking sounds of frogs would be heard rising louder and then falling. Sometimes an occasional cry of anguish, a hearty laughter or screeching sound of vehicles far away on the highways would snap in the calm air punctuating the occasional silence that would arise, then, the barking of dogs would begin. Almost every night this pattern would repeat itself but only people who were keen to note them noticed. On this night, the barking of the dogs began slowly and intermittently, slowly rising intensely and systematically into a crescendo. As Ruth listened, she heard the distant roar of a vehicle engine zeroing in on her home and she smiled. Soon he was emerging from his vehicle, confident and expectant. She motioned him in the secrecy of the night to come in. He obeyed .He was before long seated on the coach, taking in the sophistication and beauty of the house.

"Are you hungry?" She asked, "I have either chicken or fish to serve."

She drew closer to him the added; "Or you would like some tea?"

"Oh my dear, I want you; but plus chicken would be superb," he whispered. She eased into the kitchen to prepare the meal while the man sat comfortably listening to the soft music that was playing on the stereo. It was the voice of Crystal Gayle, one of his favourite country music artists. Her voice and the enchantment of the beats brought him childhood memories. He pictured himself young again playing football with home boys. His mind was brought to the present when the song ended and California Hotel, another of the old school American song rented the air. At some point in the song the singer was saying that they kept stabbing it with the knives but they just couldn't kill the beast and the man remembered an incident that happened when still young. It was back in June 1975, on one of the weekends, his brother Amos and he got lucky. They stumbled upon an antelope in a thicket on their farm a few metres from their homestead. The hunters must have lost its itinerary on their chase, as he could hear frantic and excited voices in the neighbourhood. The animal had looked at him with tired eyes, probably begging for mercy but in his juvenile excitement he would land the fatal blow by hitting it on the head with a big stone. They then had dragged the game home to their simba and skinned it. Amos had chopped it up on a pan and had managed to boil it on a stove that before then, only used to prepare tea on weekday mornings before going to school. He had bolted the door to keep off intruders, but when they had served, their father, who was apparently passing by their simba, must have heard noises in the hut and knocked, calling Amos' name. He had to jump out of the house through the window, before creeping round the house to meet his father and tell him Amos was not around. Luckily, the father sent him to buy some animal salt and forgot the whole thing. The antelope meat tasted very delicious and they kept some for supper that day. He was then ten years old. Hunting in those days was the order of the day for boys and the village was fairly forested. A neighbour's son Jotherm Mabele had four dogs, they had several dogs too. In fact, every home in the neighbourhood had a dog, and sometimes they would gather them and go hunting. Hunting was fun especially when they would go back home in the evenings with a catch. But many times again, the boys would go home empty handed and some other times like on that day, they would just get lucky. He realised he was feeling a little tensed as he must felt on that day when his father had almost ruined their sumptuous party. He pulled from the reverie upon the entry of Ruth into the living room. She was ready to serve. They ate in silence enjoying the delicacy of the meal. The tension in the room was tantalizing. Their eyes would meet and linger for long then longer moments then they would smile and kiss widely. The taste of chicken mingled with the taste of love on their tongues was exhilarating.

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Chapter fifteen

To live alone is the fate of all great souls. (Arthur Schopenhauer)

Lugulu area lay high and rugged. In the rainy seasons it would be colonised by a network of muddy pathways and semi permanent houses but the roads and the area would turn dusty and rancid in the dry spells. It was not an exciting place but it was calm and almost exotic in its naivety. The language that was common on Lugulu market was Bukusu; although the area was populated by a concoction of ethnic dialects, Tachoni, Maragoli among other Luhya sub tribes. The market itself was divided in half by a busy highway that stretched from Kitale town to Webuye. The road was the main artery of the market, supplying goods and people for trade. It also brought about for the moment and sometimes even permanently fresh blood and minds.

Among the many men who chanced to work in this locality was Pilipo. He would be seen on the market every so often lonesome, or in company of his colleagues and friends infrequently emerging from some bar or entering one. He was a tall man, muscular, broad shouldered and handsome. To many villagers he was a quiet, almost arrogant man. But to those who knew him, he was cheerful, funny and always curious. He lived alone a few metres from the market. He was sociable alright, and would be seen with beautiful women from time to time. Whether they were his lovers or relatives or classmates, or even just friends: no one except himself knew.

The house that he occupied lay hidden on the other side of a grove along the road that stretched further after a bend and many of the usual travellers on the dirty gravel road would pass by gingerly and swiftly because the environment was cooler than normal and a bit edgy. The road wound its way downhill towards Kituni High School where it joined other road networks. And because of the tall trees that surrounded his residence, the environment was always cooler than the area up the road. The coolness fooled him sometimes especially in the morning when the sunrays would fail to reach the side of the house that hid his bedroom and he would imagine it was still dark when it would be late in the morning. So he had learned to trust the alarm clock of his mobile phone.

On that momentous day, Pilipo awoke with a start. He had had a series of dreams that he cared less to remember. He wondered whether it was somehow connected with his rather humbling experience the previous day. He had grown weary of typing and thought he should catch some fresh air. Then he had felt like eating boiled maize but realised it was drizzling and he couldn't reach the market. An idea had struck his mind and he thought he should buy a few pieces of green maize from a neighbour. So he had sauntered to his compound, and upon hearing noises in the kitchen, had drawn nearer and announced his presence. A girl had emerged and he had been quick to brandish a hundred shillings note, saying he wished to buy few pieces of green maize if at all was possible. She had disappeared inside, and must have consulted her mom because she had appeared at the door and told him, politely yet firmly that she wouldn't sell him maize: that she couldn't but instead he should just go back and she would send one of her boys to get him some pieces. Pilipo was used to buying everything and didn't know how to react. He thought he had murmured a thank you, but again it was drizzling, the voice must have been drowned by the droning sound of the rain drops. Later as he sat in his living room chewing away at the hot boiled maize, he had felt humbled and a little embarrassed by her gesture.

He pulled a blanket over his face in an attempt to recapture the last moment of sleep but he conceded in spite of himself that it was over. He had to wake up and go to work. He looked about himself trying to take in the morning fragrance, but a heavy acrid smell hung unexciting and stubbornly in the air. He felt blank and hopeless for a while and cursed his situation. He did not know why he felt so inadequate but the feeling always enveloped him in the morning. Perhaps, he needed a new job, or maybe he needed new friends. He worked as a school teacher at Lugulu Girls High School and as was his routine he would make it to school just in time for his first lesson, which if it were on some of those unlucky days would be among the early ones. Not that going to work early was a problem, the long assembly hours students took on parade left him and other teachers handling the first lesson on specific days with less time to teach. He moved away from the bed and got dressed. His bedroom was not heavily furnished. It had a bed, a metallic box--where he kept his documents and some clothes; it had also a table, a wall mirror and a series of ropes suspended high above him where he hung the rest of his clothes. The house had three rooms with an extra space for a kitchen and bathroom. It also had a flash toilet that was out of use and he had never bothered to repair. Conceivably, he did not have time or enough money for such or he knew he was there for a few seasons, so, he would not bother. But, at any rate, there was a pit latrine outside which suited him fine. He loved dressing decently but not spectacularly. And as he moved about the house brushing his teeth and reading-through his appearance in the mirror, he thought he felt a sad longing for something more. He would pause to think about it but the ache would melt into a desire to have company in the house.

Pilipo, now twenty-eight years old, often thought of himself highly. And, every so often, did not seem to fathom why he was not making it big as he would have liked to in his life. He was still not married or engaged and was not planning to. His theory was that most men just did not marry—they found themselves married. In fact he was living with a woman whom he would not object if she decided to become his wife. But he knew she was not the type. It was obvious to any person who interacted with him that he was an intelligent and competent man. He was a thoughtful, ever philosophical and was also workaholic in the manner he would go about his business and arguments especially in meetings and in his classes. In his graduate studies, his classmates thought he was very sharp and erudite. And a funny thing, even to himself; many of the women he dated found him polite and 'sweet' which flattered him a great deal. Not that he loved attention or flattery—far from it. He was by all means a humble man just trying to survive, and survive he did with big ambitions and courage. In the recent days he had taken to working late in school and he reckoned that was the only way he would cope with the demands of his job and his education.

After his morning assignment, he sat behind his desk logged on to Facebook on his phone—a Nokia X3--and read some of the status updates and comments before turning onto the unmarked essays that lay still on his desk .He was a man in touch with modernity and the current trends in the world of politics, technology and information. He often thought of his situation as a school teacher exciting and at the same time restrictive. He was a teacher of English grammar and literature and had always had a soft spot for literature as far back as he cared to remember. He wanted to teach students about truths though—theoretical truths, about the true nature of life, about past thinkers--Yet he knew that such a scope was too abstract and superfluous for high school students .And probably that might have explained his quest for a doctorate degree with an aim to teach at college or University level where students were mature and ready for such doctrines. And as he thought of these he looked at the pending task that lay in waiting .At the edge of his desk—a novel by VS Naipul that he was to read and analyse as part of his University course work. He had always thought of himself as a philosopher: a modern one, and true to his perception, he always impressed friends and his professors with his arguments full of quotations from famous scholars and thinkers. After hitting the shower, brushing his teeth and getting dressed, he locked the door before him and made his way to work. The road was cold and muddy. He liked it cold though. Heat tormented him to discomfiture. He thought the day looked auspicious enough as he sauntered into the compound and into the staff room before settling on his desk and work.

"Hey Pilipo, there is someone here to see you." Leila called out from the far end of the Staff Room

"I'll be there in a moment." He answered

He thought he knew who it was .It had to be some girl. This was growing into a habit and he felt he should put an end to it. Ladies dropping by unannounced--asking for him more often than not with an aim to extort money from him in the pretext of fare or lunch; sometimes for other more romantic reasons. Not that he disliked women-- especially beautiful ones but he felt some were taking their habits too far. At the gate he found Brenda waiting for him. He was sure Brenda was a married woman because few months before in town, Bungoma, along the dusty caked main street; sauntering about with an aim to be the first on the queue into the KCB bank, Pilipo had spotted her, she had looked so familiar that Pilipo had known from the onset that he must have been his girlfriend some years back. He had tried to figure out which year they dated in vain but she was approaching him anyway from the opposite direction flanked by her husband, brother or maybe boyfriend—he was not sure. She had not really changed much from the earlier image that Pilipo had in mind of her. Her eyes had quickly darted from her man to the streets then to him, and they had momentarily acknowledged each other non-verbally. The man must have noticed his glance because he had quickly stared at him for long seconds and before criss-crossing each other called out.

"Waah Pilipo!"

Pilipo had stopped and turned to face him.

"Hunikumbuki!" "Ni Caxtone— kumbuka high school...Kilima?"

He sincerely could not figure him out and he was thinking maybe he was mistaking him for one of his brothers who had also been in the same school.

"Yaani hukumbuki Nyongesa dere wa Jack?"

By mentioning his sir name, Pilipo made him out. They had moved to the edge of the road for some space and he had been quick to introduce Pilipo to his wife (as it had turned out) but she had not been amused.

She had half-heartedly stretched her hand towards Pilipo's for the handshake, in the manner to show displeasure and she had been so hesitant that he had ended up shaking her fingers. Then to avoid his gaze she had excused herself, she had to make a call to her brother and she was soon moving away from them. After the 'call' she had shouted at her husband that she still had to buy something at someplace—they couldn't hear her muttering well, and she had been off. Pilipo had been amused and this had forced Caxton to ask what was causing his amusement.

"Your wife man," he had gestured, "why is she so shy?"

"She is usually not like this;" Caxton had sounded a bit annoyed," I wonder what is wrong with her today!"

The sun had been rising and the heat of the day building up. They had walked aimlessly towards the nearest pub. It was early for a drink but the pub was open anyway. They had settled on a few drinks and were soon chatting away the high school memories. Later, as he sat in a matatu, the town unfolding before him slowly with as many people trotting by as those indolent and the heat of the day hanging mid air, foul-laden with traces of sweat, dust and rotting fragrance of the weary fruits and vegetables, heavily scorched by the midday sun. Familiar sounds rent the air as touts and hawkers clamoured for their clients. Pilipo thought about the incident wondering why Brenda had behaved in such a manner. It has been an ostensibly hectic day full of waiting and filling forms. As they got set to leave he speculated on what opportunities Bungoma town offered, where people were slipshod and gentle and life seem to flow cautiously: where tomorrow seemed far away that any effort to examine it plunged him into an aura of abysmal meditations. They in time had departed as the skies slackened their restrain on the wet clouds, heading home but the beautiful image of Brenda had lingered in Pilipo's mind.

Now Brenda was here again to see him. She had somehow found out from Caxton his phone number and his place of work and traced him to an official date a few weeks later. And as he talked to Brenda at the gate he thought she looked really nice, vulnerable and appetizing. She wore a white tightly fitting t-shirt and a dark miniskirt that revealed her voluptuous build. Pilipo felt his blood warm up .

"You look nice." He said betraying his excitement.

"Really! How come you no longer call or text? If I had not made the effort to come and see you; would you have bothered to keep in touch?" She asked feigning disappointments.

"'Am sorry...I have been busy. You know me; if I was idle I wouldn't have hesitated to take you out for a meal or shopping?"

"Alright...sorry to bother you though;' am on my way to Webuye town and just wanted to say hallo to my dear friend." She muttered downcast unsure of her statement.

Pilipo did not believe her but smiled as all the same. He had been seeing her for a month now and she had not been a disappointment. They met on Facebook, became friends for a while five years before and lost touch, but at that time she was just about to join university and did not possess a phone. Coincidentally, he happened to teach in her former school but as fate would have it she had completed her high school studies a year before his arrival. They walked in silence and he felt her anxiety whenever he would meet her gaze. And he remembered why she had to see him. He had made a promise to help her publish her poems and had forgotten all about it.

"Oh! Before I forget, I did send your poems to Mr. Kinyanjui and am yet to receive feedback from him. Be sure that when I do I will let you know.''

He lied and as he watched a smile of satisfaction register on her face he was pleased. They walked a few steps further and she could see that he was supposed to get to back to work.

After they had parted Pilipo did not feel like going back to work. He felt again the longing he had had in the morning and this time he did not wish for company but freedom. He looked about and the skies were still—no signs of imminent rain. It was approaching noon and he sweltering. The landscape looked ugly and the tarmac road cruel. Yet drivers, riders and pedestrians did not seem to bother. Pilipo felt out of the ordinary for being so observant and meticulous. He felt laden with paltry responsibilities that had saddled him with latent sadness and as he thought about this, he did not feel in control of his thoughts as if possessed by a demon or under a powerful spell of a magician. Such unusual bouts of epiphany were novel to him and as he flagged down a boda boda to take him to town; he did not know why he wanted to be in town at that point in time. He had heard stories of people going mad because of stress but he did not feel he was frazzled at work nor did he feel stressed by monetary issues.

The ride was chilling but he felt dissimilar and bored. At some point on the journey the rider wanted to know his destination and as if in a trance he said Camp David and in a matter of minutes he was off the bike into the gates of Camp David. Within no time he had settled under the shade outside the Restaurant. The waiter took her time; moving from the far end of the perimeter wall that surrounded the establishment where she was supposedly serving a border with drinks or rather a meal in some of the cottages that lay side by side facing the main entry on his side. And as she made her way past the small gate that gave some privacy to the boarding section of the hotel away from the eating and drinking area he thought she looked tired and fat. Maybe she was sick or pregnant. He had learned from his association with women about the effects of pregnancy on women attitude and mobility and he did not feel different about this one. She wore a black vest on top of a white blouse and a blue skirt probably made of jeans and Pilipo wondered if the hotel had limitation or some code of dressing that obliged her to wear such clothes--she obviously looked miserable in them.

"Hi... What can I serve you today?" Pilipo was surprised to learn that she remembered him—or somewhat that he had been there before. It had been two weeks from the day he had seen her. This was the third time he had visited the hotel and he would remember admitting to a friend with some regret the first time he was there and rued the lost opportunity that he merely dreamt of now. He had been offered a scholarship to go study in the United Kingdom but had turned it down. He had his reasons at that time that he thought were compelling. He had just enrolled for his doctorate degree in literature, had paid the full tuition fees; not to mention—he was in love then with Fil, as he fondly referred to her, and she was a sweet girl.

"I would have Furaha Vodka and lemon juice."

As he told her this; his gaze shifted to the hotel kitchen where he saw a man grilling meat. He thought he felt famished and suddenly he wanted to savour the roast beef. But he did not make any effort to place such an order. The waiter served him and Pilipo did not remember to order for a meal as well. In the recent past he had developed a habit of thinking about those moments that brought him greater pleasure and satisfaction. Moments when he was like a free bird flying without perching. And such memories brought him nostalgia but he revelled in the nostalgia--poignant thoughts bringing strange pleasure that was different and better. His mind abhorred boredom and many people were obviously boring especially at work place .He had also noted that repetitiveness of any sort was boring—even seeing the same people every day was nauseating to him. He felt like running away. Moving to new places, seeing new faces, meeting new ideas yet he hated travelling on Kenyan roads which were full of potholes and the vehicles reconditioned, crammed and suffocating inside.

He took his drink with great relish. He was not an addict but he took alcohol regularly or just—more often .Mostly to relax his mind; Sometimes for fun. He had noticed long ago that anytime he was tipsy and would listen to music he felt enchanted and as if in a trance. It was sometimes the best feeling in his entire life experience. And he loved music more than anything. He listened to music when working, when walking, when relaxing, when sleeping and most importantly when thinking. It felt strange that with his first sip he had subdued himself and his mind and he thought he knew the source of his anxiety. Two years before, immediately after his graduation he had started reading books on philosophy. Rationalism Empiricism and Metaphysics absorbed him so much that he would go about at work saying he had smoked opium. And as his reading led him deep into existentialism, Nihilism and Solipsism he was a new man full of observation ridicule and criticism. He stopped going to church because his thoughts would not agree with the preacher. Many a times the rector would merely confirm his worst fears—that nothing was what it seemed and he would see through the preacher's sermons, see the hypocrisy see the Marxist religious superstructure and would marvel at how gullible people were to sit for hours listening to lies—well tried lies--passively; not questioning but meekly reassessing themselves.

Full of ideas, he sought for clarity in a chaotic world. And the world did not have clear answers. His friends were ignorant and fearful of such knowledge and his parent denounced skeptism in religious matters and some of his sisters were superstitious and this state of affairs drove him from home. He wanted to live on his own. He thought it would be better and when he had settled in his rental house and had begun working as a banker he was vindicated. He ate what he felt like eating, did what pleased him; formed and left relationships at his own volition and sometimes even on his whims and he no longer felt the existential boredom. Life was good and short. He started going to the gym and swimming. His body gained mannish shape and women started giving him more attention. His relationships with women soared and he would become addicted to beautiful women—to sex and to alcohol. Sometimes he would use Viagra to heighten his sexual energy and this kept him entertained for a while before he learned that it might destroy his heart one day. So he stopped using boosters and with time reduced his indulgence with women. Soon after, he met Fil and he counted himself lucky to have her. She was beautiful. Medium in size; good breasts, well rounded body—not too fat and she knew how to cook--how to wash--how to speak and most importantly she would drink with him. Sometimes she would go dancing with him and she was the best he had ever had in bed: She kept him happy; so happy that he nearly proposed to have her as his wife but she had other ambitions. She was to travel to United States of America soon and he knew it was to be a matter of time. In the meantime he kept her entertained and sated. She hardly complained but she had her own secrets. She worked as nurse and her schedule was not very predictable and she would date other men but ever cautiously as she did not wish to leave Pilipo whom she found funny and strange in a fascinating way. And Pilipo knew this but he bothered not to submerge himself in her affairs too much. It seemed like he knew everything actually and sometimes when they would quarrel over a misunderstanding or a misdemeanour he would remind her that he knew her liaisons and secrets but she would not be surprised with his talk. She did not understand him well but from her knowledge of him she also could tell that he was obviously very creative. And she remembered one day when he made up a story about his relations with some girl called Sarah that had chanced upon them one Sunday. And he had comfortably introduced her as a friend and Fil to Sarah as his girlfriend. The girl had asked to leave immediately saying she was in a hurry but asked to see Pilipo on her way back. And they had disappeared for a while. When he come back he had told Doreen that she wanted him to take her to her boyfriend who happened to be his friend and with whom they had met at Pilipo's house a couple of times. And when she asked why the two lovers could not meet in his friend's house he had said that the friend was apparently a married man .At the time she had bought his story but it was not to last because Sarah eventually sought her out on Facebook and expressed her disappointments in Pilipo saying she was heartbroken and pregnant and Pilipo had abandoned her. But when accosted Pilipo denied such knowledge saying she was obviously lying and for a while she did not know who between the two to believe.

Back to reality, Pilipo knew that was going to be his last day in Webuye. They had told him they would send a car to pick him up from Webuye town. The car would then take him to their residence in Lovington estate in Nairobi. He had grown to love the town and its people. He had fallen in love with the clubs and the language too but he knew his destiny was bigger than rotting in the village. He was not sure about his research project but he was sure to call his supervisors on any of the weekdays and explain his intentions to be a way for a while. He was sure they would understand.

When finally the vehicle arrived at the facility, it was Caxton and Brenda who picked him up. Pilipo had been shocked.

"Caxton! You mean you also work for them?"

"Oh my God; Brenda!"

"Relax man. I have worked for them for ten years now. Brenda was born in the system, so she has been with them for longer."

Pilipo looked incredulously at Brenda. They ushered him in the back seat and they were off. Brenda was driving.

"I can only assume that Brenda was the one assigned to keep an eye on me?"

"Mhh...of course. You really thought I was so desperate for you; coming to see you in Lugulu so frequently, huh?"

They all smiled.

"Yeah," answered Pilipo, "but now I know better."

"Yeah...it takes time. Everything is not as it seems," Brenda cautioned him as they zoomed out of Webuye town past Kaburengu towards Eldoret.

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Chapter sixteen

The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. (Sun Tzu)

I had trudged into the house exhausted, weighed down by the day's work. There was a blackout, so, I had collapsed on the nearest chair and lazily fished my phone from my pocket. I had played a random song on the playlist and luckily it had been FC 105 by Franco. I loved the song and I was soon nodding to the beats. I needed some excitement though, I thought of calling someone, of teasing someone but I had remained indecisively, instead, I was drifting into a trance; Franco's voice caressing my soul. Then there was suddenly an sms alert on the screen and I was wondering if someone was perhaps paying back a debt via Mpesa; Or if it was someone—a woman? I stared on the screen for long minutes before finally opening to view and read the text. It was a text message from Pilipo, who wanted us to meet. He also told me to call Wakachala because his wife was messing up so that I could offer him some advice on what to do. Luckily power had been restored by the time I was through reading the text and I staggered towards the kitchen to fix myself a drink.

As I sat in my living room sipping a glass of Amarula, I thought of how our lives had evolved for the three of us. We were all now working, Pilipo was a teacher and Wakachala an accountant. I remembered the experiences we had, especially in Nairobi and felt nostalgic about it. I switched on my laptop and wore headphone. I wanted to listen to music during such moments when I would miss my past escapades and adventures in the city, Madilu system voice mingled with the intoxication of Amarula sent my mind into nostalgia.

A few days later I sought him out and we met. It was slightly past midday, Nyange Street was buzzing with people, milling about, hawking, haggling and the usual boda boda riders waiting for clients. The road was flanked by a stretching line of old buildings housing mostly salons, bars and electronic shops. Pilipo, having recently starred on Tujuane Television show on KTN, and the 2000 shillings he had been given for pretending to seduce some funny chick (maybe he wasn't pretending) had been enough to convince him that it was his turn to buy me a drink. When I arrived he was quick to welcome me. He had bought a 750 ml of Napoleon brandy commonly referred to as Mzinga in Webuye, and he had fetched a few Guinness beers to adorn his table. This was going to be fun. Napoleon, the ambitious king of France, making an appearance before my eyes! We were soon mixing away drinks and chatting loudly, he, telling me more about Tujuane girl and I, enjoying the talk. Suddenly, a boda boda had screeched to a halt and off had dismounted a very beautiful girl: good hips, nice hair. Pilipo was describing her to me in the heat of the moment. She was facing the other side, so, no details emerged quickly about her face or boobs, but Pilipo thought she was so sexy, "Watch the bum, the way it shakes, see how tight the dress is at the groin revealing her nakedness!"

And I was thinking she was no way better than my girlfriend at that time. Then suddenly, like lightning, she had turned. And I had never seen Pilipo so shocked! After all the obscene descriptions, it had turned out; the hot girl was his young sister, who apparently was studying at Masinde Mliro University! We had laughed about it afterwards.

We had been classmates in high school, a friendship founded on mischief, and we had formed a gang and named it the SWAT team. It was a three member gang with no clear objectives and what actually united us was our shared rebellious yet enlightened character. The third member was Wakachala.

I met Pilipo the next day in Webuye but I was not on time. I thought I had gone early because it was Saturday and I was bored stiff hanging around the house but as it transpired, it was not early enough. At Club Voltage in Webuye, my mind was at ease and the music was mellow. He sat at the entrance calm and mysterious like a straying lioness ready to pounce; and, as patrons and patronesses poured into the club vibrating with heavy beats of Wahu and Diamond, twinkling in the twilight, with people milling about him, shaking and bouncing off, ingratiating the spectators; some eyes glued to Samsung screens showing the English Premier league match of the day; he was almost invisible to their choosey eyes. A few ladies must surely have noticed his handsome body—the bulging muscles that were suffocating his T-Shirt, the bulging cheek bones and dark broad face, but if they noticed him, they barely showed interest. This was not the Pilipo that I had known for many years. His desire for women had deserted him. He was distant and a bit confused maybe because of the work.

"Hey." I shouted amidst the booming sounds from the speakers.

"Sasa Godiah?"

"I can see the muscles man! How is the going?"

"Fine, fine," he replied. I ordered for a couple of beers and a kilo of roast goat meat. "How is Fil? And are you guys still together?" I asked him.

"Yeah..Yeah we still see each other from time to time. She is a sweet girl."

"Why can't you marry her?" I added.

"Haa!" he chuckled. "I am not ready for marriage yet but we will see about that!"

I remembered how I had played a role in their acquaintance. Back then at University of Nairobi main campus, there was a moment in the library when a cute lady was walking the aisle towards my direction and apparently I was resting my eyes, staring blankly above the numerous heads bend over books, and she somehow caught my eyes with her desperate look, and I was left wondering if I knew her from somewhere; perhaps I had taught her? Then she was approaching my table, I did pretend not to have thought about her but within no time, she was leaning next to me.

"Excuse me."

I had looked up, and she was no longer as exhilarating as I had imagined.

"Yes," I had whispered

"Where are the washrooms? Ladies I mean."

"Mmh? Oh! Over there; next to or rather perpendicular to the stairs," I had felt uneasy.

"But use the ones on the lower floor; these ones are out of use presently."

"Thanks," she had muttered left, her feet pattering and receding down the stairs. Later, while departing from the library, we had met again at the entrance and she had remembered me and whispered a thank you to me. I had offered to buy her lunch at a student's cafeteria just to kill my curiosity and she had not objected. From there our friendship had grown so fast that we were enjoying other benefits as well. But afterwards, when Pilipo visited me in the city and held that I match him up with a nice lady, I gave him Fil's number. Soon after, I explained to Fil that she and me I could only be friends because I had a steady girlfriend elsewhere. It was fascinating that we had been friends for several months but had never talked about our love lives. She had seemed disappointed but had taken the news in her stride. I had later invited her out in company of Pilipo and the two of them had hit it from there.

We chatted about a range of issues including football. He was an Arsenal fan and I was a Manchester United fan. Then finally he told me the situation with Wakachala. We agreed to meet the three of us the following weekend at a club in Eldoret to deliberate on the issue.

We eased into Eldoret a town at noon the following Saturday. Eldoret town had been my home for four years while studying at Moi University main campus and I had liked the town then but now as I assessed it anew, I saw it suffocating with vehicles and people, crammed in a tiny spot, resonating and vibrating with Kalenjin dialects. A concoction of modernity, history and mismanagement: networked by good and pathetic roads; blowing hot and cold every other minute. This urbanised, cosmopolitan area that was still masculine and tribalistic in every aspect, and in the course of our day I realised that it was unnecessarily expensive and unambitious, shrouded in patches of progress. Though seemingly an adventurous town, it was being held back by mistrust between neighbours, political uncertainties and its culture. It was a bit disappointment to its own initial promise. In contrast our date was memorable. It was good being together the three of us again. Pilipo as usual told us reasons why people find other people's wives exciting. He delved into his knowledge of philosophy and told us the story of Michel Foucault, the French philosopher who wrote something on the politics of sexuality. But what fascinated Wakachala and me most was the story of Marquis De Sade, who according to Pilipo, once wrote, upon arriving to the conclusion that no truths in the world have absolute stable foundations, that one should aim to derive as much pleasure from life as possible, and that, the greater the pleasure the worthier the risk. And since sexual pleasure is very intense, no one should be restrained from seeking it. He then added that sometimes crimes are more exciting than sex and thus a sexual crime will carry the greatest pleasure. His hedonistic views were as a matter of course thrown out of the window given the backdrop of his existence when the church reigned over Europe. Sade who eventually became the father of Sadism was the most realistic man in Pilipo eyes. We found this amusing but functional in line with the situation at hand. But we did not dwell on sexuality for long. We drank danced, watched soccer, feasted on nyam chom and got wasted. We parted the following day with a resolution on the matter.

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Chapter seventeen

Love is blind (Shakespeare)

Wakachala sat down and noticed for the first time at Sabina Joy the presence of Somalis: many Somalis. They were drinking, as a matter of course, so he settled on the sofa and was glued on the television screen. Liverpool was leading QPR.

"Richot Quarter and ice please," he gesture to the bar man.

The Somali guy next to him had either taken one drink too many, or he was one of those talkative people, or both. The music was boring on the day. The drink and ice were served but there was trouble. The talkative guy was now shouting orders to the waiter to also serve him ice. Ice was obviously free and Wakachala had shaken his head slightly in surprise. Moments later, the very man was calling over other Somalis and hugging them across the table over Wakachala's drink! Wakachala was not amused. Then it hit him. With all the hugs and kisses among men; might they be planning to blow up the place? Cases of terrorism by Al-shabaab terror group which had roots in Neighbouring Somalia had rocked the city and the country in recent weeks. His scared thoughts had soon been drenched by the spectacle he was witnessing. She had sauntered in indifferent to the hungry stares of so many men in the room. She was naked—tantalizing and deadly as she walked with grace and flair rising up steps to the podium. Then she was losing interest in the admiration and profane lust directed at her. But it wasn't long before her eyes locked magically with those of Wakachala. The seduction was overpowering. She felt weak in the knees and genitals. She wanted to smile but she felt the shock. He saw her, peeped into her inner soul, and she lost control for a moment. That moment she forgot she was naked and an object of desire for many men in the tavern. Wakachala was totally transfixed. He had fallen in love the first time their eyes met. She was a stripper at the club and she was used to men admiring and ogling her. But on this day she had seen something different in the eyes of this man. He was definitely not the regular type.

Later when the club was at fever pitch with bodies milling about, bodies shaking, bodies sweating and sweltering, the indiscriminate sounds booming from numerous speakers, heavy beats renting the air, bodies dancing—beautiful bodies and ugly ones rising to a crescendo, distant flirting, teasing and ogling, dances turned to virtual orgies, Wakachala was willing to pay for lap dance. He had lingered in the club for long and during the second lap dance he had managed to extract a number out of her. They had met the following day in a restaurant on Moi Avenue and talked. Wakachala had told her, he wanted to date her and provide for her. She had told him that he found him attractive, and that her real name was Ruth. She had also confessed to having trained as a teacher but was yet to secure a job and she was therefore using her good looks to work as a stripper because money was better than other options she had. She had told him that before becoming a stripper she was on the Citizen Television show Sakata as a dancer for the group Nakuru troupers. That is how they had met and their love had blossomed to a colourful wedding at Safari Park hotel. She had eventually secured a job with Teacher Service Commission at a school called Narati in Brigadia and Wakachala had built her a nice house to start a family.

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Chapter eighteen

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster (Nietzsche)

We approached Wakachala's compound on foot. It was dark—very dark. We had packed the car about a half a mile on the side of a main road that ran from Brigadia to Kiminini. The skies were wet and heavy as we trudged in silence and I was feeling like the Hobbesian man in a state of nature that Pilipo had once talked about—solitary, poor, nasty and brutish. Occasionally there would be flashes of light from the charges in the sky and the flashes would illuminate our path, otherwise, Wakachala led the way and we followed in his steps. After what seemed like eternity we reached his homestead. The dog was barking violently but when he opened the gate, it recognized him and hushed. We moved from the front porch and meandered to the rare part of the house where his bedroom lay. Wakachala managed to peep through the window for long minutes as we waited for his instructions. After a while he could not bear it and stepped back quietly in a measured way. Pilipo regained his peeping position for a couple of seconds before giving me space. My eyes were still smarting from exposure to bright light after the prolonged darkness but when eventually I took in the image, I realised what was happening. Ruth was having sex with some man. The man was fat, pot-bellied, tall and dark. They were hitting it doggy style and Ruth was making inaudible guttural noises. Pilipo had a plan. Wakachala was to go knock at the door with him in escort and I would wait at the very window to see where the would man hide or alert them if he would try to jump through the window, or go through the back door which was within sight. We had then put the plan to action. I relived Pilipo's favourite Odysseus lines from the Movie Troy: this war will never be forgotten, nor will the heroes who fought in it. Men are haunted by the vastness of eternity. And so we ask ourselves: will our actions echo across centuries? Will strangers hear our names long after we are gone and wonder who we were, how bravery we fought, how fiercely we loved? If they ever tell my story, let them say...I walked with giants. Men rise and fall like winter wheat...but these names shall never die. Let them say I lived in the time of Hector, tamer of horses...Let them say I lived in the time of Achilles. Because men are haunted by the immensity of eternity I wished when I died I be remembered as a man who walked with a giant—Pilipo the philosopher; Pilipo the tamer of my stupidity and boredom

Ruth heard the knocks and grew alarmed. She had jumped out of bed slipped into her night dress and whispered something into the man's ear. She had then proceeded to check the door. She saw that it was her husband and shivered. Why was he back? Did he know she was hosting another man? She crept back to the bedroom and told the man to hide in the wardrobe which was lockable and the man followed her gesture, gathering his clothes frantically. She had then locked the wardrobe and veiled the keys in a roll of tissue paper before hiding the roll away on top of the wardrobe. She wanted to sit and think of a solution but she had little time and besides, she just could not think of something. She realised her thoughts were just shadows of her feelings—always darker, emptier, and simpler. She had then gingerly moved to the door and unlocked it.

"Jack! What happened?" Wakachala did not answer back but just moved in, followed by Pilipo into the bedroom. There did not see the man but quickly suspected he was in the locked wardrobe.

"Ruth, the keys to the wardrobe, please!" Ruth was now crying delicately. She didn't answer. I walked in and pointed at the roof of the wardrobe. Wakachala picked the roll and fished from it the keys. He then motioned us to the living room where we sat in silence and waited for his next move. Ruth was now crying loudly and kneeling before her husband begging for forgiveness.

"I am sorry Jack; I will do anything to make it right Jack!" Wakachala did not even look at her. He rose, shifted a few paces to the cupboard and grabbed a bottle of whisky with three glasses. He then poured us the drink and we downed the tots in synchrony.

"Go to bed Ruth and sleep," Jacked whispered to Ruth," I have forgiven you already." Ruth was unsure of what to do. Eventually she trudged to the bedroom. It, in a little while, had begun raining heavily, the rains accompanied by a power blackout, total silence, the deadly flickering, the erratic lightning head, the long sighing, thudding and whispering then boom! We sat drinking in darkness for almost two hours. Soon after, Wakachala and Pilipo went to the bedroom and unlocked the wardrobe, and then they had yanked out the man. Pilipo called out for me and I set in helping them tie him up. We had afterwards dragged him into the living room and placed him on a chair opposite ours. Wakachala had also brought in Ruth who was pretending to be asleep in the bedroom oblivious of what was going on. Ruth had been tired up with less resistance than the man and placed next to him. Then we had settled down and examined them for about half an hour. Ruth in a white night dress that looked oversized, the man in blue shots and a yellow shirt. He had not managed to wear his trousers; perhaps he had not found them in time.

"We are going to kill you two tonight," Pilipo began, "Anything you wanna tell us to change our minds?" The man stirred a little. Ruth Was now sobbing heavily.

"Jack; I am so sorry, it must have been the devil who got into me; please Jack don't kill me."

"And you? Anything you wanna say?" Pilipo said.

"It is my mistake, I forced her into to this," he said calmly; "we can work something out as a fine. I can give you a piece of my land or anything as compensation but don't kill us please. Especially not her—she is innocent."

"Ruth, where are my children, by the way?" Wakachala asked a bit worried, "I have not seen them."

"They are at their grandpa's. I took them there this morning."

"Oh! So that you can have ample time with your lover?"

"No Jack..Jack I am sorry. I will do anything to make it right." She laboured to say this.

"Anything, huh?"

"Yes Jack, anything," she raised her face a little and faced him;"You know I love you."

"Ok then." Jack went at her side and untied her hands. He then went to the kitchen and brought her a knife.

"If you want everything to be okay and right, I want you to stab this person five times in the stomach."

Ruth was shocked. She kept quiet and looked at Jack who was barely visible in the dark except for the spotlight he was wielding and back at the man who was illuminated by Wakachala's spotlight.

"Jack, I am not a killer and you know that," she said.

"Yeah; I know, just like I knew you were a faithful woman. Ruth, we are giving you one hour to do it and we forget this ever happened. If you don't; you will lose everything including your life. We will not kill you but we got petrol here. We are going to tie you up again and lock the house from outside and put it on fire. I will then take my kids to the city."

We sat still and started counting the minutes down. In the silence that ensued, I remembered an argument we had had with Pilipo one day and he had quoted Nietzsche saying there is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness. I saw the whole situation as a bit crazy. Getting married is just crazy in itself because it is one hell of a commitment but again cheating on your love is also crazy yet both acts have valid reasons for their existence. These are traditions entrenched in our societies and tribes and it is always hard to be the Nietzschean individual who has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.

I must have dozed off because I was awakened by the terrifying screams of a man and a woman. Ruth had stabbed the man and she was screaming in terror while the man was wriggling on the floor in pain. He was losing a lot of blood. Eventually, Wakachala took Ruth away and locked her in the bedroom. The man went into shock and soon after became muted. I sat there starring at the man who was probably dead by now and wondering how easily it could have been me in a different context.

"We better burry this body," Wakachala whispered. He went out and took a shovel and a jembe from his store and we got to work digging a hole outside the compound while being drenched by the showers of the rain that was now subsiding. We then hauled the body from the house and buried it. Wakachala got some detergent from his bedroom and instructed Ruth to wash the mat and clear off any signs of blood stain from the house.

It was almost dawn and the crickets were creaking, frogs croaking and snakes hissing. Further as we neared the road the early cows were mooing in readiness for milking and the distant sounds of vehicles accelerating, screeching and moaning could be heard rising and falling with the wind.

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End.