A power nap in the ditch

 He works in a bank. A Relationship Manager. He’s good with people, he reads them. He spends his days giving people what they think they want. He negotiates with them. He acts like he cares about these people; he has to because people with money demand attention. But to him they’re simply bottom lines. He doesn’t love working in a bank though but now he has his own office. And his own phone line. So he stays because soon he might have his name on his door.

He’s 33. Two boys; 4 and 2years old. A wife. No pets. He rents a three-bedroom apartment in some old apartment block in Parklands. He’s lucky, rent is cheap. His landlord lives in India, every month he wires money into his account. He plans to save for another year then develop some plot in Ngong. He’s Kisii.

The Banker wears suits to earn a living. But his taste in suits isn’t the best, which could be something to do with his tribe. The suits hang around his shoulders. Sometimes their colour reminds you of a fruit. His suits fit like most TV anchors’. Gunny bags. But The Banker’s personality overshadows his suits unlike those who wear suits to make up for their bland personality. He has a large laughter and when he laughs he’s those guys who will slap you the back. Of course it hurts.

He’s a fairly tall chap, the Banker. But he’s growing heavy around the midsection. He’s started going for swimming at Aga Khan Sports Club every Saturday afternoon. But he loves his beer.

Then there is another guy. Lives in Ongata Rongai. Lives in a house that is almost finished, his own unfinished house. He’s those guys who will build a house and move into it before it’s finished because they just can’t give someone else rent for another day. Of course he’s Kikuyu. He’s a silent guy. Keeps to himself. It’s said that he is born-again. He goes to NPC Karen. He’s 41, three kids. Two girls, one boy. A teetotaller. He finds Mike Rua unpalatable.

This guy is in printing business in downtown Nairobi, Kirinyanga Road. Five people work for him full-time and another four on part-time. He doesn’t wear suits, this guy. He wears shirts and pants and sometimes a jacket. He could be anybody. He has a picture of his family on his desk. When you call his phone, you will hear some playback song by Christina Shusho. He signs off his smses with “Be blessed.” He drives a Toyota Noah.

Between these two guys they have lived in Nairobi for 56years. But they have never met. They will never meet. They both have different interests, their wives are both chalk and cheese; one drinks daiquiris the other is a member of their church’s mentorship program. The Banker works in Westlands and hardly ever goes into town, while the Printing Guy only goes to Westlands if business calls for it. The Banker might one day need something printing but it’s unlikely that he will use the Printing Guy for that job, especially now after the elections and guys are still sore and bruised. Another thing, the Printing Guy banks with Equity, not the bank the Banker works for. Their paths run in parallel paths. Ships in the dark. God separates them for purposes of joining them.  

On 23rd March, The Banker got up and picked his favourite blue suit. He wears it only if he wants to impress. He wore it with a white shirt and a red tie. As he dressed up in the morning, his wife wanted to ask if he had a big meeting, but they weren’t talking. So she didn’t bother. He went to work, probably did the paperwork. Spoke to some clients on phone. Had lunch at those numerous nyama choma joints in Westlands then strolled back to work with his colleagues, blazer off, a toothpick dangling between his lips.

After work, The Banker goes for a small meeting at Carnivore. He has mushroom soup. He later orders for a steak, medium rare. After they have drinks, the four of them. Nothing heavy. At 10pm they all stand up from their tables and shake hands goodbye. He nips into Rafikiz to meet a friend who lives in Langata for more drinks. He puts away more beer. They do shots. The music gets louder. At some point he removes his phone and he sees a missed call from his wife. He makes a mental note to call her back when he’s leaving the bar because the music is loud.

At 11pm he climbs into his car; a Nissan X-Trail. Silver. Tinted windows. He’s not drunk. But he’s tipsy. As he pulls out of the petrol station he puts on the heater because it’s drizzling. Since he’s 33 he’s probably listening to Hot 96. He pulls into Langata Road. He pushes the Xtrail; the needle soon climbs to 80kmph. The road is fairly empty. A gorgeous evening.

At some point the car, grazes the side the kerb on the road. It’s hard to tell why. It climbs over the kerb; it runs across the section of the road that separates the dual carriageway. The sound of the engine changes its tone, like it’s groaning like a wounded animal. He’s stepping on the break, reducing the speed to 60kmphr, perhaps. The Banker struggles with the car and with his fate. His knuckle hard on the wheel as his car now gets into the oncoming traffic, right in the path of a Toyota Noah.

Over the frantically blaring horns are bright lights now flooding him, coming right at him. He’s squinting, twisting the car to the left, and trying to get off the way of the light. But the light is like a burning bush. The car is tilting to his right; he can feel the set of left wheels leaving the ground. At this point he realises that he can’t do much, that all he can do is wait. It’s not a short time anyway, this wait. He flinches, braising himself for what is impending. His mouth dries up. His stomach tightens.

This is the point where The Banker meets The Printer. This is where their paths cross, in this moment of conflict. In this moment of terror; as the Banker tries to avoid the Printer, but they have been avoiding each other all their lives, now they have to meet. This is how life happens, this is how two men who were never destined to meet, meet. It’s a crushing collusion, figuratively and practically.

The impact comes. Steel meeting steel. It’s a crunching sound. Sickening. He feels cold air in his face and he only realises why; he’s flying through the windscreen, shards of glass competing with his momentum. The Matrix. The window is cutting him, slicing his face and his throat. The car is spinning mid-air. He chokes on blood. It gurgles in his throat like someone gurgling mouthwash.

Then it’s all over.

He’s in a ditch. Face up. Staring at the starless sky. From a distant he hears a car stop. A slamming door. He hears anxious shouts. He hears the sound of his engine running. And a whirring sound, like of a rotating fan. Only it isn’t a fan. It’s his wheel, still in rotation, facing up at the stars too. A woman shrieks. More doors slamming. Voices. Disembowelled. He’s peaceful, he likes the ditch. It’s a bit wet, though. But he likes it there. It’s so quiet, peaceful. He feels sleepy and he closes his eyes, just for a small nap. Just one small nap. Akanini, as they say in Kissii. A power nap in a ditch. When he wakes up, he can then call back his wife. But for now, just a small nap.

He never wakes up.

But his wife is woken up at 1am, according to the bedside clock. In a daze she pulls on some tracksuits. She doesn’t remember the drive to the morgue. It’s like a bad dream. But she remembers his blue suit, not blue anymore. Soiled. He remembers asking the morgue attendant where his shoes are. He remembers her brother holding her as she screamed at the unfazed morgue attendant to tell her where his “fuckin’ shoes” are!

The Banker and The Printer lie side by side in death. The Banker wearing his favourite suit, the Printer wearing his faith. They finally meet. They lived their lives as strangers but are finally joined by destiny on Langata Road. Unknown to them they were already joined by death at birth and all they did in life only brought closer their final meeting on Langata Road.  But now they are together. Like it was written.

But do you wonder what happened to his shoes? I do too. The following morning, at Langata Police station, a man who had been thrown in the cells to sober up is released. He comes out and he picks his belongs, which is not much. But he’s missing his shoes. He insists he came in shoes, but the cops didn’t log in his shoes with the rest of his belongings. So he whines at the main desk, asking how the hell they expect him to leave barefoot until a cop calls out to the other cop,”mpatie zile viatu tulipata kwa ule jamaa wa usiku.”

Turns out he’s a size 10. So he walks out of the cop station wearing a dead man’s shoes. But that shouldn’t surprise anyone because we are all dead men walking. We start dying when we are born. And when we learn to walk in shoes, our shoes essentially belong to a dead man. 

PS: My comment section has been down for two posts. But it’s since up. I’d love to know what High Schoolers have been up to.