I’ll tell you about what stumped me the most while I was home after a very long time.
First, it was the church.
The St. Peter’s Church where we used to attend the first service every Sunday morning during the Christmas holidays. We would sit on wooden benches or the floor depending on how full the church was and listen to Reverend Walter’s sermon.
The main entrance of the church
I also took pictures of the home like I knew it, but it’s been years since anything made it feel like home. The cow shed is gone, the passion fruit tree withered away and in place of the open entrance there’s a gate.
My great-grandmother was laid to rest this past Saturday, in what might have seemed more like a play or let’s say many acts in one scene. We left the house at eight with my sister and nephew and headed for the bus stop where we boarded “Nyangoye Senior.” It’s this big blue forty eight seater bus that plies that route. There was a big placard on the dashboard that read “Kisumu- Uyoma-Luanda/Ferry.”
Our destination was Uyoma, and “Kilo/Chianda,” to be precise.
We let my nephew pick the seats and just like the five year old adventurer in him, he chose the seats next to the driver. The bus took ten minutes at the stage then took off for the petrol station. A woman seated right behind me got into an argument with the driver and tout because the vehicle was taking too long to leave the stage. She kept telling them that she had a funeral to attend, and did not want to be late. The tout shouted back at her, “Was I the one who killed the one you are going to bury? If you wanted to arrive there early you should have traveled yesterday! You can get off and board another vehicle if you are in such a hurry.” It took another ten minutes as the attendants filled the tank and we moved to the next station because they needed some air for the wheels. I have never operated those, but if they work like bicycle pumps, then ours took forever to get done! I kept my eye on the pressure indicated in the machine but all I could see were numbers that did not resonate with me.
We took off and I leaned in my seat glad because the road was smooth. I even had this feeling that we’d be home by noon. But, I had gotten ahead of myself like I always do and forgotten that this was public transportation. They stopped wherever they could and passengers only alighted at the bus stop. It took us a while but we got home safe.
But, it was finally stepping on the ground and watching the bus drive away that I was reminded of where I was. I was home. I was finally at my Father’s home. I rarely visit home, but I knew every turn and how to get to my ancestral home and my feet led the way.
When we got home, we looked for our mom for we had bought some supplies for her: Juice and Ice Cold water mostly, yeah and a tab of yoghurt.
But as we made our way around the tents I could not help but wonder how much of a festivity funerals had become. I have only attended one funeral that sucked the life out of me and that was eighteen years ago when we laid our dad to rest. I remember choking on my grief and the worst part was looking at the homestead after he’d been buried. What was left standing were the chairs and tents, and it’s been just me, my mom and sister since then.
My great-grandmother was famous for one thing, she loved cigarettes. She would scold us for buying her sugar and forgetting to buy at least a cigarette for her. She’d lived long enough to see 86 grandchildren, 200 great grandchildren and 100 great great grandchildren. I remember her crying out to God to take her life the last time I saw her because her peers and siblings had died and left her.
But the highlight of the funeral to me was the people. You see all kinds of people at the funeral, it’s more like a market but strictly like a classroom. There are the people who sit quietly and follow the programme. They listen to the sermon, eulogies, testimonies and sing along to the hymns. They stand when they are told and sit when they should.
There are also the watchers. Yes, these are the people who come from nearby places and they just come to watch how many cars and people showed up for the funeral. In most cases, these include children who collect the water bottles in between seats and who chase the dogs away while they nibble on pieces of meat. They always have so much stories to tell of the family and the people who are bereaved, if only you’d listen to them.
There are the people from diaspora. I’ll split this category into two; the family and the entourage.
The family from diaspora are those who live in the cities and who make rare appearances. In other words they only come home when they have to, and you’ll walk around wondering where your cousin Henry went to- thinking you’ll see the skinny boy who could climb mango trees or outrun the neighbors whenever he stole mandazis from their tables or guavas from their farms. Instead you will see a tall, dark and well built man with a light skinned woman by his side and a kid hugging his right leg. He’ll tell you she’s his girlfriend and the kid is his son who has turned four. You’ll step back and shift your weight from one leg to the other and only manage to say, “long time! How’ve you been, lakini?”
Then there’s the entourage from diaspora, these are the friends of some of the family members who come home in cars. They are self sufficient holding their own Keringet Water bottles and wearing the best sunglasses that mask either their hangovers or their fabulosity! Pick one. They are the life of the party, and the villagers would look at them wondering, “magi to oya kanye?” (Where are these clowns from?) But, they don’t care, they take wonderful selfies with their Samsung Tablets and fill Instagram with #funeralthings #life #ochamanenos #friendsforlife. But, before you dismiss them, know that they drove for twelve hours and they kept sharing jokes and drinks and doing their best to cheer up their friend.
Then, my favorite are the women and the shoes. I am more of a tee-shirt and jeans kinda girl when it comes to a funeral, but most people now wear black.
I love my black and wear it to work or when I’m doing my favorite things: buying stationery, buying novels and hanging out at Java. Most people seem to wear it to funerals, but for me I do not like to mix my grief with discomfort especially given the crazy heat that’s experienced this side of the world.
Going back to what I was saying, you realize that people wear shoes and the old women are taking to doll shoes and leaving the Ngoma’s to the young and restless youth who flaunt their pouts for selfies. But as you notice these things, you cannot help but be reminded of how fickle life is, for what is there will be taken and you cannot help but wonder why your mind is making you feel such deep stuff and you suddenly say to yourself, “Where’s the food? I’m hungry.”
Ruth had lunch at The Grill for the next three days.
She had pilau on Monday, chicken stew and some chips on Tuesday and then she had a cup of coffee and mandazi on Wednesday. She was served by Maureen for those three days. When she walked into the restaurant on Thursday, it was Walter who approached her table.
“Hi, I haven’t seen you around, are you okay?”
“Yes, I had exams so I took some days off, but it’s good to see you too.”
“Exams? What are you studying?”
“I am getting my diploma in Food and Beverage, so I have to get that done before I get my degree. Um, so before my Supervisor gets on my case for taking too long with you, what will you have?”
“Um, actually I’m good, I just wanted to see you and say hi, but just get me a soda and then maybe that’s okay.”
“Sure, which one?”
“Fanta Pineapple.”
“Sawa, and kubwa ama ndogo?”
“Kubwa! Ndogo ni hasara!”
“I’ll get it right away.”
“Thanks.”
He moved on to other tables after serving Ruth and then went back to the counter to wait for the next client who would walk in. Thursdays were slow days. He made less on Thursdays, but he could always count on the old civil servants who always told him to keep the change. The men loved to let him keep the coins, but the women did tip better especially when they were with their friends. He lived for Valentines and the end of the month- dinner parties where the men actually gave him a fifty or hundred shilling tip to impress their dates.
He inched closer to Maureen and smiled at her. She stuck her tongue out and they both laughed.
“So, have you asked for her number ama unangoja Yesu arudi?”
“Eish! She is cool, nasikia you served her while I was away, thanks!”
“Wacha kujichocha! Huyo dame akiingia hapa anaangalia majamaa wote ni kama utatokelezea! Go get her number, ama ni game ndiyo hauna? Si nadhani unaishi uplands ama wajakushow how to get a girl?”
“Why must you talk like that?”
“Oh! So now you can act polished kama viatu za Rudisha! Haya basi kama umeng’aa enda ukamshow ni vipi!”
“You’re sick!”
“I know, it’s the only way I can stand being a Waitress in a country where people think ati ten bob ndiyo tip!”
“Haiya! Na si uende majuu!”
“We! Napenda maisha yangu, sitaki nitemewe mate ama nichomwe na sigara sababu mimi ni servant, tu juu ya mkwanja!”
“You need help Maureen, like seriously, you need Jesus!”
“Who tells you I don’t have him? I am saying the truth, and who loves the truth more than that guy?”
“She’s done let me show you how it’s done.”
He took the bill from the cashier at the counter and jotted down his number at the back then took it to her. Maureen shook her head and smiled. She always seemed to have moments with Walter. They hang out, and she even managed his Facebook page for him and helped deliver and market his cookies, mandazis and doughnuts in her neighborhood. There was that moment when he had asked about her life when they were having lunch. The truth spilled out of her mouth so easily that it shocked her. When she looked at him, he’d just smiled and told her, “you’re tough.” It was not like she had a bad life, but she’d been through some very bad stuff and to have Walter smile at her like that reminded her that she was human.
He had his own kind of cool, and even though she’d never tell him- she still hoped that maybe one day they’d hook up, or that he’d stop and kiss her, like that chick in Sauti Sol’s new jam, Isabella, who surprised her guy by kissing him.
She longed for a kiss like that from Walter.
On the other hand, Walter felt like he was setting himself for a huge disappointment by giving Ruth his number. Maybe he was reading the wrong signs from her, but if Maureen saw it too, then maybe he’d give it a shot.
He wished her well as she left the restaurant. He continued with his work until his lunch break. He rushed to the changing rooms to switch on his phone and check for messages or missed calls, but when he turned it on- there was nothing but Airtel reminding him of his Smartika bonus, something about walking to work when he could be driving. He switched it off, pulled the pack of cigarettes he had and picked two.
He was walking out when he bumped into Maureen and dropped his cigarettes. She picked one as he reached for the other.
“What’s up? You never smoke during lunch, nani amekuchokoza?”
“Usimind, so what are we having for lunch today?”
“Saddam amesema ni machefs watadecide, kama ni kabeji I swear nitaingia huko ndani niwatusi wote!”
“Okay, see you then, I need to clear my mind…”
“And cloud your lungs! You are too cute to smoke you know!”
“Yes, isn’t that why most adverts on those fancy magazines have pictures of fine women and handsome men holding cigarette packs, and name one artiste you love who does not smoke…and no, weed does not count as smoking…I am talking cigarettes! Real cigarettes!”
“Go clear that mind of yours and join me for lunch…and Walter?”
“Yes Maureen, what is it?”
“Look…listen, she will call, okay. If that chick is into you she will call, just you know…don’t kill yourself with cigarettes before you give her a chance, just saying!”
“See you Maureen.”
“See you in ten minutes Walter, and I said ten minutes!”
“Sawa, that’s five minutes for each cigarette! It’s not enough!”
I went to the Immigration offices here in Kisumu again, to process my travel documents and I will admit that I have come to embrace the ‘whatever happens will happen’ way of life.
First, there was the lady demanding my Dad’s ID number and photocopy after I had clearly told her that he’s been dead for eighteen years!
“You have to submit that too, Madam, go home urudi nayo!”
I assembled my papers, took a few breaths and told her as politely as I could, “I cannot produce what I do not have. You know according to the Kenyan laws, if someone dies, his family or next of kin have to surrender his ID card and post mortem report in exchange for a death certificate. My Dad has been dead for eighteen years, it’s not like I would wake him up to get what you want, so will you take the death certificate instead?”
I had clearly caused a scene, because when I turned to leave even the security guard was giving me the ‘woiye! I’m sorry for your loss’ look.
So, I went to a supermarket and bought four apples. Yes, in the world of cost and apples, I believe that 105 is quite a lucky number, and I spend just that on apples.
After that, I walked into Super Cosmetics to buy some hair color. My inner stylist has been craving for some color since I’ve been rocking my natural afro, and I wanted something either wooden brown or just brown.
I got this instead:
I don’t know what Medium Warm Brown looks like but we’ll see in a few days, won’t we?
But the highlight of my day had to be a conversation I had with this cute girl in baby dreadlocks that I met in a 44. To my diaspora friends, 44 is a matatu route here in Kisumu. The touts usually, mention at least three stopovers: Stage, Kibuye, Russia, Kondele, Kenya-Re.
So, once in I started looking at the box thinking of how weird if not incredibly awesome I’d look when this girl takes the seat beside me and goes, “is that hair color?”
I said, “Yes, I just got it.”
“Ni color gani?”
“Brown.”
“Umebuy kwa muhindi, how much?”
“Nope, nimebuy Super Cosmetics , they just opened a shop hapa Kisumu, and I wanted color poa, you know Dark and Lovely is good but kila msee ako na spicy red hair, so I thought why not try this?”
“Imagine ungeenda kwa Muhindi, ungeiget at maybe 300, ama 400, juu his cheap, but hata mimi I used Subaru before na saa hizi shida ni zingine ukibuy zinabackfire, like haishiki, but hiyo ni poa.”
“Subaru?”
“Ehe! It’s a hair color product too, yaani ulizia tu, inaitwa Subaru.”
“Nitauliza next time basi, nashuka hapa, thanks.”
“Sawa, baadaye.”
I kept thinking okay, maybe to stop my mind from going in circles is there a hair color product called “Subaru,” or am I so hung up on the vehicles that my mind is not open to any other thing associating with the name “Subaru?”
The first time I thought of writing The Currents Series, I was seated at Java in Kisumu with a friend. We had just ordered some mocha (I love an iced-mocha) and he was telling me about how frustrated he was with his parents especially his Dad for expecting so much of him. He had school, piano lessons and was also working part time for the family business, and it was taking a toll on him.
He said, “It’s like his business is some throne that I’m supposed to sit on whether I like it or not.”
And that’s when I thought of writing about a young prince who had to rise to power, and take after his Father whether he wanted to or not. I remember scribbling a text and saving it as a draft.
I did not think about it for the next three months.
Then one day, as I was in a matatu making my way from work, I heard these two women talk about a Nigerian movie where the Prince was forced to marry and abide by the customs but he chose not to and instead married a blind girl whom he truly loved. I remember thinking, that could be a great story line- but when I arrived home I was too exhausted to do anything but sleep.
I did not think much of the idea until the next Saturday morning when a friend asked me if I was still writing.
So, I started by writing bits and pieces of the story. I started with the names of the kingdoms and the characters. I went with Kiswahili because each name represented something, and as days went by I carried a notebook where I would write down scenes and phrases that came to mind. I sat down one weekend and typed it all.
When I was almost done, the lights went out and I had only saved half of the work. So, I resumed my typing the next evening.
I procrastinate, and I come up with many ideas while working on one- which often causes me to lose sight of what I am working on, so I had to set up an outline (thank you Stephen King but some discipline is needed!).
I had this structure that included a sequence of events that I had to follow while writing, and I stuck with it. The best part of finishing that first book came in on December 27, 2014.
I remember holding my books, touching the cover and reading it in print and thinking, “this is what it feels like.” I mean, it was my first book in the Series, I had done everything from designing the cover, selecting the font and simply putting it out there.
But no one told me how to market the book. How was I going to get people to read it?
So, when my friends and family members bought it and read it- they started demanding for the next book. I was not ready. I remember thinking, “now what!” but the book was needed and so I had to write and I have been since then.
So, what did I learn while writing a series:
Have an outline. Yes, there’s that whole Stephen King debate about plunging in- but it works for him, if you are writing and seriously considering publishing an outline is the best guide you’ll ever have. You need to focus on the plot and not lose track of the story line.
Readers do not love you if you leave them hanging at the end of every book. In my case, I have done so gently, but I still got complaints of major cliffhangers! Each book in the series needs to highlight a major aspect of your plot while advancing it, ensure that your reader moves along with you…maintain a steady pace.
Get an Editor. Yes, I did not have one for my first book and though it turned out well, it could have been excellent with an Editor. If you cannot afford one, look for your English Professor and ask him/her to read it, because you might not know the tiny mistakes that slip by while you write. An Editor is like a picky eater, they consume only what is necessary. You need to weed out unnecessary words and scenes in your book.
Overnight success is an illusion. Write. If you think you’ll make millions in less than a year, well, let’s just say that it depends on what you are writing, but you need patience.
Yes, and your friends and family may be great supporters of your work, but nothing keeps a book afloat more than word of mouth- or sharing buttons in sites! They should not just tell you they love the book. They should share the links on social networking sites, and write reviews to help spread the word.
This series was personal for me. I have written and submitted manuscripts to publishers before and never got any feedback. There was one time that a publisher called me to say that he wanted someone less “White” and more “African.” His words were “Your story is good, but the English is just not like our people, you know…we are looking for something more African.” I have written articles and I decided it was enough when I read my work under someone’s name. It hurt even more when I wrote three articles only to be paid for one under the guise of inadequate funds. I remember sitting at home and looking at the MPESA text on my phone and thinking, “I get paid this little for that much work?”
So, I have never submitted any of my works to any publishers here since then.
I am writing the final book in the series, and I am not yet a millionaire, but my journey has been worth that idea, the blackout, and the frustration of editing and revision. Though I am not so keen on writing another series, but I would most definitely write a romance novel…I love a good romance.
I have been taking some Leadership lessons this past week.
These lessons are set to change the way young people view their role in their families, community and country. It started with seeking a mentor, and engaging in life lessons with the mentor. I sought a Professor who helped me especially with editing Wind and our journey has had its moments. So, towards the end of the first phase of this Leadership Programme, we were told to live by some principles. They were written in email and each person got a different principle that their mentor felt they needed to work on.
I am known to be impatient, well, not most of the times- but when I have to queue, or when someone keeps on talking about the same thing and most of all when someone uses the term “basically” thrice in a presentation.
So, it’s safe to say that I deserved this principle:
Don’t interrupt people; don’t dismiss their concerns easily and do not rush to give advice, while at it do not be quick to change the subject when you are either bored or restless. Allow people their moment.
So, I have this week to work on this and see how it goes, given the fact that I am visiting the Immigration Offices today, let’s just say that I can start working on this from tomorrow, right?
Walter walked into The Grill as the guard opened the doors.
He had the Daily Nation newspaper with him. It was a Friday and the only reason he bought the paper was because of the many jobs that were advertised then. He was not a sports fan. He hated the pieces written on music and he didn’t care much about the lifestyle section.
He knew all about lifestyle by being a Waiter.
He had been waiting on tables for three years.
He had also dreamed of opening his own pastry shop in those three years, just as much as he had promised God and his mother that he would quit smoking. The good news was that he now brushed his teeth and washed his hands after he had smoked.
He went into the changing room and sat on the bench in the middle of the room and opened the “Jobs” section of the paper. He went through the adverts writing down those that interested him. After he had written three adverts, he folded the paper and put it in his bag and changed, ready to do his job and earn some tips. There were days he earned five hundred shillings and those that he earned nothing. Maureen, his colleague, often said that people in Nairobi were stingy with their money. She would scrunch up her nose and say that even bartenders earned more than they did- yet they served alcohol. Walter laughed whenever she said this because Maureen could put any heavy drinker to shame whenever she set out to drink.
He had seen her drink more than the group they were with at 1824- and still walk into the night as though she’d not tasted a drop of liquor. On the other hand, she never understood how he could smoke but could not stand the taste of alcohol.
Walter would smile and say “everyone chooses their poison.”
It was a lie though because he stopped drinking when he was in campus and received a call at four in the morning that his father was found dead in a trench. He was holding a bottle of whisky when the police found him. According to the police they saw it best to call him since he had his phone and he was the last person the man had called. He never told his mom or his girlfriend then, but he did not want to die in a trench covered with filth and dirt all in the name of alcohol.
He made his way around the restaurant setting the tables before attending the daily staff meeting with Saddam.
The doors were opened at quarter past seven and the customers started trickling in for breakfast. Walter worked but his mind was on Ruth. He hoped she would visit. She had not made it to the restaurant the whole week and he wanted to see her again, and maybe get her that glass of cold mango juice “on the house,” just to say thank you.
After his mid-morning break, he made his way to the Nakumatt supermarket to get some serviettes and tomato paste. Saddam was in one of his moods because their supplier was not answering his calls and had failed to deliver as he had promised. Walter was relieved to be running the errand because he wanted to smoke again. He had the feeling that she would show up today and he would not get the chance to talk to her.
Ruth walked into The Grill with two of her best friends, Nancy and Belinda. They sat down to catch up, as they waited to be served. She looked around but could not see Walter. Nancy ordered pilau rice and Belinda went through every item on the menu before settling for Nancy’s order and smiling at the lady who was serving them.
Ruth looked at the waitress and tried to read her name tag, but the writing was not clear, “what’s your name?”
“Maureen.”
“Thank you Maureen, I would like to know if Walter is around.”
“He will be here shortly. He is with the Manager.”
“Great, if he comes please let him know that his friend Ruth would like to say hi, and you can get me some chicken and rice while you are at it.”
“Okay.” They watched her walk back to the counter before Nancy leaned in and asked, “so you are friends with the waiter here? Is that why you dragged us here instead of Java?”
“You should see that guy. I know it sounds off, but I have the feeling that we have met.”
“Feeling ni wewe! You met him here and don’t go talking to us about dejavu because we know you…so, is he hot ama he’s kawa?”
“He’s hot! I wanted you to…you know, see him and tell me if he’s okay or not.”
“You just want us to tell you if he’s okay or you want us to be okay with you liking a Waiter?”
“That is rude Belinda, Waiters are people too.”
“Yes, that’s what you said about Steve, if I recall it was “Bartenders are people too,” and then when you found out he was serving other women too you could not stop crying about it, what is it with you and people who take orders and tips?”
“You will see him and then you will…gosh! He’s coming here, don’t look, act natural.” Walter smiled as he approached Ruth’s table grateful that he hadn’t given in to the urge to smoke because it might put her off. He could tell they had been talking about him because the other girls looked at him and then smiled back at Ruth as though giving their consent.
“It is good to see you again Ruth.”
“You too Walter. How are you today?”
“I’m fine thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you Nancy and Belinda. Enjoy your lunch.”
He left the restaurant after wishing them well and lit a cigarette.
There are some scenes, but for me it is mostly dialogues, that always put me in a state. Sometimes I read and ask, “where did that come from?”
Sometimes I read and nothing resonates within me, but with Wind there was a moment that made me stop and put the manuscript down and go about the house cleaning rooms I had already cleaned.
It is a conversation that takes place five harvests later between Wema (the royal guard) and Baraka (Princess Amani’s husband). Wema and Amani were in love but Amani was a Princess and she was already promised to Prince Baraka- their marriage being that one of allegiance.
Baraka tells Wema;
Sometimes when I look at her, I see it, like grey ashes that are a reminder of a fire that once raged, and sometimes when you blow on them, you see a spark, a bright orange spark that burns beneath the pile of grey, is it too much for you to be here? Would you will your tongue to tell me what is in your heart?
Wind is only seventy-five pages, but of all that is said and done in the book, this moment made something in me stop.
It is also the only bit of dialogue that was not edited out of the story, and it makes me wonder what would happen if Amani did leave her husband for the first man she loved?
She causes havoc, sometimes she comes as friend who refreshes us from the heat, and sometimes she whispers in our ears as she walks on. One thing is for sure, we never know what she’s done until she’s left.
And this is the basis of this book.
Wind is the shortest of all the books in the series. You start on chapter one and find yourself at the end with questions and emotions that make you ask, “did that just happen?”
Well, you can blame my Editor for that, or you can be nice and thank me for that.
After looking at the cover, I decided to try something and edit the cover on my own for Kindle- and I came up with this:
The paperback and ebook will have different covers- and I now know that when it comes to designing, let’s just say that “Fire” was the best design I created…and maybe Earth will be too- we’ll see.
Wind sees the introduction of two characters who play a huge role in Prince Ustawi’s possible reign as King of Leo. They are Imara and his beautiful daughter, Amara. Ustawi meets them in the forest as they are fleeing from their attackers and tends to their wounds before setting them on the right path to Leo. This move sees the people of Leo engage in a battle they did not see coming, but it also brings betrayal, hatred, anger, and desire to the life of Ustawi.
It’s good to see this through and I cannot wait to get started on editing “Earth.”
Lovers pride themselves in who saw the other first. It is almost like winning the race when you are seated on the benches. Walter says he saw Ruth first. Ruth says that she chose him before he even spoke to her.
I say they are delusional.
Walter waited tables at The Grill. He walked in at seven and left at nine every day. He took his first break at eleven. He would walk out and go stand beside the garbage bin and smoke two cigarettes then wash his hands and face and walk back into the restaurant to take his tea and mandazi. He took pride in how well groomed he was for a smoker. No one talked about it because he knew the customers and could easily get in and out of a verbal altercation with a smile and piece of cake.
He was having a bad day when Ruth walked in. It was on Tuesday and he got stuck with Mr. Undecided. The man often ate there but he took centuries to decide on what to eat. He would order and then shout “tsk!tsk!” at Walter as though the phrase “excuse me” was foreign to him. Walter hated him. He took up all his time and did not have the courtesy to tip. There were so many people like him in the city who did not tip. They paid for the food and left complaining about the lighting, music, the waiters and some would say they would not come back, but he would see them walk in at four to get a cup of coffee before going home.
So, the fact that Ruth walked into The Grill on that day and at that exact moment is what Walter calls love.
She walked straight up to him and smiled. He took a step back and looked around before he ushered her to the best table they had. He presented her with a copy of the menu and told her he would be with her shortly. He went back to Mr. Undecided who was still torn between fried beef and grilled beef. As he waited on Mr. Undecided, his eyes took in the new girl that he had just met. She could probably be five feet and six inches tall, or less depending on the shoes. He took in her braids. He loved black braids on women. They did not scream attention or failed fashion sense; rather they were beautiful and neatly done and could be styled in any way to compliment a look.
He excused himself and walked back to her table.
“May I take your order?”
“I will have the lunch special, but instead of sukuma wiki could you get me some spinach? I love spinach, it is way better than sukuma wiki.”
“Sure. What about the drink?”
“I’ll have the passion juice. Mango juice is too thick and I want to be able to stay focused at work.”
“I’ll get it right away. Karibu.”
“Thanks.”
Once her order was ready, he presented it to her and left her to it. He waited on three other customers before he went behind the counter to watch her eat. There was so much he could tell about people based on what they ordered and how they ate.
Some chicks were not adventurous when it came to eating out and would always play safe by eating chips. He hated it. Why would anyone dress up to eat out and order chips? There were so many fast food joints in Nairobi and three were right up in their lane, why would they walk all the way to a restaurant just to eat chips? Walter could never eat out. He knew more about the stress and drama involved in restaurant management that he would rather stay home and cook.
He started out as a Waiter but he wanted to be a Chef.
He loved pastry but could never raise enough money to cover the tuition costs and so he had to settle for what he had. He told himself that he’d open his own Pastry shop every day that he walked through the doors of The Grill.
And he would go home telling himself the same thing.
He made cupcakes and mandazis back at the estate where he lived. He delivered them to his neighbors’ doorsteps every morning before he left for work. He would collect his money every Wednesday and that was how he managed to stay in that estate let alone pay his rent. The women loved his cupcakes. The men loved his mandazis and his landlord loved to receive the rent on time.
“We! Wacha kuota hapa! Table seven amemaliza!”
He winked at Saddam as he approached her. Saddam was the best Supervisor he had ever worked with. He never yelled at them, but when he fired someone, everyone steered clear of him for three days. He also hated it when they called him by his first name because he believed that it reminded people of a terrorist but he was a law abiding citizen.
Walter handed Ruth her bill as her cleared her table.
“Hey, what is your name?”
“Walter.”
“Okay, it was nice meeting you and aki thanks for serving me so well!”
“You are welcome…”
“Ruth. You can call me Ruth and I will call you Walter. See you tomorrow, then. Have a good day.”
Walter looked at the bill as she stood to leave. He placed the tray on the table and caught up with her. “Excuse me…Ruth, will you please wait for your change. It will just take a minute.”
“Keep the change Walter. Maybe next time you’ll get me that mango juice.”
“Um…okay, thank you…”
He looked at the bill and the money she had paid and smiled. She turned and smiled then waved at him before walking into the car that was waiting right outside.
He waved back for it was just another day at the restaurant and he was in love.
nilichoandika 