nilichoandika

Coffee at 4 A.M.

September 8th, 2015

I sprung out of bed at four in the morning.

I did not ask to be awake, but I was so pressed that my body jolted out of bed and rushed to the toilet.

But, there is something brutal about getting your feet on a cold cement floor that keeps the sleep bugs away at four. I walked into the kitchen and poured the warm water from the flask into a plastic cup. See, coffee cools real fast…especially the instant that I use, so I opted for a plastic cup because plastic is a poor conductor of heat.

I sat down on the living room floor and slowly sipped my coffee as I pretended to be awake.

I thought of writing something, but was too lazy to get up from that floor. All I remember about what happened is the feeling that I was losing my touch and maybe a few words could bring back whatever pizzazz I thought I had.

Some legendary thoughts, books, speeches, and events have taken place at four in the morning, but what was legendary in my case was the need to pee and stay still while drinking coffee until sleep caught up with me.
East African Pili Pili Mogo

September 7th, 2015

Binny's Kitchen & Travel diaries

As a true East African, I have a special place in my heart for Mogo (Cassava). It is so versatile. It tastes amazing barbequed or in Indian dishes with spices or in salads.

My favourite way to eat it though (aside from in Lighthouse, Mombasa) is with a fiery hot sauce which I call Poussin sauce.

Mogo takes me down memory lane to my days growing up in Mombasa, Kenya and my dad would take us every Sunday to Lighthouse to eat it roadside.

I am lucky that my husband’s family live in Mombasa and right opposite Lighthouse too so I can still get my fix everytime I visit.

I was recently sent Pili Pili sauces and a fruity sauce by a fellow lovely East African called Maggie, who now lives in Scotland. Originally from Tanzania, she has created a range of hot sauces with differing levels of heat as…

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Water Runs Slow Through Flat Land by Cliff Jones

September 6th, 2015

How many characters would cost you your job on Twitter?

Better yet, have you ever wondered what kind of trouble an errant tweet would get you? Peter, a news Editor at NPL, discovered just how much in Cliff Jones’ book, Water Runs Slow Through Flat Land.

There’s a lot to like and laugh about in this fast paced book.

First, there’s the change in technology with the digital era advancing communication and changing who tells the story and how it’s told that’s smart and comical in how Peter looks at it. He is thirty nine years old and divorced, but he is also known for not holding his tongue or rolling it back in his mouth when he needs to which is quite funny and disastrous for an Editor.

Second, there’s the dramatic turn of events that start once he travels to Afghanistan in search of a story that brings to light this humane and reflective side of Peter that you cannot help but admire.

Without revealing too much, the dialogues are my favorite part of the book because they vary in length and each character has their own style of speech. Some you notice say too much, others say one or two words and it reminds you of the various tones and situations that influence the dialogues we have in reality.

However, I can only hope that this is not the last I’d read of Peter.

It’s only 294 pages, you can buy the book on: Amazon

Read more about it by visiting the blog
Rosemary

September 4th, 2015

The house was along that street.

The address she stole from his computer had to be right. She held onto her bag and headed towards the first gate. She knocked and a face appeared right above her through a blank space.

“Hi, I am looking for a house and I think I am lost.”

The face and the blank space disappeared then she had a clicking of metals before seeing a whole body. His eyes traveled the length of her body and settled on her behind taking in the diversion until they finally found their way to her eyes.

“Yes Madam.”

She looked through her purse and then gave him the address.

“What do you want from the people in that house?”

“My boss sent me to deliver these flowers and some chocolates for his wife and it is my first job. He said they should get to her by eleven o’clock before she leaves for work and I am lost.” The man looked at her again and then adjusted his belt. He pointed at last house in the lane on her left.

“Asante.”

“Karibu.”

She looked at the flowers and smiled. She hated red roses. Whoever said that red roses were the perfect declaration for love had clearly not seen white roses! Maybe he had but he was too attracted to the red to think clearly. She looked back and smiled again. No one ever questioned the delivery personnel. The security guard had been taken by her butt that he forgot to ask about the chocolates.

She walked on until she came to the gate and this time she could see through it. She saw an old brick house with a wooden door and a black metallic post box right beside it. There were some flowers and a garden but her eyes could not see that far. She waited.

No one attended to her and so she reached for the button and pressed it. She did not know what to expect or how the lady would treat her, but she needed to do this. Her friends had told her it was stupid but she knew it was right. No one ever said that the truth was easy.

She adjusted the strap of her bag as the woman approached her. She had a petite profile, short hair and was clearly beginning to show. “Yes, how may I help you?”

“Hi.”

“Yes…”

“Um, listen…okay, I am sorry to disturb you. I think I got the wrong house. Thank you.” She took a step back and was ready to turn and run but she heard the lady’s voice pick up, “Okay, it happens. Bye.”

She stopped and turned back to her again.

“Do you need my help?” the woman asked.

“Hi, my name is Rosemary. I work, better yet I worked at Imaging Consultants Limited.”

“Yes, my husband owns that company.”

“I know you do not know me, but I had to come here and face you because I know that it is wrong to simply think or ive as though no one else exists and…”

“Do you want to come in? I am into my second trimester and I get tired sometimes.”

“No, you do not want me anywhere near you Mrs. Muli. I came here because I could not live with myself knowing that your husband had been interested in me when he was married.”

“So…he cheated on me with you? How much did he pay you Rosemary? How many times did he sleep with you and in how many hotels? How many times did he tell you that he loves you and that he is divorced? So, you have the guts to come to my home and show yourself, but why did you come here in clothes when you go to my husband naked? Why couldn’t you come to me the same way you go to him so I could see what he sees? God will punish you, I swear He will…”

“You have every right to be mad at me…”

“Oh, SHUT UP! What do you know about being a wife? What do you know about being Richard’s wife? If you have any dignity or sense of worth, you will leave and never come back…nikikuona hapa, I swear I will kill you and cut you up before covering your body and placing it on his bed so he can sleep next to a corpse!”

“Mrs. Muli! I quit! I quit because he wanted to sleep with me and I refused, okay! You are right, he kept saying he was divorced and kept sending me flowers or paying for my lunch- but I wanted to come and see you, because I could not do what he wanted me to. I am not like that.”

“So, now I should clap for you Rosemary? If you quit, he will hire someone and she will sleep with him, so you have not done anything worth my applause.”

“Mrs. Muli, did you ever work for Trans-Media seven years ago?”

“You looked at my profile. Yes, I did. If you are done talking, please leave because you have overstayed your welcome Rosemary.”

“It’s alright, but you were in my position once and you slept with your boss.”

“That was seven years ago, now, leave!”

“The man you slept with every weekend was my Father Mrs. Muli. I did not look for you to validate my actions Mrs. Muli. I wanted to see what it took to send my mother into depression and kill her, and I am glad that you gave me such a fine sight.”

Rosemary threw the flowers on the ground and walked on. She had to secure another job so she could finish paying her HELB loan. She did not look back as Mrs. Muli called her for she knew that if she did, she might be tempted to forgive the woman. It had taken her seven years to find the cause of her mother’s death.

East Africa Friday Feature Prompt: Risk: What’s your interpretation of Risk? A gamble on something.

Other posts to read today:

The Girl with the Golden Smile 3

The Cursed Blessing
When you’re down, it’s good to know that

September 3rd, 2015

Photo post by @facetioussoup.

Source: It’s okay!
Every market has a mad man, and it might be you.

September 2nd, 2015

Every market has a mad man

I have heard this saying all my life, but it was only yesterday at 12:17pm that I realized how true it is.

I made my way to the largest open air market here in Kisumu, Kibuye Market, to meet a friend who wanted me to accompany her to the supermarket so she could buy the Diva Soap that I use.

When I got to the market, I called her and she said that she was still waiting for a matatu and as such would take a while before meeting me. I was bummed by this so I chose to walk around the market and check out clothes and shoes.

My first stop was a lady who was selling ladies shoes at one hundred and fifty shillings. I tried on wedges, flats, heels, until I finally settled on a pair of blue wedges. I had the right shoe so I had to look for the left…in a heap of shoes. The lady looked at me and said, “Just look for it, then you’ll pay.” See, in Nairobi at Gikomba market (there are plenty of mad men there) the sellers always help you look for the other shoe, apparently that part of customer service is not available in Kisumu. So I adjusted my bag and bent down to start my search and this woman pushed me with her butt making me land on all fours. I looked up at her and she did not even acknowledge that she had shoved me. The lady selling the shoes laughed and said, “hapa ni soko, kila mtu ana nguvu.” (This is a market and everyone is strong)

I found my shoe. Some girl was stepping on it with her right foot. I tried to pull it out, but she said…”Natafuta hii kiatu,” I am looking for this shoe.

The seller came to my rescue as I started to withdraw my hand. She told the girl that I had seen it first and she reluctantly gave her the shoe. I paid for the pair and left.

The second stop was at the guy who sells some amazing handbags. When I arrived he saw me and smiled before saying, “Customer, aki hakuna vitu poa leo.” I told him I would visit his stall next weekend for a bag and he said he’ll set aside something great for me. I could not get being shoved aside by that woman out of my head.

My friend had not yet called so I walked around the market looking at ladies blouses and skirts. Every seller was praising their goods you’d think they had the best stuff, but one man stood out. I crossed over to his heap and had to endure insults from a tuk tuk driver who almost ran into me while driving on the wrong side of the road.

There was this large heap of clothes and the man was selling dresses.

He had a red scarf covering his head, a green one around his neck and he was wearing a dress on top of his clothes. He was shouting, “Mama kaw nanga, rinda maber mondisi ma ka jaodi oneno to kata news gini gi be ok chande nikech in e good news! Rinda ondisi makata e landi mon ok nyal ting’o lew gi, nikech in high class! Neye kaka ondisa, red, green white and black kaka flag! Rinda siling’ mia!”

Now that was in Luo, but in essence he was calling all the women to buy the dresses on sale at a hundred shillings each. He was saying that a woman would look great in one of the dresses so much so that her husband would not have to watch the news on TV because she was the good news, and that other women would not gossip about her for she was better dressed.

I bought three dresses- and I am yet to see whether it turns out to be great news in my case, but I had to make my way to the main road where my friend was waiting. She had to try the Diva soap and I hope she’ll love it just as much as I do.

When we were leaving the market we came across a mad man. They call him Omondi here in Kibuye. He was hitting his head repeatedly using his right hand.
What a bad review means to a Writer.

September 1st, 2015

Anton Ego, a food critic/reviewer in the movie Ratatouille says,

In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read.

But, what purpose does it serve to call a book ‘awful,’ or ‘trash?’
If I had E. L. James’ email address then I could email her and ask exactly how she deals with all the flac she’s gotten for writing The Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy.
And things went south when she had the Ask El James on Twitter while promoting her book Grey.

However, a review is very important to a Writer in the world of digital platforms. You are in Africa and you’re reading a book written by an Author from either Europe or America. It can either be in paperback or ebook format, but you’re reading that Author’s work and in that moment you’re appreciating their work.
It is a Writer’s hope and wish that his/her work is read by lots of people. So, you have two reasons why a review is important: you appreciate someone’s work and spread the word so others can do so too.

On social media word spreads as fast as a click. If you key in a book on Google your search is most likely to bring up two sites: Goodreads and Amazon.

As I write this, the feeling of despair is not lost on me as a Writer upon reading that bad review. I have had a taste of them and given my decision to write full time as time goes I am sure that they’ll fill my pages more than I can control them.

Have you ever wanted to read a book or gotten a book on offer on Kindle only to see bad reviews with reviewers raving “awful, boring, major cliffhanger, reads like it was written by a ten year old, annoying and whiney heroine, where do I start…”

Before you blow your top, bad reviews are part of the journey that assail you as a Writer and what matters is how you deal with it.
If you have published your first book and you come across the first review, and it’s bad, don’t sweat it. Read it or ignore it but if one thing is sure is that not everyone will be a fan or understand the genre you are writing.
On the other hand it’s no excuse to have a poorly edited book with typos and grammatical errors out there.
You have to keep writing. Each story and each book is different from it’s predecessor and you have to focus on that.
Sometimes the bad reviews could increase your sales, case in point Fifty Shades of Grey. The more people said it was awful the more people were curious to read it and find out if that was true.
You also have to bear in mind that you are also a reader and you have written bad or less favorable reviews of some books you have read.
You could take a vacation, or volunteer or work on another project to get your mind focused on a new adventure that could inspire your writing.

A bad review means that someone read your book and did not like it. It might hurt your feelings, bruise your ego and wound your writing spirits, but it will be there.

Lastly, you could picture this scenario that my Mom told me about when I was blue:
She said that a student in the University of Nairobi once stood up to tell Chinua Achebe that he did not like how Okonkwo was killed in his masterpiece “Things Fall Apart.”
Achebe did not hesitate. He told him, “If you didn’t like it, go and write your book and kill Okonkwo the way you want.”
You’ll hear from Me.

August 28th, 2015

For as long as she could remember the scent of him and that smile, all Vanessa had been doing was waiting.
She was the one who saw him that day in the school field. He was in a blue shirt and khaki trousers. The other boys were drawn to him as much as the girls were. He said something to make them laugh and that’s when his eyes met her cocoa eyes. They were dark and had a glint of mischief, but it was his height and ease that drew her to him. She had a few boyfriends in her stay in high school. There was the one she met in a bus on her way home who had written one letter but used a revised stamp. She had to pay fifty shillings to read his illegible writing and wrong musical dedications. Any fool knew that “Queen of my Heart” was a song by Westlife and not Backstreet Boys!
There was the great dancer in form three who though short had managed to hit on her best friend and get away with it. His idea of getting back at her had been to leave an empty packet of milk in her locker. She found it quite refreshing. Their break up and his upgrade became the talk of the two streams for that weekend. She told no one the that she never loved him, but was in awe of his handwriting and grammar. Even then she knew that she could not love a guy in high school. She could not lend her heart to a boy who had an influx of love letters from other girls. The thought of such deception made her cautious, but relatively stupid.

She fell hard for him.
He was talking to his friends that day but once he caught her staring, he couldn’t look away. She stood there until he walked towards her.
She could look into his eyes, but the scent of him was all she needed.
He was charming, but she knew that charm was deceitful and her heart stopped.
They were called to the hall where the results were announced. She hated Physics exams. She loved the practical exams but the theory part always had her in knots.
When their teacher announced the results she looked down aware that her performance would prove to him how stupid she was. In fact, she hadn’t studied for it. The skirt she was wearing was a size smaller, and the elastic on those new socks were stressing her, so she couldn’t focus in the exam room.
How would he know that she had been attending an English Symposium the previous evening and had been the best? Or that she wanted to know his name and hear him say that he liked her?

The result came in and he stood when his name was called and the sound of palms meeting filled the room. She could not put her palms together, but he saw her. His eyes stayed with her until the end.

The smart ones stayed in the podium to receive their gifts as the room filled with music. It was a Symposium and some entertainment was in order. She slipped out and returned to the hall when she heard E-Sir’s song, “Mos Mos” and found herself doing the Helicopter dance just like she had seen in the music videos and shows.
After a while she stepped out through the back door hoping to sneak back to her dorm and change. Those socks were really killing the muscles on her legs.
“You’re a very good dancer, Vanessa.”
He was right beside the door. His hands were in his pockets and his right leg was raised as he leaned on the wall.
“Hi.”
“Max,you can call me Max. I was looking for you.”
“Well, you found me. ”
” I did. You’ll hear from me.” She wanted to ask when she would hear from him but she didn’t want to seem desperate. She knew his name and he knew hers. It was enough to disregard the miserable grade she got in Physics.
The next weekend brought with it time to watch a Nigerian movie and read his letter under her blanket with the aide of a flashlight . He did not just like her, he really liked her. He was not afraid to admit it, but he found her confidence a little intimidating.
His handwriting was impeccable and he signed off better than she had hoped. She read his letter over the weekend, before she could pick a pen to answer his letter. But she knew even then that her heart would always beat to his.

That was ten years ago. Vanessa was still waiting. She heard from Max once in a while but his words never reached her heart or sparked the fire that he had kindled in her.
She had dated some guys, got dumped by three and set four in the friend zone. He had evolved into an accountant. She had evolved into a woman. When they met that day at the cafe, he had invited her to his apartment and treated her to lunch. He had the same glint in his eyes. She had the same stare.
He kissed her forehead that night, but nothing beyond that. She walked home tired and spent. He had drained her of the fire she kept burning for him.

She did everything to steer clear of him. No one she knew had married their high school sweetheart, but even then she hoped she would be the first. The fire in her heart was slowly picking up. He worked in the same building as her, and they had lunch when his moods favored him. Her colleagues told her they looked great together every day. She smiled at the beginning but it became more of a burden like an unwanted constipation.
She stayed late in the office that evening. The proposals for the new Campaign had to be revised before the Shareholders meeting the next morning. She heard the knock and his scent.
“Hey, would you mind if I join you?”
“No, please do.”
“Thanks.”
“I brought you some cupcakes from the cafe. I know you always have house coffee and two chocolate cupcakes every Wednesday.”

“Thank you Max, I didn’t know that I had a stalker in you.”
“I think it’s a good thing, at least a stalker who brings you cupcakes, look, would you like to go out with me, as in be my girlfriend Vanessa?”
“Max…”
“I know it’s been a while but I have been watching you Vanessa. Like how you frown when you want to say something but can’t. You also love blue scarves, and that everything has to be in order for you, but more so I have seen the way you look at me.”
“Max,can we do this later, um…”
“I have waited for fifteen years to talk to the girl I met at St. Anne’s during a Physics symposium who made me lose my cool. The girl who knew she came first and who wrote me the only letters I have ever had the pleasure of reading. I could sit here and go on, or tell you how much I have dreamed of this, but it is not in my style to live like am one of those Mexicans you swoon over in TV. So, what will it be Vanessa, be honest with me.”
“Max…”
“Are you seeing someone?”
“No, all this time I thought that it would never happen. You made me wait Max. I waited and dreamed and gave up and gained hope, it was like… Would you wait for me to finish typing this document?”
“It’s been fifteen years Vanessa, a few more hours wouldn’t hurt, but am not leaving this office without you.”
“You’ll hear from me.”

Other awesome posts in the East Africa Friday Feature
The Girl with the Golden Smile 2
Flashes of The Birthday Killer
You know Steve, right?

August 22nd, 2015

Okay.

So, you have that lunch that you’ve been talking about with your friends for years. You pick a restaurant that has free WiFi, yes- it is important to share those pictures on Instagram and Facebook.

You notice that someone has lost weight, another has gained some (but you won’t speak of it, if she asks, you say she is beautiful) and another is growing this bump that she cannot stop talking about. She is the mother to be and then all eyes settle on you, “So when are you getting married?”

And you shrug off your shoulders like, “God’s timing is best,” even though you know that you have had some suitors but are just not interested. So they look at you like you are crazy but say, “yeah, but no worries, you will meet the right guy at the appointed time.”

And you immediately say “Amen!” and look at the menu like an English teacher would mark an essay. They giggle a little and you do not bother to ask because that’s an inside joke among the engaged and married people. The waiter approaches your table and you say, “I will have the mango juice and chips masala.” The one with the bump looks at you and asks, “how do you keep fit with all that junk?”

You smile and say, “I do not eat chips during the week, so why not treat myself today, besides I hear their masala chips is to die for.” She nods and orders the same. The others place their orders and the waiter leaves you in the company of three lovely women whom you’ve drawn apart from and free WiFi. Which one would you pick?

Yes, so you go through your emails and check your Facebook wall for those updates and that’s when you see it:

“At __ restaurant with so and so, having a blast!” And you look up with your eye asking, “really?” But you say nothing because that’s the irony of it all. The person who cannot afford bamba 20 is always posting pictures of Jameson, Smirnoff Black Ice, Jack Daniels or standing beside a Range Rover with the hashtag #turntup #lifeisgood

So, you stop being so judgmental and switch off that new android phone you got with an impressive five inch captive screen and turn to the girls for a conversation. You start talking and listening and you realize that the one who has lost weight is Sharon. She used to sit behind you in class. She was index ten and she is frustrated at work because all the policies she creates are accredited to her boss. She knows so much about investments and even gives you a formula for saving and invites you to this chama she’s in.

The one with the bump is Martha. She is staying at home now, while her husband is working. She loves it because she had been in the banking industry for two years and she hated it. She wants to go back to school but they cannot afford it. She is scared that her second baby won’t be an easy pregnancy. She almost had a miscarriage last week.

And finally the one who has put on weight, well, she just got a job two years after graduating from the university. She had been stressed by her family and relatives desire to get her to move out and settle down. She is not dating anyone because her boyfriend had been sleeping around with the other women in her block. She says that whole “boy next door thing” is so wrong! Those type of guys have a constant supply of women and you all burst laughing. You realize that she is Michelle, and you always chat on twitter even though she goes by a different handle.

They turn to you and you say, you are figuring things out and all will be well. You have had jobs and you have traveled a lot, and most of all you are proud of your family’s support. Then Martha asks you if you are dating anyone. You sigh and say that you were dating this great guy, but you got tired of waiting on him and so now you are single, but not so single…and they laugh.

Just then the waiter comes pushing a trolly and serves you your food and you dig in like the hungry beautiful women that you are! Then Michelle asks Martha how Steve is doing, and she starts, “You know Steve, right? He is working and I do not spend as much time with him as I did before…”

Then you say you have never seen this Steve guy and Martha pulls out her phone. She types in a pin and goes to her Gallery and swipes left for a while until she gets to the picture she wants and then holds the phone in your face, “that’s my Steve!”

“Are you okay?”

“Um…”

“Hey, you look like you have seen him before, do you know him?”

“Um, yes…I think we have met at a training or something…does he work for a CSO?”

“Yes, oh my! It’s a small world!”

You look at your food and feel like someone is out to get you. You keep stuffing your mouth with fries. You know it should not bother you that Steve is the guy! You know?
The Man in the rain.

August 21st, 2015

It started out as a whispering. A loud and prolonged hush between the clouds that were drawing nearer the earth at eight o’clock in the night.
She held onto her sweater as she looked at the dark clouds hover above her while whispering.
They hovered and got darker and then just as they were about to merge she saw the flash of lightning bring back some light to the dark night. She looked at her watch.
The bus came and people filled it. It drove off while she was still seated on that bench. She fastened the scarf around her neck but the cold wind still stung her earlobes. She pulled out her phone and saw that she still had 27 percent battery power left.
Jeremy had called her five times. He might have been worried about her, but she needed to do this. The woman at the bridal shop had told her that matters of the heart could mess people up. If she loved Jeremy she had to face Mark. When she told the lady about Mark, the woman scrunched up her nose, scoffed and said, “A man with a four letter name is a player, haven’t you ever noticed how many women cry over Johns, Pauls, Max, and Marks?”
She laughed at this as she stopped to twirl so she could have a feel of her gown. She loved the A-line. The texture was smooth and it did not have too much embroidery. Her wedding was going to be simple, full of love and true. The woman had insisted, “you cannot move on unless you face your past and bury it.”
She stopped when she heard her name. It was a whisper as loud and real as that of the clouds she had been watching.
It was a voice she could never get out of her head just like she would never forget how he treated her. It was a mistake to him. It started with, “let me explain,” and ended with “I know I cheated but I love you.”
What amused her was how often she heard the words and how easily she believed them.
She looked at him settle beside her and braced herself for what he had to say.
” You came…”
She looked at him and then pulled out her phone. Her battery power was down to 24 percent. He had started with an observation not a question. She dug her hands in her brown bag and sighed.
“How are you Grace?”
“I am fine.”
“I can see. So, I hear you are getting married next weekend, is it to that Dentist?”
“Yes.”
“I hate Dentists. You know it really hurts when they extract a tooth.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t be like that Grace, I just wanted to see you and catch up on times and stuff, so don’t just sit there and act like I am a stranger, please don’t.”
“Okay.”
“Grace,do you love this dude? I mean, are you sure about marrying him?”
“Yes, I am.”
“He does not deserve you babe, he really does not.”

She looked at Mark and just when she was going to say something she felt the first splatter land on her forehead. She looked up and those clouds had now formed one large mass of the darkest shade of black and were sending those rain drops down on her.
The splatter increased as the raindrops hit the pavement with vengeance. Mark was shouting something at her about seeking shelter but all she could see were the lights and heard the brakes before she saw the bus come to a stop right before her.
She stood up and rushed into the bus while holding her breath hoping that Mark would not follow her.
The woman at the bridal shop had been wrong. Everything about Mark unsettled her because every time he opened his mouth, she held her breath knowing that her heart was listening to him.
He still had that scent: some musk with a twinge of lime. His hair was still cropped short and he dressed better than Jeremy. It had been two years and he could still rile her up, get her jumping and running after his empty promises. Jeremy always called her “honey,” while Mark always knew that she loved being called “babe.”
It was pouring as she ground her teeth hoping the bus filled up and left the station. It was foolish of her to think that she could still love Mark. He has asked for her hand in marriage. In fact he had been the first man to ask for her hand in marriage. He had also been the only man to make a promise and break it even before he finished saying it.
She wiped the window to look at the people and there; right behind the bench where they were seated was the red saloon car she could spot even in her dreams.
There was a man standing beside the car with an umbrella and he was looking straight at her.
She looked at the tall profile of the man and in that moment, she stood up holding her bag close to her chest and ran out of the bus. She bumped into the tout on the way out, as she ran in the cold heavy rain towards the one her heart yearned for.
Jeremy opened his arms and she walked right into them knowing he had so many questions. They stood there in the rain with the splash of rain, hooting of the bus, ghust of wind holding each other and answering their questions by touch.
She did not care about that, except for the fact that he had drove through the rain to come and get her.

Other blogs in the East Africa Friday Feature :
Love in Nairobi
Flashes of Vice