Harsh light pries through the curtain sheers, as you squint sitting up. She’s still asleep wheezing subtly under the covers. The type that sleep with their heads covered, she might as well tell a cop ‘I know my rights’, to go along with the psychopathy – no offence. If you sojourn in Mars just so you know there are things you don’t tell cops – Kenyan cops, unless you drive a red plated guzzler on the wrong side of the road notwithstanding traffic rules. Anyway that’s not pertinent, how does she breathe under all that cotton fabric without at any point impulsing to gasp for some air. The duvet traces the contours of her body; every curve, flat and bump beneath. In spite of the haziness, you still slept like a geezer; on the side closest to the door, it’s an inherent rule, not to be compromised, not ever. You are seated, barely clothed, back anchored against the squeaking headboard, a little woozy from the previous night of debauchery and missteps – of ash trays, pills, raunchy music, roaming hands and covering bills for strangers – ultimate philanthropy and price.
She jerks up, her face a colossal distinction from the one you saw the preceding night but still moderately satisfactory. She yawns in a stretch, her joints sputtering rapidly from weariness.
“Good morning Will”
“Good afternoon,” you reply, “it’s half past one, would you fancy an omelette?” You’ve always had eggs in your counter – a dummies guide to bachelorhood, always had them in your corner for times like these.
“Yeah sure,” she goes.
You shuffle to the cramped kitchen but it’s cluttered with grimy utensils from two days ago. You revert to bed, you’re not in the frame of mind to do the dishes, heck – to do anything, not even her and so damn sure not taxes. So you order chipo (not chips not fries they’re different) and 6 piecer chicken from Ngugi’s food joint on the ground floor and lie in bed gawking in oblivion at the bare ceiling. Now in a creased T shirt from your closet, she does the same, beside you like those corny coming to age movies but without the dusk, the moon and the stars. She interrupts the utter silence, like she always does when you’re having a moment.
“What are we? How do we define this?” She quizzes.
You panic, you have to. Why this question? Why now? Why does it always come when you’re totally chill and turns your world on its head? It’s a trick question and you have to be careful, you’re treading on landmines – one mistake and it implodes, you don’t want to have a short life – not Kevin Hart short but like a normal weekend short. Homicide is not the way for anyone to go out, not even the most callous foe. It’s the simplest of questions that are the hardest to answer. Your mind mulls trying to find an apt response, so what are we? Fundamentally, we are human beings in flesh, blood and soul just in bed trying to nurse our hangovers and pacify our raging hunger. Why doesn’t Ngugi knock on that damn door, you think. Of course you can’t tell her that, not once in light years. Not only don’t you know what you guys are but you don’t know her name, never caught it. The only one you know is from her Instagram ‘@thebadchick’. Never referred to her by name, ‘baby’ offered a leeway. You narrowed down to two names ‘Faith’ and ‘Mercy’. The former because most Faiths have braids are slender, come when beckoned, are neck breakers, listen to too much Cardi B, have phones with broken screens and they open bottles with their teeth. The latter since most Mercys are popular, known by club bouncers, are down to earth, know the best hangout joints and cheapest liquor stores around Tea Room and River road and don’t believe in chasers – warriors those ones, would break a skull if they have to. She is a cocktail of all those traits. (DISCLAIMER; if by chance you fit any of the descriptions aforementioned it is sheer coincidence ho-ho).
She casually grabs her phone dialls and calls you. Why would she do that, si you are here. It doesn’t register until the name ‘Tribeka Chic’ shows on your phone. The most petrifying thing is she still is wearing a pokerface, but the silence screams tacit venom, so badass it should come with a theme song.