INDOLENCE

I am in my bed (heavy on the my) in an ample bedsit somewhere in Maasai Mara (Rongai), laptop on my belly. Banging on this piece, trusting it to lead somewhere. My sink is choking with unwashed dishes from the previous night; one, a pan that made an omelette – a perpetual footnote in the zeitgeists of bachelorhood. Eggs are our cronies, they remotely give the mirage of beef, only me? – Sad. Hunger stings my belly but I am indolent on grabbing some food. I live on the sixth floor of this lofty building. Taking the descent down is strenuous in itself, I can’t fathom taking the flight down and back up. Landlords here don’t care for lifts (neither the fact that my hot shower works only when it feels like), it is a luxury we have no right to claim. We have free Wi-Fi installed, but there’s a catch; It is more ornamental that functional. To use it you have to croon to its ears as you cradle it closely and lull it, you’re better off blowing gas into an open bucket.

No one revers silence here. The moment you settle to live in Rongai your right to peace of space and mind is inherently forfeited. It’s apparent NEMA doesn’t have jurisdiction in Rongai. Like people claim Ronga is far (eyeroll) so I’d understand if them driving here is herculean task. A marketer bellows a spiel over a megaphone down the road, exerting to garner clientele for apparently 5G Airtel lines for-drumroll-free. I don’t know who uses 5G in Kenya at the moment but Atta Boy sell it!

A night club sits behind our flat, it roars through the night and into my abode. I can’t help but listen to the music and the loud revellers therein. At 5 in the morning the club closes curtain with what I initially thought was peculiar but not so much now; a gospel song with a catchy hook – ‘Uninyunyizie maji’ – is gong to welcome a new day. On the bar’s third floor sits a lodging (read brothel) that heaves with debauchery. Occasionally, when insomnia strikes I peer through my window and watch folk waltz into the rooms in twos and out not so long after. I have grown accustomed to some faces, regular patronisers. I once saw a big boned woman manhandle a client for not paying the agreed fee. Geezer was shook and deservedly mortified with a small clutch building up to witness the fracas. Most egging on the woman to rough the man up.

Beside the night club is a Girls’ hostel sandwiched between two clubs in a long line of more bars and night clubs. At night, a stern middle aged man wontedly doses out at its entrance. He has learnt to live with the noise. Boys can’t access the premises for shit. The dwellers resign to talking to their male counter parts/boyfriends at the entrance. A 10 PM curfew compounds on their restrictions. Placating the guard past 10 is as useful as sending CV’s to government offices. He doesn’t relent, he watches futile attempts in vacant disregard.

On the main road, urban matatus and mini buses honk and spill upbeat music through their colossal sound systems with a bang. ‘Konda’s’ beckon at potential passengers over the maelstrom. Younger bloods use the modern buses where kondas wear knock off Gucci and look chic while older folk use silent buses where their kondas wear uniform and give back due change. I once sat next to a speaker box in one of those urban ‘mats’ and my ears rang throughout on my way to town. That day I made the switch to the more silent buses.

The noise doesn’t bother me, like the aforementioned guard I am used to it. I sleep like a baby over the clubs brouhaha. Over the cars’ honks. A sputtering generator could be put inside my head and I’d still go out like a bulb. I hold conviction once you live in Rongai anywhere else you relocate to would be a walk in the park.
This isn’t quite how I envisioned life after high school. I thought I’d have an enchanting girlfriend premeditating names of our future kids over pizza and the biggest bottle of coca cola. I’ve been there but fate put a kibosh to it.

My high school teachers sold us a picture of a frivolous and fun college life where you’d be spoilt for choice with dazzling girls lined up for you to pick. I bet they owe me an explanation since that isn’t exactly how it’s panning out. The only alluring damsel that knocks on my door is a friend-ish from 3rd floor that insists on using my small balcony for a smoke while we schmooze off, bro-zone? Maybe there’s something I’m not doing right, I need a talisman. A friend next door seems to be having the time of his life. His dishes don’t wallow in the sink like mine do. His girlfriend(s) make sure the small king lives comfortably. This may be nefarious of me but I long for the day two or more of his girlfriends will bump into each other in this cassanova’s house. He deserves it but dude is adept at playing his cards right.

I have to go to jet to school and follow up on my finances. The responsible department is as complacent on updating my portal as i am to get out of bed, you have to prod them out of their reverie to do their work. I’ll take a quick shower, fingers crossed my heater feels affable today, walk to school and grab some lunch there, which is more of brunch. Hopefully, baboons won’t lurk behind me for a piece of my food. Cunning animals those ones, more so to girls. They stoically walk into their hostels for spoils as the girls therein scamper out shrieking their lungs out. That reminds me, did you come across a video sometime last year of baboons chasing after lads in a basketball court? Anyone? Well, that was my school. KWS, please do something about those Multimedia University baboons they are becoming too much give them their degrees already.

*Checks outside* Too cold

*Sniffs armpits* Shower rain check.

Next time, my brigade, next time.

PC: Pinterest

4 thoughts on “INDOLENCE

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s