By Brian Nzomo
It is one of those afternoons in Campus, when you’ve got nothing to do. You are sitting calmly at a gazebo shade, enjoying the breeze. Then a girl comes and sits on the adjacent seat. She mumbles a hello. You mumble back one with an ephemeral smile. Then whip out your phone and start chatting. The girl does the same. She is definitely older and maturer than I am; probably a fourth year or a master’s student. I am a mere second year student. He is young, she prolly thinks. So let’s both act disinterested in each other.
But someone else comes to our gazebo. A heavily built guy. Very dark. And has cornrows. He greets us in a strange accent. Well, not strange, but we know it is not an accent we hear everyday.
“My name is Emmanuel. Emmanuel Okafor!” He says enthusiastically. He is charged with energy. Something I think is endemic with West Africans. I tell him my name is James Onyango(I barely tell strangers my real names at first contact), the girl tells him her name is Pauline. Simply Pauline.
“I have been to Keniiiiaaa for two mOnS noww! Beautiful contri. Beautiful geeeeoos! Like youuu!” He flashes a sick smile. Then he glances at me like he wants me to leave. But I am not leaving. This is my country. I was born here. No gaddamn foreigner will tell me what to f**king do on my own soil. I arrogantly cement my position and gaze at my phone. I can swear I hear him cursing in his head.
Now if there is one thing this Nigerian guy did was talk. He talked. Talked about many things. 99% of them irrelevant to us. Things we didn’t even need to know. He says he is a software developer currently studying for his master’s at KU. Pauline says she studies Film and theatre. I say I do architecture. A fat lie. Then he goes on to praise Kenya’s internet accessibility. And how much he loves the Wajesus family on YouTube. He is silent for a moment.
“Wueeh! Huyu msee rada yake ni gani?” Pauline asks me. The Nigerian is clueless. He certainly cannot decipher Kiswahili.
“Msee anabonga ni ka analipwa mazee!” I say smiling. I swear gossiping someone in a language they can’t grasp when they are present is priceless.
“I have tried learning Swahili. But this language dey hard oo!” He says. He certainly wants to know what we were talking about. But we won’t tell him. A breeze intensifies.
“Do you know what, I can invite the both of you to my ‘choch’ this ‘Sonday’. Our pastoo is a powerfu maan of god! I swear eem. That man go preach you go ‘hiie’ the heavuns com down!”
I bluntly tell him I am a Catholic, a lie ofcourse. He begins another topic. About how he went to Catholic school back in Nigeria. How he hated those old nuns who would pinch his ears with their gnarly fingers to make him recite the prayers correctly. I want to scream at this guy and tell him, “I don’t f**king care!” But peace placates my cords. And I swallow my budding frustration.
“Two months ago, I was dating…” He begins. When does this guy know when to stop. “…A beautiful Kenyan girl called Wambui. When I look back…I thank God for saving me from that girl. Kaaai! That girl was so demonic I sweee!…”
“Demonic? How?” Pauline asks him curiously.
“She had these things she believed in. Things I could not understand. I don’t know birth charts, with very weird weird signs…They looked demonic…”
“Astrology?” Pauline clarifies.
“I guess so. But anyway…I could not stand them oo…I am a feeem Christian…”
“You mean she didn’t do anything else…”
“Well…She was also very stubborn. I was later told it was something common with Kikuyu geeeos! I could look into her and I am certain there was no marital quality about her. No submissive quality at all…”
I chuckle for a moment. He glances at me laughing, “So it is true what they say about Kenyan women?”
“I don’t know. I don’t date Kenyan women!” I respond sarcastically.
“What do you mean?” He is surprised.
“I mean, what is surprising my brother? A man is not limited to date women, am I right?”
There is silence. His expression changes into a mawkish one. I am sure he wants to puke so badly. Then he says, “God have messsi on you!” I scoff and laugh. Pauline smiles.
When he stands to leave, he hands Pauline a miniature care, “Here is my nombaa! Call me first thing on Sonday morning. I shall come to pick you at a convenient place. The choch isn’t far. Somewhere around Kasarani. Is called JCC!”
Pauline picks it uninterestedly. Then the guy leaves, he shouts on his way, “Aah! This contri dey hot! Kaai!”
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