STORY OF MUNTE

My high school were days epic. But there was one thing that got my goat. Church. This is not saying that I am some unbeliever. I know enemies of my development will start constructing fictitious tales along those lines, don’t listen to that brouhaha. Anyway, church was on Sunday and it was compulsory, enforced by the watchmen and teachers a like. I was not a fan of mass. And almost all the time I was there: I spent it sleeping, reading newspapers or writing bloody poems. I quit writing poems, its tough. Writing poetry eats chunks of your heart, leaving you helpless, devoid of energy and creativity.  I hang my boots.

The administration knew that it had a band of raccoons who did not fancy the church service. To keep us in check, it appointed a Church prefect. This guy had the toughest on this side of Sahara. Harder than Ruto’s chances of succeeding Uhuru Kenyatta in 2022. His main job entailed walking around during Mass to ensure we did not doze off, read Fifty shades of grey or worse, write about our ‘conquests’ during the holidays. Every weekend I was a culprit of the above crimes, but the administration never got wind of me. Well, the prefect tasked with busting me was a friend, how could he? Its like asking Murkomen to set up Ruto? See, we are in a gridlock.

Campus happened and we all went our ways. But the brotherly bond has never left. Incase you’re wondering which school made us, sorry. KAPSABET BOYS HIGH SCHOOL; in understanding be men. We won the recently concluded great debater contest. Haters will start bickering, “I don’t know you’re just an alumnus” but fuck that shit. I still have the admission number and the lion eternally roars.

Pascal, the Jesus guy wrote something and maybe you, the gang can be better judges. Oh ladies, you might consider visiting his social media profiles.

By Pascal Vincent Mailu.

We all went our ways without so much as a goodbye. Munte knew I had been cheating all along and had been praying for me to change. In her head, she was the lady of manor who was going to drive from the abyss of sin. She was the one to set me in the light of the Lord. But each time she tried to make it right, I relapsed to my old ways.

The nostalgia of our final days has stuck with me ever since. Her cries are still echoing in the walls of my room. Whenever I pull over my duvet, I can feel the heaviness of her tears. She never said much. In the flood of tears, it sounded like a whisper. A soul torn apart by unrequited love.

“All I had was hope to change you. To love you and make you better, but as it seems, none of that shit is going to happen.”

She carried her bag and left.

That apartment lost its heartbeat. My own house became a haunted space. The gospel songs that had played in her presence were now replaced with moans of underage campus girls I brought to fuck every now and often.

Life rolled on. Years passed.

Someday last week, I found myself in a hospital lobby. Munte was somewhere in one of those rooms. Breathing her last, she had called for me. What happened to her? Did she ever get married? What was the man like? I hoped he never cheated on her. She did not deserve that.

I walked over to the reception. A heaviness pulling at my legs. I will tell you this. When someone who is in hospital calls for you, it shakes the roots of your heart. It literally humbles you.

The receptionist smiled as she directed me, as if I was being ushered into some damned cocktail party.

 “Take the elevator on your left to the fifth floor then walk straight ahead,” the weird looking receptionist said. Her face resembled a rainbow. Or rather, as if she had been hit by a makeup truck.

Her instructions sounded simple enough to follow when I first heard them. Now, I wasn’t even sure I was ready to face what I was walking into. Ding! The elevator doors opened and I stepped out. The doors closed behind me and I heard the elevator descend. I saw myself begging it to come back and take me down with it, far from this inevitable task. It was however too late and I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath and looked straight ahead.

I stared into the dimly lit corridor and wondered what demons lurked within it. As I made steps through the hallway, I felt the walls stare right through me. I felt myself use a little more energy to walk than usual. My knees became weak and I lost balance. I leaped and leaned against the wall. I felt right again after some seconds. I started moving ahead towards door number 247. 

Behind that day, lay the only woman who ever loved me. A woman had I stuck with, maybe I could be a different man. The rest were only interested in my money, never me.All the courage I mastered had worked up to this moment. The rusty door in front of me looked lifeless. All in all, I could feel it prying my soul and pushing voices into my mind. Telling, yelling asking.

“You are late young sir. What took you so long?”

I wanted to reply. I wanted to speak up and say that I was scared to stare at the ugly face of death. I wanted to say that I was sorry. I opened my mouth but words failed to come out. I could not find any words to say however much I searched. Instead, I found something else that was buried deep inside my heart. I found memories of a time so peaceful, so joyful. I remembered that moment when we believed that love could save it all. I grew nostalgic and tears welled my eyes. I fought so hard to keep them back but I lost.

Door number 247, I had had nightmares about how its inside would look like. A twisted, stained image of paradise, or maybe a darker version of Boogie man’s habitat. I don’t know. I turned the door knob and prayed that it would be locked. It wasn’t. I walked in and pushed the door gently behind me. The room was stuffy and I found myself almost gasping for air. The windows had been blacked out and this gave the atmosphere here a sunset effect.

Munte lay on her bed at the heart of this room. Her eyes closed, her nose as pale as dead skin and her lips were swollen maybe because of the feeding pipe that was constantly in her mouth. Next to her was a tall state of the art life support machine that ran wires all over her body. Beholding her like that, she seemed more machine than human. Her frame lay motionless and seemingly lifeless on that tired bed.

The room was silent and only rhythmic beeps imitating her pulse could be heard. I could see Munte struggling to keep breathing, fighting to keep her sinking ship afloat and trying to hold on to dear life. Seeing her like this, for the first time in a long time, broke my heart. She was losing this fight because I hadn’t been there for her.

Time had chipped away at Munte.  And even though she lay wasted in that bed, her beauty had managed to weather the storm. Aware of my presence, her eyes slowly opened.

Sharing is sexy. 

Photo credits[ Gorreti] She is a lawyer in the making.