Close shave with death on Valentine’s Day.

You must recall that a few days ago I came face to face with a possible replacement of my rib. You also recall that the said rib gave me a date that fell on a kula hepi day baptized Valentine’s in memory of an extraordinary Homo sapiens who was born before you and me in the Pope’s land.

Now when you have a date with a possible replacement of your rib a lot of strange things happen. You suddenly see the light and realise that wearing mutumba is harmful to the economy. You realise that your nose has been lying to your brain all along that perfume and teargas are close relatives. Now, that organ which is in charge of smelling department changes its tune and declares that it was misquoted by the brain because a very strong perfume can earn you lots of bonga points.

When you have a date you don’t think; you imagine. You imagine that you are the toughest Homo sapiens on land, water and space. You imagine that a date is the name for heaven. If your wallet is yawning like that of the Wizard you find yourself wondering which bank to break into. Then you recall that the boys in blue went to a real college in Kiganjo where the curriculum entails, among other things, mastering how to shoot without missing. Since you are not brave enough to face a bullet you recall your teacher telling you to improvise.

Ladies and gentlemen, since I am not brave enough to face a bullet, my brain mastered the art of improvising a long time ago. Currently, it told me that to make for my wallet’s deficiency I should become a musician. It also told me that when you are a sufferer you don’t win a rib’s heart by singing Show You the Money simply because you have little on none to show. Instead you sing Sura yako Mama or something sweet like Tamtam. The date had supercharged my vocal codes giving them a lot of confidence and that is why I found myself trying to outdo whoever sang malaika.

Imagination was not done with me. It told me that Maricela not only call me lollipop but also beg me to take her to Kiandutu.

I stop imagining and began thinking when I met Marcela. When I gave her a flower she looked at it the way you look at leftovers. What is wrong with ribs? The damn plastic thing cost me a whole hundred bob! Mind you, that is a full packet of posho. If you are wondering what the fuss is all about then you have never been to my neighbourhood. In my side of the world a packet of posho is the yardstick.

Needless to say, Marcela was not in the mood to call me lollipop either. Instead of praising the man who was born in the Pope’s land for this kula hepi day she was asking dull questions about my fellow sufferers.

I was in the middle of telling Marcela about Wa Nderi, the independence hero missing from history books, when these three boys stopped us.

“Money and phone, ghasia,” one of them barked. I was ready to die protecting Marcela and that is why I shielded her.

“Clear the way before you get hurt!” I warned hoping to terrify the gang. However, instead of trebling in their shoes, the three laughed the way they do in horror movies. The gang leader looked at me the way they do in wrestling when they promise each other death.

“Money and phone. One, two…”

You already know that very brave blood runs in my veins. It was very demeaning to threaten me in front of a rib. Thanking the gods of love for giving me a chance to increase my bonga points, I raised a war cry. My hands made warm-up like those of Tyson when he fought with fists instead of mouth.

Then a nightmare unfolded.

The gang leader fished out a pistol! I almost wetted myself. I forgot that I am a descendant of a freedom fighter and became a beggar. I begged to be spared; on my knees. I told the gang that I was just joking, that kumi kumi had eaten my brain so dutifully I thought I was Papa Shirandula. I told them to kill me another day because I still owe Mama Wizzy a bunch of grand children.

 “Drop the gun before I shoot!”

The voice came from behind. I turned and this time I was sure my heart would really stop. Someone else had the dangerous thing. That person was Marcela. The same rib, my Valentine, was saying that she was police. Before you could say ‘Vera Sidika’ the three toughies were bathing in their own blood.

I sat on a stone because I could not trust my legs to carry me. Marcela was busy telling me things that I considered too dangerous to hear.  She had been working undercover for a week trailing the gang. Her name was not Marcela. She went on talking but my mind was elsewhere. Now I knew why she had not found the size of my head and dental formula demanding. I found myself wondering whether ribs that graduate from Kiganjo call anyone lollipop. Do they sleep with guns under the pillow? Can you dump them?

Then I recalled telling the rib sweet nothings (now bitter somethings) to the effect that I could break into central bank just for her. Looking at the three very dead bodies and the dangerous thing in the hand of whatever-her-name-was I decided to disappear in thin air.

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