short days, everlasting nights.

The year is 1997. I have just done serious battle with my last KCSE paper, and I can't wait to sample the boundless freedom waiting for me out "there". In a final display of dis-connect with all things high school, I sell my beddings, box, uniform; what I cannot sell I make a neat bonfire. I walk home standing in only my clothes and a small pile of money.

I get myself a pair of baggy jeans, a T-shirt that was written something that is not very nice on the front, and I am ready to roll. Having come from a high school that was boys only, and having been extremely busy during the year, there was no time to socialize with the local girls. The energy was tremendous. I was unruly, rude and I just did not care. With a few other bandits of a like mind, we started prowling the village streets, stopping any girl we came across. Any unfavourable response was met with with raw adolescent insults. There are these circumcision functions that usually occur during the December period; I started going to those too.

The going was great. During the evening, we would sit in some young man's room (cager). One day, a sufuria of mud-coloured busaa was produced. A cheap half smoked cigarette would emerge from someone's deep dirty pockets and start doing the rounds. I contemplated the busaa, and decided that I would drink it; You see, busaa is made from maize of a very dubious quality; Someone accused me of being proud, and to prove them wrong, I imbibed a generous quantity of the liquid.

My folks tried to talk me, tried threats but I was not listening. In those circumcision events for small boys that I talked of earlier, people would draw knives to win the affection of one of the few women who could afford to attend such events and wake up to a seeing and talking public the next day. I would get involved in such fights. We would trek many kilometres, stalking some poor girl. It was that bad. Of course, I did not care, I did not know any better. Me and my friends? We were tight. We had just finished high school. We are the only three people sagging jeans in the entire division.

March 22, 1998: A whole month had passed after the dreaded release of the results. My old man had not shown the slightest interest in knowing my results. I had been passed off as a basket case. It took my mom's intervention, and on this day I left to check my results. Immediately after returning, I was sent on some errands in Nairobi. Then I was shipped off to college to study CPA before totally dis-integrating.



Saturday, 24 2005: I was casually strolling from the shopping center, going home. I meet my comrade in arms of long ago. He is happy to meet me, some smalltalk. I have learnt not to ask people where they are or how they doing. So the guy asks me to go with him and visit home. I am reluctant at first, but I oblige.
We walk towards his home. There is little we can talk about, so we keep going back to the mindless days of '97.
When we are just about to enter the compound, he announces that he is married.
Married?
Before I can ask anymore questions, we are already in the "cager". I am standing in the small structure in which the man had been built by his father on his initiation. In the middle, there was a figure bending over some sufurias, a huge fire was going. There was a large curtain that demarcated the tableroom/kitchen from the bedroom.

In the "bedroom", there was a small child who was crying softly, her/his face with thick tear streaks from a long time in crying and equally long time in being ignored by the mother. Another kid pottered around the mother, fiddling with the utensils.

The woman straightened to greet me. I shook her hand. She was about 20. She was pregnant. She looked 40. For a maternity dress, she had a vast skirt tied around her mid-section; Her hair had dust and maize cob hairs.

My friend, the "husband", in an attempt to display authority, rudely orders the wife to make me tea. I try to tell them that it is not necessary. He insists. The wife answers back rudely. A small argument ensues. Eventually the tea gets made.
The husband does not drink the tea. He scratches his head as if he just had some great idea. He has. He takes away my cup of tea (without consulting me). He moves a few things at the corner and produces a bottle of a very clear liquid. Chang'aa.

This I adamantly refuse to take (I have a policy, don't get visibly high in shags). He takes two half glasses quickly. In a short while he is drunk. I excuse myself and go home.

That's life for many people of my age I know. Life is hard on them. They give up. They take up young women, thinking that the marriage and the sex will be a safe haven to run to; they endup breaking them. Then they live one long night of misery.

When you lose hope, you lose all. Stay strong, everybody.