My mind is given to rumblings, like an old steam train making a slow meander in a misty mountain track, boring through passes, incessantly reaching deeper in the vicissitudes of time. I hear it blubbering, sentimental even. Wicked and sentimental.
I have been talking about my encounters with a ghost, yet I have not breathed a word about why the haunt is on my every waking step. Funny, it took an internet storm over the weekend, from Jackie ‘Wilbroda’ Nyamindes' comments on death and afterlife, to pull me out of my raving reverie.
I hope someone prays for us sinners; we have sinned too much here. I've always been thinking about who would pray for me, and whether there's anyone in the world to do it. I'm awfully stupid about that. You wouldn't believe it. Awfully.
You see, however stupid I am about it, I keep thinking, I keep thinking, from time to time, of course, not all the while. It's impossible, I think, for the devils to forget to drag me down to hell with their hooks when I die. Oh, here I am, raving again!
I have never claimed to be the smartest, nor challenged for the strongest brute; my pride is in my patience, spontaneity, and ability to kindle little fires of pleasures. The reason I might be vying for the loony title is my tendency to let the fires burn out of control, without the slightest thought to throw a wet blanket over it once my face, hands, and feet are warm.
After running into Darce at the theatre in Nairobi, having ghosted her for months following our torrid affair at Kot’s exclusive masquerade in Malindi, details of which I alluded to in an earlier chapter, and will definitely paint a vivid picture of in the next few chapters, she decided to take my number.
I wasn’t reluctant to give it this time. I had felt the soft underbelly of a siren. We’d stooped to the lowest ignominy of pleasure, thoughts of which still made my toes curl, but the fall off left a bitter after-taste.
That’s what made it so eerily beautiful, like a shadow on my shoulder. Small spots of light breaking out of darkness. A fragment torn from a huge picture, the rest faded and forgotten, leaving only that piece behind.
I dare say that the party was organized by Kot, but others paid for the debauchery, in cash, for I made a killing that night. All my stock sold out, and despite reporting damages to two pots, a customized King's Pipe, and a Dab Rig, I’d tripled my profits by selling at a ‘premium’, being the resident smoke shop.
The following evening, I received a call from Kot that nudged the impending doom downhill, though at first, I was quite ecstatic to say the least.
“I think you’re going to like the sound of this, Obi,” he shouted over the phone.
“What?” I asked, wiping my face with a towel by the pool.
“You’re going to have to light for this,” he said.
“Not now, Kot, I’m at the pool,” I protested, but a little curious as to what had gotten Kot excited.
“Ok, Mister,” he always called me that to feign seriousness, only to continue spewing nonsense.
“Now, before we get to the news, where did you disappear last night. I remember me talking, and you eating the face of some chick, or was it me talking and eating, coz when I looked up you were gone!”
“I don’t like sharing my plate, Kot, and you know that.”
“Yes, yes, you and your standards. But from what I hear, you’re the most perverted of all of us.”
“What do you want to tell me, Kot? The sun is setting, and I want to finish my laps before dinner is served.
“Apparently, some hotel group guys attended the party last night, and they’d like me to organize the same experiences at their balls. And you know, an experience is never complete without your pouch and paraphernalia!”
