LE METRO *short story* Part One

Readers’ discretion is advised.

The content here is not appropriate for persons aged below 16.

 

“Drop! Drop! Makes a big pool”

chanted the little girl, with big bitutwas(pony tails) seated at the front window seat.

Next to her was a woman, in about her mid-thirties chomping noisily away on a cob of maize.By the movement of  her large jaws, she seemed to enjoy  more  of her mastication sounds than savouring the taste of the starch.The fourteen of us , all shared something in common that evening ;we were en route to Central Business District in Nairobi from Donholm.The journey was full of blank stares from passengers for a seemingly long period when a powerful  noise  interrupted the loud silence.

Two things had burst:

the little girl into a high-pitched voice and one of the tyres of our vehicle.

The conductor and driver actively ensued in a rude exchange of words before finally sourcing for man power from the male passengers. We were invited to get out the matatu so as ease fixing of  the puncture.Meanwhile , it was still raining cats and dogs outside.The passengers , exchanged looks as they were knackered with the entire process and association of getting wet with heavy rain droplets.

I was pensive as I was running late and I had to finish errands for my boss before meeting with the guys for monthly round of catching up over coffee in Westlands.

The guys,

Prof, is what he liked to call him.Tuliza Nyo is his real name.The  bald headed head auditor  at Oracle with a clean shave  of beards and lousy apparel of big size suits.

Imani likes to think she is going to be my maid of honour.We are both naturalistas and high affinity for vanilla scents.I love her character .She has a big heart, the size of Africa.

Jema-the diva of our circle as friends .She is doing very well as she recently landed herself as a new anchor for Primetime news on GTV.She seemed to have everything going on very well save for her love life .Who were we  to judge her taste of men; from her gardener  to a plumber and now a work mate,Barika  a recently divorced  man and the executive producer of the news.

Daudi- Oh boy, his beauty stung.I could not stand his gagging laughter  or evenly bitten fingernails.I always miscalculated my words with him and my tongue seemed heavy whenever we were talking.I had grown to  silently crush on him since our last conversation on Monday evening that week.

A financial economist-Kirabo.Myself ,deeply in thought reminiscing the  uncomfortable  moment earlier in the office when I was reprimanding a close colleague for squandering my money intended for a work project .I was not sure why i kept replaying the moment, was it because i had fired him or the pride that came with saying my money.

The five of us were meeting at Dusitd2 that Friday evening before I departed for Kampala, Uganda -where I’d be serving a manager for our company.

I was jolted out of my reverie by the one passenger clad in a pull-over hoodie with brown pants. He introduced himself by firmly gripping my hand  and spoke in a grandiose rhyming scheme.I chose to recline on the empty crate of beer as utterly bored by this conversation as well as worn out from standing for the last thirty-five minutes.

Then the silhouetted figure with a rotund belly appeared again.He  handered me something neatly wrapped in a small piece of paper. He confidently slipped it into my hand .I was dumbfounded by search a display of confidence when he said,”You look like you can use some of this”.

The conductor shouted “twendeni, beba beba, fastisha”- (Let’s go, hurry ).

 

DISCLAIMER. ANY Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s wild imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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Part II is underway.

 

 

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