Life, a subscription you forgot to cancel by Calvin Ron Ouko

Published in Qwani 04

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(NAIROBI, 2023)

He had a punctured neck, the man in the photo. Clearly photo shopped—poorly. Below it read, “ILANI: MATUMIZI YA TUMBAKU YAUA.” Still, Sam tapped the cigarette against his palm, lit it as the sun rose, and drew a long inhale. It's a ritual he’d practiced countless times, a small moment of pleasure in an otherwise busy day.

Julius stood by the newspaper stand outside the shop, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, or so Sam thought. He’d never had a conversation with this man, a local favorite. He’d seen how people treated Julius, like a madman. They often met in the morning at the same shop, both heading to work. Sam was an intern at a tax consultation firm, while Julius, well, he was a local handyman for the ladies and several businessmen around- fetching water jerry cans and other menial jobs that would get him some pay, or a cigarette. This morning, like most, Julius flashed a smile at Sam, holding out his slightly overused hand, bruised from the hard labor and even worsened by what was clearly a proper lack of hygiene. It was only a few minutes to seven, and Sam could not afford to be late for work. Crushing the burning end of the cigarette with his heel, he signaled for a cab to drop him at the station.

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(MOMBASA, 2008)

Talia sat just out on the doorstep. She was asleep, seemingly for a while too. Her lips, dry, were chapped- miserable. Her nose, dry, was disgustingly crowded by flies I could tell were less hungry than she was. Surely that’s why she’d slept without wiping the mucus running down her nose. It was hot outside, and I was hungry too. My heart sank greatly as I looked at my eight-year-old sister, leaning against the marred pole out on the mimetic verandah. I had done this many times before; this wasn’t new.

Window open, loud music from inside more often accompanied by faint muffles of a moan I had come to unmistakably, and forcibly too, acclimate to.

“Amka dogo,” I said, “twende tukale bhajia kwa Ma Ali.”

I gently picked her up, as I’d done a hundred times before, as I would again in the evening after school. Washing her face, I wondered just how long it would take before this wide-eyed, chattering, and optimistic child had her simple pleasures shattered by the reality that life was here in Ziwa la Ng’ombe. How small it was. I’d read about places up North in the city, of posh estates, how they pale in comparison to the smaller joys we extract from this noisy, smelly, and debauched neighborhood.

The books spewed of families with shared passions, of fathers making sandwiches on weekends. I’d wished that, if just for Talia, her idealism and contention for the smaller, simpler things like a trip to Ma Ali’s for bhajia would not keep her from seeking a life outside what she had known in Ziwa la Ng’ombe.

Or would such an epiphany shatter this chirpy, ingenious, and artless allure?

Optimism.

As we walked down the now less crowded corridor towards the marketplace, the wall separating Kikoo Industries from the slum was unmistakable, majestic even. It towered over the crowded mabati structures, contributing awfully to the stench, as its numerous sewers dumped directly into a stream of its own, running along the corridor. Of waste and filth. Of distaste, disregard, and contempt; absolved from any regard towards Talia or me, or anyone unfortunate enough to exist on this side of the social divide. Those lucky, it had employed- menial jobs, but better than nothing. Those unlucky- it made drug dealers, or food vendors like Ma Ali or, fiending sex workers- like our mother.

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(MOMBASA, 2016)

We now lived in a nicer house. Fancier part, but the slum nevertheless. Between the two streams from my mother and Talia, we could afford it. Mama was with Hassan now– a heroin notoriety– as his third ‘wife’. He chipped in when he occasionally visited, dropping notes on the table the same way he did when he solicited Mama’s services way back then. Talia had built her clientele too. She’d told me not to hate our mother, not to ascribe influence over this path that she too had decided to take. That it was not similar either. Hers, as she called them, were ‘high-end’ clientele.

We both knew what a lie it was. Then again, a choice like that- like the one our mother had made years before we were born to her through this very same trade- was never easy. My heart sank for both their delusions, and how much they needed them.

Oh, how much Mama needed Hassan’s syringes, as she lay on the verandah, drooling from both sides of her mouth. I assumed Hassan had just left. I hoped I’d find him around; these were his hours, and in my desperation, perhaps he’d bail me out of the situation I was in. I put my bag down, loosened my tie, and sat next to Mama. Maybe I’d talk to him tomorrow or some other day when she wasn’t sleeping on the verandah, high off heroin. I’d ask Mama to talk to him-plead my case. Today, like I used to find Talia all those years ago, Mama had taken her place. The window was open. The music from inside was loud, coupled with faint muffles of a moan I had never found the strength to acclimate to. So much so that it prevented me from going in, even for just a glass of water, despite being parched. Ma made some waving movements, throwing her left hand across her face, chasing the flies away. Ma had taken Talia’s place on the verandah, Talia had taken Ma’s on the creaking bed. I could remorsefully hear but the flies, those were still here. Their place could not be taken, not here at Ziwa la Ng’ombe. When I found Mama a couple of weeks later lying on the verandah, the same day she had promised to talk to Hassan about my fee arrears, almost succumbing to an overdose, the flies were still there.

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(NAIROBI, 2023)

Morning commutes in the city were hectic, to say the least. People lined up at the Metro, all kinds of them. She just had a rough night, you could tell, this woman on the line. The one next to her holds tight to the boyfriend, they had a long night too-club hopping. Sam sat in one of the metros, and next to him was a vexed parent, ludicrous that he was getting news of his son’s expulsion from school on the way to his middle-income job.

“Mkae na yeye ama mweke polisi. Three times is enough, mwalimu.”

Whispering in Sam’s ears was ‘Too Fast’ by Sonder; coincidentally, a state to mean that every passenger one meets has a life distinct and as complex as one’s own, or some similar meaning he’d read on the internet.

“Maktaba! Ministry of Water! Maktaba! Ministry of Water!” soon came the tout’s raspy voice, alerting the passengers of their end of the commute, Sam included.

It was going to be another long day in an otherwise longer week, hopefully not in a much longer life-Sam thought.

He was alone.

His mother had long taken her own life after an obvious failure to grapple with the consequences of her way of life. Sam had been hunting for jobs in Nairobi then, having finished campus, leaving Talia with the now deceased. No one had tried to contact him. Even his own sister. Perhaps she was too ashamed at the reflection of her future in their mother’s eventuality, found it too overwhelming to bear. She had disappeared when Sam got back, nowhere to be seen or traced. She’d just vanished off the face of the earth, Ziwa la Ng’ombe, and Sam’s life altogether.

He was so alone.

In his turmoil, he had no desire to die yet, despite a fervent wish to. Maybe that is why he had formed a habit of smoking. Cigarettes in their packets, one after the other. A patient, nobler and perhaps considerate suicide- he thought. His life had been tragic, no doubt. A series of unfortunate events. He knew that; he had no hope or wish to prolong tragedy or await another. Yet, some parts had surprised him positively in equal measure, and that, he wanted to savor. Summarily dismissing his life seemed too irrational, too rushed, less adventurous, too…weak. How else would he ever have known the joy of friendship? The touch of a woman? The thrill of a paycheck on a Friday? Or the thrill of any Friday?

Oh Friday.

The atmosphere, so jolly on this day. Nairobi, and especially its youth, came alive. Even the dead parts of Sam did on this day. Work went faster, with most of the day spent planning for the weekend ahead. Sam received the text he’d been waiting for the whole week. Not from Anita, but Amazon. His Marlboro packs had arrived. He chuckled at the thought, his six packets waiting at Accra Road, safely tucked.

‘WARNING: Death is the most certain possibility.’

(M. Heidegger)

Top-shelf marketing, or customer service, he didn’t know. He’d pick them up on his way to the NSK with Anita. He’d only met her the previous day, on a Thursday Rotaract Karaoke night his incessant ex-girlfriend had invited him to. Anita had found him by the pool, hoping to dodge the crowds, playing with matchsticks.

“I find that therapeutic too,” she’d said, “unless you don’t?”

He was startled, instantly getting over the agitation of being disturbed when all he needed was a little quiet. He found it therapeutic too.

“Why else would I be doing it?” he’d answered, “It’s like watching the life drain out of something. We all dim out you see.”

“Everything does,” she added, “I’m Anita.”

In the background, a young lady struggled to immaculately capture Sia’s vocals on ‘Chandelier’. Sam had heard a going theory that the song was about suicide, hanging from a chandelier you see. He hoped she was okay.

Talia too.

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Photo by Nezar Alareqe