A Dark Night

All the shops were closed. Shuttered with security grilles. A flickering lightbox provided the only illumination accompanied by electrical sizzle from within. There was very little traffic on the road and no matatus to be seen. It was cold but I reminded myself not to put my hands in my pockets. The streets were no longer safe. I might need both fists. I blew into my hands to warm them up, staring back bleakly at my reflection on the wet tarmac. I rubbed my hands and made my way warily down the street. I heard her voice before I could see her. A heavy smoker and a heavy drinker, or maybe the weather was getting to her. "I don't know", I replied. It was true. I didn't know what time the matatus stopped plying that route. It was my first time there. She took a couple of steps back into the shadows. I barely caught a glimpse of her face. A fine nose, and beautiful red shoes. Pity about the voice. A warm red glow and a guff of white. Ah, a smoker. Foul habit. Glad I had quit. It was cold and it would keep her warm. I took one look over my shoulder once I was in the shadows just to make sure I wasn't being followed. The streets were no longer safe. I squared my shoulders, hunched my back against the biting cold and picked up my pace.

I tried to whistle, but my lips were too cold and numb to carry a tune. Taking a quick look around me, I blew into my hands again, rubbed them together and put them inside my pockets. I have to remember to ask my wife to fix the hole in my pocket, I told myself. Then it hit me hard. I was on the wet ground. An unkempt crowd rushing by me from the alley on my left. There was no sound from them but the patter of plastic-soled shoes and cheap pumps. I instinctively knuckled my fists over my face until they passed. I turned my face to the alley, picking myself up warily. In the dim light over the tinny sound of a pocket radio was the silhouette of a security guard in a waterproof coat. Maybe a policeman. He squatted and slowly pointed a finger into the dimly lit doorway in front of him. Two shots echoed thunderously from his hand. I got up, trembling. He stood up slowly, and fired three more rounds into the doorway. Then he turned and looked at me. He raised his gun towards my face. Twenty metres away from my face. I stumbled and tripped backwards over the pavement as the shot rang out.

I don't quite remember how I found myself next to the bridge. It wasn't really a bridge. It was a series of odd-sized planks tied over a pair of twelve inch water pipes. I didn't remember running over it either. All I remember was the cop staring at me from across the black river just before I disappeared into the bulrushes. I emerged into a clearing after what seemed like an interminably long stumbling run before I felt the first sting of a hundred cuts from the napier grass blades. Bent over with my hands on my knees, I quickly took in my dim surroundings. I had never been across the river before. Very bad things happened on this side of the river. Above the rise of the river bank was a black matatu, I clambered up and circled round to the passenger entrance, coughing through the acrid exhaust smoke. It was cold inside the matatu. I asked the somber passengers whether the matatu was going to town. Most were in various stages of despair and tears. Then I smelt it. A rotting corpse. It wasn't the black river. I was in a hearse. I hurled myself out of the morbid vehicle, bumping into wailing old women and drunken laughing youth.

The run across the muddy road almost got me hit by a motorcycle without headlights. More long grass on the other side of the road. I wasn't going through that grass again. I half ran and half walked, not wanting to draw attention to myself. The grass was getting shorter and the music grew louder. There was a bonfire at the end of the grass with half a dozen teenagers dancing around it. I was desperate. I slowed down just enough to ask them the direction to town. One girl in dreadlocks with a baby strapped in a lesso on her back grinned at me and pointed in the direction I was going. Her other hand was clasped around a bottle of glue she was sniffing from. The boys started getting into formation and I started running again. My lungs were burning and bits of driftwood and jagged rocks flew past my head. As their shouts faded away, I realised they had given up the chase.

What was I doing on this side of the river, I asked myself. I was as good as dead. Finally, some form of residential building built of stone. There was some nocturnal activity at the matatu stop. It was floodlit and the lights were protected with a wire mesh so the rocks catapulted there wouldn't smash the lights. I was safe again. I pointed at the plastic bottle and the deaf-mute hawker signed twenty shillings with his clenched fists. I dug out a bunch of coins from my good pocket to buy a bottle of water for my burning throat. I hadn't run so far and so long in more than a decade. I took a long swig of the water as I slumped into a chair in the matatu wondering what I would tell my wife. That was the second phone I had lost in as many weeks. I slid over the vinyl seat to make space for the lady asking to sit next to me. The last thing I remember before slipping into unconsciousness was the taste of the water. It was a little bitter. And her hoarse voice. A heavy drinker. Or a smoker. Her fine nose and her bright red high heels.