On the seventh of October 2020, we moved into a new neighborhood. Moving in together made the most sense. And not in the ‘hesabu za Nairobi ‘way. You should have felt the air humid with euphoria.
The apartment was up to date, cozy and quiet. A place your thoughts could roam free, bounce off the walls and back into your head better formed.
Six months on, we are still getting accustomed to running a home. We’ve begun to feel that maybe the ceilings are too thin. You see, Procrastination moved into the vacant upstairs apartment. And man has she been dragging her feet (haha). We’re not nosy neighbors but we hear the slippers vendor could cater for their overheads by sales to Procrastination alone.
At the adjacent apartment, our other neighbor is back. He’d been on holiday when we moved in. There’s something about him…. I mean that one neighbor that always seems to exist in one form or another no matter where you stay. We call him Imposter’s syndrome. And Writer’s block arrived, promising to stay a day or two. It has been two months and who does his laundry? Kagûre and I. In fact, we bond over it.
Do you remember our first post and the promises it held? Laughter? Mischief? Probing society? Walking in foolish wisdom? Has the backbench stepped up? Has it?
Despite the inactivity that mimicks those many empty counters in a busy banking hall, the backbench is here to stay. We are kicking out the unwanted guest and padding our walls to drown each neighbor and their noises.
A Groaning Neighbor
As we get resettle in, let me tell you the story of how I limped around for a week with a groin injury. That’s what happens when Kagûre comes calling.
Circa (I love this word) March 2017, Kagûre and I decided to do a few leisurely laps in the campus field. The setting sun was beautiful, the air was cool and the track as dry as his puns. It was off to the aforementioned leisurely pace. No records to be broken, no prizes to be won. Or so I thought…
Midway through the leisurely run, someone picked up pace, effortlessly. I struggled to keep up only to be indoctrinated into the Nyayo philosophy (wink). Two more laps and I was trailing by ten metres. My chest wanted out while my mind kept reminding me that I should have stuck to running my mouth.
Then on the third torturous lap, I noticed the three ladies seated on the bench in the shade. Just behind the administration car park. She was in the middle. Alaaaaa.
Well, it turns out I was being used as a control experiment. Kagûre was galloping effortlessly like a thoroughbred horse in the full glare of his crush. Further behind bringing in the sharp contrast was the overworked,underfed Limuru donkey.
Laps done,I proposed a sprint race. Maybe I could redeem myself. Thoroughbred horse eagerly agreed. To this day, I believe Kagûre chickened out when I dashed off at fully speed. I crossed the line alone. Apparently the thoroughbred horse conveniently felt he was now tired. The out you shouldn’t leap with too great a stride because the groin muscles have a temper.
Anyway, I limped so Kagûre could walk over to his crush with a spring to in his step. To this day, I never got to tell them ‘mtaachana tu’. They’d have to have ended up together first.
