Eden's Last Child

By Njoki Kamau

David Mwangi is young, handsome, and intelligent, the kind of son any mother would be very proud of. His smile, however, hides a sad secret that keeps him running from friends and the comfort of family life.

Davids fears come to a head when his friend is killed in a homophobic attack. Terrified, he flies to Britain, hoping for a better life in a free and fair society.

His problems, however, follow him across the ocean. As his secret life is unveiled, his family is thrown into turmoil as they try to come to terms with this devastating turn of events. Davids mother rushes to London to rescue him from what she believes to be a fate worse than death. In the midst of the dramatic events that follow, David ends up in hospital in a critical condition while his family disintegrates in an emotional roller coaster of guilt, accusations, frustration, and pain.

Will they all find the courage to confront their fears and find love once again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496995735

Njoki Kamau

Njoki Kamau was born in Nairobi, Kenya. She is a great lover of literature. Her writing career started late, and this is her second book. She currently lives in Wales, United Kingdom. E-mail: [e-mail]

Book preview

DAVID MWANGI

ONE

I swim ahead into the familiar pools between the colourful reef, twisting and diving, showing off my skill. Jonathan is close behind and to my right.

Even now I can feel his eyes turning towards me every few seconds. His eyes swivel from left to right behind the cloudy goggles. I hope he is impressed at the number and variety of colourful tropical fish swimming inches away, darting in and out from behind the pitted reef.

The water is crystal clear and looks almost good enough to drink. Cruel-looking black sea anemones nestling behind clumps of seaweed seem a long way beneath us, although I know that they are quite close. Their spike-like black tentacles open and close with the movement of the water, searching for a victim. Rounding a corner of the reef wall we find ourselves in a deep, round pool, the pearly white sand at the bottom clear of sea weeds and anemones.

The reef wall falls away, and we swim into the middle of the pool, luxuriating in the cooler water. I guide without seeming to, anxiously hoping that Jonathan is loving his experience.

It’s important that he and his brother enjoy themselves as much as possible. I need a really big tip to clear my rent and pay off my clothes supplier, who’s getting rather impatient for her money. I like to look smart, and I don’t want to be struck off her list of customers. She brings amazing clothes from all over the world.

As we reach the middle of the pool we come up for a few minute’s rest. The water comes almost right up to the neck. Gently bobbing in the water, we look around, and I spot something on the edge of the pool under a clump of seaweed. I dart off to pick it up, swimming easily. It’s a starfish.

I swim back towards Jonathan, making hardly a ripple in the water.

Look, look at this. Is nice, huh? I say, holding out my right hand, on which rests the beautiful starfish, its back and sides a bright pinkish-red colour. It lies still, barely moving, but it is obviously pulsing and breathing.

Go on, touch! I urge.

My eyelids are heavy with clinging drops of sea-water. Jonathan puts a forefinger on the star-fish’s spine and runs it along the rough surface.

Wow, he breathes, what a beautiful creature. His finger follows one of the starfish’s tentacles to where it rests on my wrist.

The veins on my fore-arm are a bit prominent, and I know he can see the pulse beating there. Man, I have a strange feeling as he stands still. The same feeling I’ve been having every time he looks at me. He bobs in the gentle movement of the water, and stands even closer, his shadow shielding me from the sun’s rays. His finger lingers over the starfish’s back, then stops again.

I look at him, and he smiles.

Are you going to put it back? he asks, stepping back as though pulled away by the natural eddy of the water.

Oh yes, I answer, We always put them back, to preserve. So other people can see and enjoy. I turn and swim back to the pool’s edge, where I carefully replace the fish where I found it.

He dives into the water behind me, and comes up very close. The water is a bit shallower here, and we both stand up easily, staring down at the starfish as it moves gently further into the shadow of a clump of seaweed.

Jonathan places his hand on my shoulder, staring down into the water. He lets his fingers relax and spread out, and I feel his little finger in the hollow of my neck. I look far out across the sea, hardly daring to breathe. I can feel Jonathan turn to look at me, but I don’t want to look back at him.

I don’t want to look into his piercing dark eyes, which seem to reflect the light in their irises. I don’t want to look at his arms and see the muscles on his shoulders ripple under the light brown skin. I dare not lift my eyes to his handsome face, with the dark hair curling closely over his scalp, glistening wet and soft, making me long to run my hands through it.

He might notice the confusion in my eyes.

I don’t know why, but my heart is beating faster.

There are a few little white peaks in the waves out there. The tide is coming in.

It’s time to go back, the tide is turning, I announce, and lead the way back towards the distant sailing boat, which is bobbing about in the water.

Robert, Jonathan’s brother, and his wife Lauren, who’d opted to do their own exploration of the reef, are already back in the boat.

Okay, let’s go! Jonathan shrugs, and starts swimming.

My name is Captain Raha. Raha means joy, happiness. I can give you a good time. I’ll take you to the reef, to see the coral and the fishes. Or to town, for the nightclubs. Very good, good music, good food, good times. Happy people. This is Mombasa, Mombasa Raha, the land of happiness! Has been my sales pitch to the tourists since I started in this job.

I’m twenty three, with a very good command of English, a spattering of German, French, Italian and Spanish. My English is excellent, but for the benefit of the tourists I like to pretend that it’s quite rudimentary, picked up on the beach, and not learnt in expensive schools in Nairobi.

Every beach bum you meet on the Diani coast is a self styled captain, theoretically able to offer any and every kind of tour, excursion, or service. One only has to ask, and of course, pay for it.

Having been in the business for four years, I’m still very young at my job. I came to the coast to join my uncle’s tour company as a driver, guide and general tourist magnet.

No job is too small or too big for us to undertake. Tourists are getting fewer and fewer every year, and competition is fierce.

My uncle’s offices are in the south coast, but I and the other guides on his payroll scout for business wherever we happen to be.

I was ecstatic to meet Jonathan and his brother Robert and sister in law, Lauren, at the beach bar of their hotel in Diani, where I had just dropped off another satisfied client. I think the fact that the elderly couple I was dropping off were so effusive in their gratitude went a long way to help me clinch the deal.

I seem to have totally won them over, especially Jonathan, who has been very friendly to me from the word go. His brother, Robert, is a cool gentleman. They are from South Africa.

They have signed up to my very attractive offer of a safari tour to Tsavo national park.

I really like him, he seems trustworthy, Jonathan had said at our initial meeting, although I was standing just a few feet away and could hear every word.

Yes, he seems okay. Anyway, that’s the best price we’ve been offered for the safari, Robert nodded, and so the deal was sealed.

I enjoy my job. I love meeting people from different parts of the world and getting to know a little about their lives, their country, and what they think about my country. I learn something new every day.

My mother didn’t want me to do this job. She didn’t like me moving to the coast, either, but I managed to convince her, and Dad, that this is what I wanted to do. They wanted me to go to college. My O-level grades were quite good. I could have gone to university, but I didn’t want to do that. Not yet, anyway.

I wanted to get away from home, away from the people who know me.

Inside myself, I had this sense of something unknown, something either very good or extremely bad, just hovering over me. Until I could understand myself a bit more, I couldn’t decide what to do with the rest of my life.

So, at the age of eighteen, I moved to the coast, and have never looked back. Manze, I love the laid-back, almost foreign atmosphere of the coast, the smooth-talking Swahili peoples, the coastal tribes living the same way they have always done, in tiny thatched mud huts in the middle of untouched bush. The way the men-folk sit all day under a huge mango tree, talking and laughing, unconcerned about anything, it seems, except their next glass of home-brewed palm wine, mnazi.

It seems like they live in a parallel universe, in a place where there are no bills to pay, no clothes to buy, or children to feed.

On the other side of the coin are the tourist hotels and the pristine white sand beaches, where one rarely sees any locals except the beach boys and girls bent on their dubious commissions. The bikini-clad tourists wander around, looking like they have landed in paradise, and wondering how come nobody else has discovered it yet.

The occasional middle-aged European woman in skimpy beach wear saunters past, a very young, black man clad in beach shorts and outrageous sun glasses by her side, looking incongruously mismatched, and both in their own way victims of their individual societies. Not that they seem to feel their victimisation, on the contrary. They laugh and smile, and seem incredibly happy to be together.

Mombasa raha.

I love this beach.

TWO

Jonathan is a happy drunk. Not that I’m one to judge. I’m sitting on the ground next to his stool, my head lolling against his leg. I’m in a warm and happy place right now.

It’s two days since the reef excursion. We and a few other tourists are sitting round the bonfire at the Tsavo camp, enjoying the cool evening in the half-enclosed patio outside the lodge’s main building. We’ve been imbibing since dinner time, while being entertained by Masai dancers, a terrible solo act by one man and his guitar, and an acrobatic troupe.

Everything seems hilariously funny, and I’ve been giggling helplessly. I can see myself doing it, but I can’t and won’t stop. My neck seems to have lost its ability to hold my head up, and it’s so pleasant to lean against Jonathan.

Jonathan’s brother and his wife have already gone off to bed, but he’s is in no hurry, and neither am I. I don’t want to go and face my empty room in the hostel-style building, separate from the tourist cabins, which tour drivers share. I want to sit here a bit longer, enjoying the warmth of the fire, and the jokes and the beer.

The night air is sultry and humming with the promise of something good.

It’s getting late, however, and the other tourists have been peeling off by ones and twos as the entertainment comes to an end. As the last of them – two young couples on a volunteer programme, who are visiting Tsavo as a break from teaching in a school somewhere in Kajiado – go stumbling off, Jonathan suddenly makes a move. The bonfire has gone way down, and the lodge employees are clearing chairs and glasses away.

David? Jonathan says, a funny note in his voice. My eyes swivel up towards him, and a happy smile curves my lips off my teeth.

I think I’ve had a lot to – hic – drink, I announce, trying not to slur my words.

Jonathan’s grey eyes stare down at me. They seem to be shining in the half dark. His hand is resting supportively on my back. Slowly, he drags his hand up to my neck and caresses me there, touching my ear lobe and neck muscles.

Under his touch, I nestle into his hand, a warm feeling coming over me. Abruptly he stands up, and holds out his hand.

Come, let’s go to my cabin, we can finish off this beer in comfort. It’s getting a bit cold out here. It sounds like a good idea to me.

As I get to my feet, giggling drunkenly, one of the Masai guards comes to escort us to the cabin. I pull myself together with an effort, opening my eyes wider to counteract the wobbling. As we set off down the stone flagged path, bordered on both sides with fragrant flowers, a lion’s roar splits the air somewhere out in the darkness. I jump with fright, and then laugh.

Oh! I gasp, clutching at Jonathan’s sleeve.

Wow, that sounds close! Jonathan says, addressing the Masai guard, who’s walking two steps ahead of us.

A red checked blanket is draped over his shoulder, he is liberally adorned with beaded necklaces, bracelets – on both arms and ankles – and is wearing open sandals made out of old cut out tyres. He is lightly and elegantly stepping along, the long twisted braids of his hair hanging down almost to his slim hips.

Over his right shoulder he holds a cruel-looking club, and a sword hangs off his belt on the left side. There is a confusing air of menace and romance about the guards which I always find hard to come to terms with. The guard looks at us, and to my relief, there is no suspicion in his eyes. In any case, there is no reason why he should be suspicious.

We’re just two guys out to enjoy a beer in peace.

The lions are out in force. They’ll be making noise all night, the guard says, and walks on.

As we round the corner of the main building the path branches off towards the distant cabins and there, right in front of us, is a small pack of colobus monkeys, moving aimlessly about, a couple of young ones rolling and tumbling, wrestling and chattering playfully. The Masai warrior waves his club to scare the monkeys off.

Hey, this is a total wilderness isn’t it! Jonathan gasps, laughing. He executes a few monkey steps, leaping and hopping with legs half-bent. I skip out of his way, laughing helplessly.

Don’t let them bite you. Need a lot of injections if that happens, you know! I stumble, giggle, and hiccup.

The Masai guard leads on respectfully to Jonathan’s cabin door. Only then does he hesitate and glance questioningly at me.

Are you going to your lodgings now? he asks in Swahili. I shake my head, no.

Oh no, this gentleman has invited me to share a drink with him, I answer. Don’t worry, I won’t need an escort – I can sleep on the couch! I add, slapping the guard on his bare shoulder.

I’m doing my best not to feel anything, or think anything, except the obvious. The guard seems to believe me.

"Sawa!" he says, shrugging, and nods amiably at Jonathan.

Jonathan dips a hand into his trousers pocket and peels off a note. Without checking how much it is, he claps it into the guard’s palm. The man glances down at the thousand shilling note and smiles, white teeth gleaming in his dark face.

"Thank you, ahsante sana! he exclaims, Good night!" he walks off, whistling, as Jonathan unlocks the cabin door and ushers me in with a grand gesture.

Won’t you come into my parlour! he cries, and laughs. There is that breathy note in his voice again. Even in my drunken state, I can hear it.

I feel a bit breathless myself. We’re on our own. I’m a bit scared, and yet, strangely excited.

I walk in and stand swaying, looking around at the rattan sofas with leopard-print cushions, the extra single bed in the corner shrouded in a mosquito net.

The closed air in the cabin hits me, and a nasty feeling comes over me. I try to hold myself in, but it’s no good. I’m going to be sick. A spasm convulses my upper body, and my hand flies up to cover my mouth.

With a desperate lurch I jerk forward into the white tiled room, and a moment later I’m making dreadful noises, and in between, I can hear the loud, gasping roars of the lions. I wonder just how far away they really are.

Jonathan comes to the bathroom door as my sickness eases off.

Are you alright, David? He asks. He’s taken off his jacket. He has also loosened the top few buttons of his linen shirt. He looks clean and relaxed.

Weakly I wave him away, and turn back to the toilet bowl.

Jonathan laughs softly, and gently closes the door on me.

Five minutes later I flush the toilet one last time, then struggle to my feet and wash my hands and face in cold water and soap. I rinse myself off, wipe my face on the white hand towel, stand in front of the mirror, and smile owlishly at my reflection. I feel so much better.

Hey, how are you feeling? Jonathan asks, jumping up to help me to the sofa. Would you like a drink? he adds.

I shake my head.

Oh no, no more drink for me. Do you have some water? I ask, sinking gratefully into the soft cushions.

Jonathan pours me a glass of mineral water. I take two small sips and put the glass down on a stool.

Jonathan is standing in front of the drinks cabinet. There is a small bottle of scotch and soda water. Mixing himself a drink, he raises his glass in my direction and comes to sit next to me, taking little sips.

Thank you, I feel so much better. Wow, that’s the price to pay for too much fun, eh? I laugh softly, slightly embarrassed.

Oh, don’t worry about it. Happens to the best of us, after all! Jonathan reassures me.

Really? I don’t normally throw up, but I have not drunk so much for a long time. I pass a hand over my face.

There’s a first time for everything, Jonathan murmurs. There is the hint of a promise in his voice. I wonder how many firsts, exactly, I’m about to experience. A few, I hope. I’m in the mood for adventure.

I’m sorry I messed up your bathroom, Jonathan! I say, placing my hand daringly on his shoulder. I can smell his aftershave.

Jonathan’s eyes meet mine in a frank stare. He gets hold of my hand and holds it between his, watching my face as though seeking encouragement. His eyes shine luminous in the dim light of the energy saving bulbs. I smile and nod, the happy drunken haze stealing back over me.

I like being here with Jonathan, and I like it when he touches me. I know something is about to happen. I feel no threat, as I usually do when – yes, when girls take more than a passing interest in me.

I smile, and let my hand snuggle into Jonathan’s strong fingers.

Yes, I sigh, and watch as his lips lift off his teeth in an answering smile.

THREE

I come back from the toilet to find Jonathan in close conversation with Jamo, whom we’ve just met. The club is absolutely heaving. It’s hot and sweaty, and it’s full of men, men of all ages and sizes, but then it’s only a small place.

A friend of mine pointed it out to me once, as a place where ‘shogas’ go to. This friend of mine, a fellow tour guide, laughed with contemptuous glee when he told me about the club, never suspecting that I might have an interest in such a place.

I have always wanted to come and see for myself, but this is the first time I’ve actually gathered the courage to do so. Perhaps it’s because I have somebody with me.

This is not really a club, but a kind of basement, underground den. The top floor is an ordinary-looking bar. The club has a second entrance, a door half hidden at the back of the building, so that anyone not wishing to be seen walking in through the bar could gain entrance that way. This place is designed not to attract women, being dark and rather dingy. I think the owner must be gay, although I have not yet met him.

I can’t believe I’m dancing in a gay club in Nairobi, Jonathan says, incredulity in his voice. Jamo smiles, and winks.

Oh, but you’re not, you know! He says, wagging his finger in Jonathan’s face.

This club does not exist. Not officially, anyway! Oh good God, how could it? This is Africa. This is Nairobi. Over here, we don’t have sex, gay or otherwise. Especially, not gay. He throws his head back and laughs, almost spilling his drink.

A couple jostles past us, locked in each other’s arms, hips grinding in time to the music.

Jonathan shakes his head.

I don’t understand. Is it illegal? He asks. Jamo adjusts the cuff of his expensive-looking striped shirt and nods.

Oh yes, this place, and all that goes on here, is illegal. Everyone who comes in has to give a hefty bribe to the bouncer just to get in, and the drinks are exorbitantly expensive. I hear the owner is gay, that’s why he allows us to socialise here.

Oh, I see! Jonathan exclaims.

Jamo nods back at him and delivers his parting shot.

This is Africa. As far as we’re concerned, not only have we never left the garden of Eden. We’ve also never admitted to taking a bite of the Forbidden Fruit. He exclaims impressively, and turning, leaves, heading for the dance floor, swaying his back side provocatively in time to the music.

Sipping at my drink, I reflect on the truth of Jamo’s words. Around here, nobody is prepared to talk, or even listen to talk about sex. Not candidly anyway. It’s just not done.

Jonathan has extended his holiday by one week, staying behind while his brother and sister in law went back home. He has, with my help, hired an expensive furnished apartment near a shopping mall in the west of the city. The apartment is in a four storey building, built in the shape of a U with a stone wall around the compound. The other tenants in this exclusive neighbourhood are quiet, unobtrusive, disinterested, the perfect neighbours for us.

The week has flown by in a blissful blur. Tonight is Jonathan’s last night in Nairobi, and the shadow of our impending separation hangs heavily between us.

Jonathan could barely bring himself to start packing, and he’s been miserable, the thought of going back to work, and routine, weighing heavily on him. He tells me he’s a self-employed IT consultant, but he still has to work set hours.

I have brought him to this club as a goodbye treat. I’m keeping my own spirits up by trying not to think about tomorrow. Jonathan has taught me a lot about myself over the last two weeks.

I have always known that I feel differently about women and girls, but I’ve never seriously considered the fact that I could be gay. I have always been happiest spending time with my male friends than any girl other than my close female relatives. Even my cousins sometimes make me nervous. Over the last few years quite a few girls have approached me with romantic aspirations, but all I ever felt was a slight disgust and a strong desire to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction.

One particularly persistent girl, by name Lorna Gitau, dogged my footsteps for so long that I was finally cornered into kissing her. She had enlisted the help of my best friend at the time, a school mate who was dating her cousin. At seventeen, I was easily blackmailed and dragged much against my will to the cinema on a double date. I had gone along reluctantly, hoping that I would at least be allowed to enjoy the movie, but this was not to be.

To my dismay, they’d all made straight for the back row, which was a well-known rendezvous for teenagers intent on using the place as a darkened trysting place.

George and Kari were soon giggling and making suspicious smacking and rustling noises, while I sat staring at the screen, determined to watch the movie. Lorna, however, was having none of that. Snuggling uncomfortably close, she bodily lifted my arm over her shoulder and nuzzled against my neck, while I tried to inch as far away as I could.

Don’t you like me, David? she’d asked, arms tightly wrapped around my reluctant body.

Of course I like you, Lorna, I’d answered, turning my face slightly away to avoid the contact she was so desperately seeking.

Then, why don’t you kiss me? Hmm? Kiss me, David! she’d urged, shaking me gently, a longing note in her voice which filled me with dread.

Taking a deep breath, I’d turned, and, with the air of one discharging an unavoidable duty, planted a quick kiss on her cheek, before turning my head back towards the screen. Lorna had paused for a few seconds, a pause which even I, anxious as I was to ignore her obvious romantic intentions, could feel was pregnant with reproach.

Is that what you call a kiss? She’d finally whispered, a cold note creeping into her voice. Her arms loosened their hold, and she’d flung herself dramatically back in her chair, obviously displeased.

If I’d known that you didn’t like me, I wouldn’t have come to the cinema with you, David. Why are you treating me like this? she’d continued, her voice rising, and ending on what sounded like a suppressed sob.

I’d realised, with alarm, that she was about to throw a tantrum. I had no wish to be the centre of an unpleasant scene. I therefore tried my best to reassure her, even going so far as to pull her to me, and placing her head on my shoulder with a comforting hug.

Lorna, of course I like you. I told you so, didn’t I? What more do you want from me? I’d asked, awkwardly patting her on the shoulder.

You don’t like me. You can’t even kiss me, the way George is kissing Kari, she’d exclaimed, and, turning to look, I saw our two companions, with the girl, Kari, almost sitting on George’s lap, locked in an open-mouthed, no holds barred snog.

"No way am I doing that with you," I’d found myself thinking, staring aghast at my would-be girlfriend. I needed a get-out card, and fast.

Listen, Lorna, I do like you. You are smart and beautiful and I like you very much, but I also have so much respect for you, and I wouldn’t like to do anything disrespectful, you understand? I’d said, repeating a clever line I’d heard someone say on a good movie recently. Lorna nodded, thawing somewhat. Encouraged, I had got hold of her hand, touching the red-painted finger nails reverently, one by one. She really was a very pretty girl, but I felt no sexual attraction to her at all.

I like to take things slowly, I wouldn’t like to rush into anything with you, and I’m sure, you wouldn’t either. That’s not the kind of girl I know you are! I’d continued, warming to my theme, and Lorna seemed happy to finally get some insight into my supposed feelings for her.

Of course, I want to kiss you. I’m dying to kiss you. But I’m afraid then – I might lose my self control, which I’m sure you wouldn’t want to happen. I’d watched as her eyes and mouth opened in appreciation of my decency.

Her chest heaved once or twice, and her hand grasped mine with renewed warmth.

Oh David, how good you are! she’d exclaimed, her eyes shining. I don’t want to lose control, either, but – I wouldn’t mind, just a little kiss on the mouth? She was pleading, as though she couldn’t help herself. She raised herself and brought her lips as close to mine as she could. I had no way out.

Puckering my lips I dipped down for a quick brush, but as though anticipating me she swiftly grabbed the back of my head and pressed down.

Caught by surprise, I opened my mouth to protest and with a thrill of unpleasant surprise felt her tongue dart swiftly, hard and sure, straight into my mouth, past my teeth, and – horror of horrors – try to twine itself round my own tongue. For two or three unbearable seconds Lorna ground her lips against mine, the taste of her saliva flooded my senses, almost making me gag.

With a desperate shove I’d disengaged myself and sat back, disgusted, while Lorna stared at me in disappointment, her mouth still half-open and the pink tip of her tongue visible between her lips.

Lorna, we agreed! I’d exclaimed, resisting the urge to pull out my handkerchief and scrub the smell of her off my lips.

What?" she’d asked, moving closer as though anxious to continue where we, or rather she, had left off. I’d had enough, however.

We agreed not to – go too far, didn’t we? I’d asked, watching her carefully. There was no way she’d catch me unawares again.

Too far? Is that what you call too far? Lorna had scoffed, obviously dissatisfied. At that moment, her friend Kari gave a low, naughty giggle, and Lorna sat back in her seat, determined to ignore me for the rest of the movie.

That was the last time I ever went out with a girl.

I just don’t like her that much! I’d said to my friend, George, when he questioned me about Lorna.

Soon after that, I’d moved to the coast to live and work with my uncle in his tour firm. I’d avoided all contact with women and girls, and had barely questioned my own sexuality until now.

I know that I’m hardly out of trouble yet, in fact, it’s slowly dawning on me that my troubles have only just started. Jonathan will be leaving in less than twenty four hours, and I’ll be, once more, at a lose end. There’ll be no-one there when I wake up in the mornings, nobody to hold me through the nights, nobody to lie in bed with on a lazy morning, eating toast, watching television, and having a laugh.

Looking around the club, I notice a few elderly- looking gentlemen skulking around, trying to look inconspicuous, while at the same time avidly eyeing up the younger men.

Some of these men are no doubt family men, men with wives and children at home who have no idea that their husbands and fathers could be anything other than upstanding, respectable members of their communities. These men are in this dubious and disreputable club, risking their reputations, indeed their whole lives, driven by an irresistible urge, an undeniable need which they have no doubt spent most of their lives trying to suppress.

Looking into some of these furtive faces, I can almost see myself in the future, skulking about like them, living a double life just to fit in, marrying a woman whom I’ll barely be able to bring myself to touch, just to keep other people happy. This is what society expects.

A cold hand of fear wraps itself round my heart. I have to find a way out, somehow.

ANGELA WAITHERA MWANGI

FOUR

The messenger walks into my office and hands me a brown paper parcel and some change. I give him back a ten shilling coin and smile.

Thanks, Kioko, you’re my saviour! I say to him, and he smiles back, murmurs his thanks and walks out, no doubt to enjoy his lunch elsewhere.

I clear a space on my desk and unroll the tightly wrapped packet of chips and chicken in its grease-proof paper, almost salivating as the aroma of the food hits my nostrils.

There goes my diet! I say to myself, enjoying the double edged joke at my own expense. Theoretically, I am always on a diet, which never actually takes off. I pop three fat, greasy pieces of chips into my mouth.

The chips, typical of the Funchic fare in Nairobi, are a bit soggy, and therefore, all the more delicious especially with a healthy dose of chilli sauce. I am especially partial to the chilli sauce, which I sprinkle lavishly over the chips and chicken. Soon I’m coughing sporadically, and moisture gathers on my brow and nose as the chilli does its work.

Eating chips @ my desk, yum! I text to my friend, Mary, who works in a bank on Muindi Bingu street.

Oh I wish I could, but my diet! Salad for me! Mary texts back, ending with a scowling-faced symbol to indicate her misery.

I smile, wipe my nose, and continue eating, reflecting that diets are all very well for others, but I will not starve myself for any consideration. Three times a week, I have to have my chips and chicken from the Funchic round the corner, otherwise I suffer severe withdrawal symptoms.

I’ve just picked up a succulent piece of chicken when the outer door opens, and two voices reach my ear. My heart sinks. My boss, Philip Gresham, the director of Kusoma, the UN-sponsored Non-Government Organisation, is back early from his meeting. Worse, it sounds as if his brother James, who’s visiting from Britain, is back with him. I let the piece of chicken fall back into the paper, grab the packet by the four corners and drop it into an open drawer as the two men walk into my office. I smile at them while wiping my hands on a tissue, and praying that there are no grease stains around my mouth.

Hello Angela, still here? Philip asks, then sniffs the air. Oh, I see, you’re having lunch, are you? Well go ahead, don’t let us interrupt. We had a snack at the Village Market. Any calls while I was away? Philip has a rapid way of talking, hardly giving me time to answer his queries.

There are a few messages on your desk, yes. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee? I ask politely, my eyes flicking between the two men.

Smells like chips! exclaims my boss’s brother, staring intently at me. I feel my face grow hot with something like embarrassment.

I wish now that I had taken my lunch to the Accounts office, which, while being rather dingy and with less comfortable chairs than mine, is more likely to be quiet during the lunch hour, since the four people who work there like going out as a group most days. It is also of course further away from the boss’s office and therefore safe from interruption.

In my view, nobody should ever be interrupted while enjoying a packet of hot chips and chicken.

Yes, chips. My guilty pleasure! I answer, shrugging off my embarrassment.

Er – would you like some? It’s too much for me, anyway! I add facetiously. Let’s see how the big white explorer in his linen trousers copes with a bit of authentic chilli, I muse rather maliciously.

I wouldn’t if I were you, James! Philip exclaims with alarm as I reach down into my drawer for the chips.

James hesitates, but I have already plonked the open package on the table. I stare at him, daring him. He sees the challenge in my eyes, and hesitates no longer.

Oh, go on then, I have not yet tasted real Kenyan chips, anyway! he murmurs, and gets hold of two fat morsels stuck together with chilli sauce. A third chip is balancing on the two he has picked, so that it’s quite a mouthful.

Wow, very big pieces too, and what sauce is that? he asks, as the whole lot disappears into his open mouth.

Fresh chilli sauce, I answer, a bit worried.

For a few seconds nobody speaks as James chews reflectively, allowing the flavours to fill his senses. As he chews the chilli’s lethal effect finally hits him. Eyes watering, he glances at me, and I see him register the guilty look on my face. Swallowing with difficulty, his whole face turns a bright red as though burning with a fiery heat.

Uh, hack, hack, ve- very ho-hot! he splutters, and grabbing the glass of soda on my desk swallows the contents.

Fresh gulps and gasps tell me that he has not found relief from my favourite drink, a fiery ginger concoction which comes in a small brown bottle and goes by the name Stony. It is not for children or the faint