A Life of Bread and Other Stories

By K. W. Wamitila

Useful Idiots and Others Stories is a collection of twelve stories that explore the intricacies of human relationships between family members; the powerful and the powerless as well as other cadres of people. These are stories about people who find themselves on the antagonizing edge of life: from the broke professors, to the cunning robber, to the sergeant fighting for justice and to the scheming preacher. The characters, in their different circumstances, entice you into their worlds. What really drives our actions? They all seem to ask. Narrated with a dose of humor, acerbic wit, biting satire and enticing suspense, these stories are bound to enthrall the reader.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. W. Wamitila
• Release date: Jun 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201707743

Book preview

The Car Window

The first time Reuben spotted the two; poorly-dressed, encrusted with grease and dirt, seriously-emaciated, dark-faced young boys, he was driving to work in the morning. It was a perchance happening.

He had woken up quite early that morning, left his wife, who was usually an early riser, but had stayed up late the previous night, sleeping. He had hurriedly done his morning exercises on his new Vision Fitness treadmill that was placed near the car port, did a few press ups here and there, jumped the rope twenty times as he was wont to and, convinced that he had already had enough of his daily fitness dose, hurried back to the bathroom to take a quick bath. He did not want to be late that day. There was a lot of work that he had left pending on Friday evening. He also wanted to finalize his Income Tax Returns before the due date which was almost a week away. Besides, he needed to go through the many reports that had been lying on his desk for the last one week he had been away attending a conference in Spain.

It started to drizzle just before he left the house. The morning drizzle did not bother him as such. He did not have to walk to the parking; he could access the parking through a door that opened to his dining room. So, as soon as he was done with brushing his teeth with his motorised toothbrush, he picked his laptop bag, his car keys, assembled a few things here and there and opened the door to the car port.

He disabled the car alarm. The noise must have reached the houseboy who rushed to the main gate although the gate itself was fully automated. But his experience had taught him to stand next to the gate just in case Reuben, The Boss, had forgotten something in the house and he needed to have it before he left.

The car port gate moved up slowly until it reached its zenith as he stared at it blankly like someone watching a mute film.

He turned on the car, let it run for a minute or so, buckled up the seat belt, adjusted the inside mirror—looking at his face and in the process curling his lips like a youngster—then pressed a button on the steering to lift it up his seat a bit, opened up the side mirrors that had been folded against the sides of the car and the car pulled out of the parking.

The houseboy, actually a grown-up man now, stood there braving the morning drizzle. It was as if his age had frozen when he came to work here over twenty years ago. One might even call him a Peter Pan houseboy.

Reuben bid him farewell from inside.

The houseboy did not wave back; maybe he did not see the wave because of the heavy tint on the car windows. The Boss, who must have noticed that, hooted and sped off. The houseboy nearly ran after the car thinking his Boss had forgotten something. But the car zoomed off towards the main gate which was already open. Reuben looked at the houseboy from the side mirror as he ran after the car, initially excitedly, then reducing his speed and thereafter, stopping like a young boy who was unable to keep up with a speeding car. The Boss smiled to himself.

Reuben never reckoned with the behaviour of motorists in town when it rained. They all rushed to the roads causing huge traffic jams. It was such traffic jams that forced him to look through the tinted car window as the car moved at a snail’s pace towards the town centre. The road was choking with traffic. It irritated him that he had to face this gridlock every single day. He sighed, clicked and repeatedly tapped on the steering wheel like someone lulling a baby to sleep. He turned to his left and looked through the car window.

They were there. They stood huddled together like two sheep that wanted to keep each other warm. He looked at them, wondering what they were doing there at that time of the day. For a moment, he thought of lowering the car window so as to behold them better. He just needed to tap a button on his right but he changed his mind. What if they made away with his expensive Apple laptop that lay inside the black leather slip on the backseat? What if they pilfered his expensive Blackberry phone, on the co-driver’s seat, that he had bought at the Duty Free Shops at Frankfurt International Airport? This was a year ago when he attended an economic forum on Poverty Eradication in Developing World in Germany.

He stared at them again through the tinted window of his luxurious car. The car window seemed to distort their appearances. Their skin colour seemed different. Moments later, the snake made of cars started slithering downwards towards the town centre. He stepped on the accelerator and their images started fading away. He threw glances once in a while at the side mirror to see whether they had completely disappeared from his view. His laptop and his phone remained safe in his car.

He tried to suppress some thoughts that threatened to pop out of his unconscious. The car, a Mercedes Benz S550, moved on until they completely disappeared from his view and they remained buried in the bowels of his unconscious. What if they were just innocent young boys trying to survive in this harsh city? Maybe some abandoned children like so many who walked and slept in the streets? What if they had slept hungry the previous night and just wanted someone to help them with anything? Coins. Anything that was edible in their cars. Morsels of food. Simply anything? Well, but they could as well have been some neck-twisting, knife-wielding juvenile delinquents who thought people worked for them. Hardened criminals who turned themselves into illicit revenue collectors; squeezing hard-earned money from legitimate tax payers; threatening them with filth and dirt! The very thought made his heart shudder.

He continued driving towards the main roundabout that was just about five minutes from his office in Mlimani City Building.

For some strange reasons, the images of the two boys started fusing and got entangled with that of his houseboy. He remembered what he had once read from a book on dreams: that whatever passed through the mind just before one fell asleep, was likely to be conjured up in the dreams. Well, he saw the houseboy minutes before he beheld the two poorly-clad, emaciated boys. Wasn’t it then logical that their images would be fused; jumbled up or even splattered on the wall of his brain? He did not need a degree in human psychology to see that.

As he left his workplace in the evening, the images of the two boys were still stuck in his head.

The morning ritual repeated itself in the following two days. The boys would still appear in the morning traffic jam. As he did the first time, he kept his car windows rolled up. He looked at them through the tinted window; at their discoloured figures.

On the third day, one of the boys gestured to his stomach. He must have wanted to tell him that he was hungry. What if that was just a clever ruse to make him lower his window before he pounced? Most likely, the boy would snatch away his laptop or take away his mobile phone and disappear into the thickets. What if he held some hidden gun that he would use to force him to surrender his Breitling watch? No, he would not dare open the window. He simply cannot.

But as he pressed on the accelerator, an image that lay deep in his mind shot up like a jet. He remembered when he was a young boy, maybe their age, he together with his friends would sneak into their neighbour’s fruit trees and climb up fast like cunning civet monkeys. They would pluck out ripe fruits; eat them ravenously as they threw others over the fence that was nearby. They would, thereafter, tenaciously walk back; squeeze themselves through the fence and then pick up the fruits on their way home.

He recalled one day when they were chased away by dogs. If it were not for the intervention of the neighbour’s second wife, a woman he had married after the death of his first wife (she must have been called Sarah or Seraphim—he could not recall the name now), and one that some of the villagers looked down upon because she was barren, they would have been mauled by the ferocious dogs. He recalled the sight of the neighbour; a pot-bellied man, with greying hair, round face and golden tooth that stood out. He could still visualise the man’s grin as he looked at him and his friends.

These are the little monkeys that steal my fruits? he asked with a visible sneer.

What is your name? he asked, pointing at him with his walking stick. He never knew why the old man chose to point at him.

Reuben! he replied timidly.

Reuben, the small thief or is it a robber! he had said, laughing heartily.

The laughter shook his tummy. He stared at them, obviously examining their dirty and tattered clothes. He laughed loudly for some time. Suddenly his laughter ceased. He ordered them to leave and never step into his farm again. If they dared, he threatened, he would set his fierce dogs upon them. This time round there would be no one to save them.

Have you heard? It will be dogs! It will be fire next time!

Reuben made sure he never went back. His mischievous cousins tried severally to cajole him to accompany them. He did not. He did not want to be ridiculed or to be laughed at again. He had buried the incident deep in his young mind and was certain it would remain there, until now. He had even assumed that with time the duster of fate would wipe it off from his mental board. Now, it had somehow managed to find a fissure in his mind through which it squeezed itself out like the Aladdin genie.

He tried to rebury the story in his mind but in vain. He tried to hum some soft tunes that he liked humming when showering; even breaking into words here and there. But as soon as he was done, another part of the memory filtered through another fault line in his mind. He would even drag his memories from the happenings of his childhood, and literally throw them into the enticing memories of his recent trips to Europe; seating in the luxurious business lounge in Frankfurt International Airport, walking in the pristine Zurich Airport; dragging his cabin suitcase on the glassy tiles as he walked to check in. He tried to lull his mind with the images of the films he watched in the plane. Hollywood movies and their sounds of guns. Indian movies with their coquettish dancing.

But...

Just like boiling water that had been covered with flour, the suppressed memories bubbled up and found their way out. For the first time in his life, he wished there was a memory shutter; one that he would just put off.

The images from his childhood haunted him in the evening.

He had wanted to finish some report that was required the following day. He went up to the study on the third floor to do the work. He managed to make some progress but midway, his accursed memories came back to him. This time, it was an episode when his grandmother who brought him up after the death of his mother had forgotten to prepare lunch in good time. Reuben came back from school with a ravenous hunger. He dashed to the kitchen like he always did to check if there was anything he could take to assuage his hunger. Nothing.

His grandmother came moments later carrying firewood, ready to prepare the daytime meal. Reuben’s hunger was too much by then. He had to break the personal oath; to venture into the rich man’s farm and pluck a few mangoes. Maybe not. This time round he would beg for them. He got out of their compound and made a beeline to their neighbour’s home. He did not have the patience to use the main gate that was farther up from their home. His hunger would not let him. So, when he got near the entry they had once used, he squeezed himself through some sisal plants, carefully avoiding their sharp thorns. At last, he reached the neighbour’s fence. He lifted it and tried to squeeze himself through.

It was not his day. The neighbour, the man with the golden tooth, had spotted him. He must have remembered the promise he made.

"Simba, catch him!" he heard the command.

Reuben turned back. He had to flee. Although he managed to somehow dash through the fence, the dog was left with a piece of his school shirt. His hands were severely scarred. He got home crying and panting.

***