Kenyan Timing Ate My Boob: Mombasa Raha, My Foot, #1

By Haroun Risa

My name now is Lemaron.

But my family, who never wanted anything to do with me most times, knew me as Daniel, the son of Margaret 'Shiro' Wanjiru, now the most dangerous female criminal in East Africa.

And so, as I discovered more about Shiro, I also discovered more about my boss Sayid, who died without ever knowing I was Daniel.

 

His son.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haroun Risa
• Release date: Aug 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201631574

Book preview

PROLOGUE

"... A cash reward of up to 5 million KES has been offered by the Government of Kenya, in conjunction with the Department of Immigration and the Criminal Investigation Department, for anyone who has any information which will lead to the arrest of Mr. Sayid Kepha Ismael, also known as a close relative of the infamous Orchardson-Yusuf family, well known for the massive expose on human trafficking activities.

Mr. Sayid Kepha Ismael is known to be an extremely resourceful and equally dangerous man..."

ALL IT TOOK FOR CYNTHIA’S journey to come to a tragic end, giving Rebecca Deng temporary relief as well, was a glimpse of CCTV camera footage from a tablet device, of a 4x4 stopping at a petrol station in Thika late into the night, and three unknown men stepping out, grabbing Cynthia from the back right door.

As a blindfolded Cynthia staggered around, unaware of being surrounded by the three unknown men, the CCTV camera captured her blood violently bursting from her head, and Cynthia collapsing onto the ground as the three men walked back into the car and drove away...

2013.

A few months after November 29, 2012...

My eyelids popped open with one thing in mind.

To be gone before the owner of the house woke up.

I hated it but what choice did I have?

Sometimes my eyelids stayed shut in protest, trying to hold on to a fragment of the dream world we all must get out of. But then I'm reminded I'm playing a very dangerous game by ignoring the alarm clock.

Though it wasn't the act of waking up which annoyed me. It was the realisation I had a routine life to conform to, a mundane protocol which had to be followed, with the expected returns being celebrated by little black hats tossed into the sky and framed photos of family members wielding credentials or marrying foreigners, a jarring contrast of skin colour and an age difference wider than the Zambezi, which only added to the egoistic nonsense spewed by the Kenyan woman of today whose mind is still in the shackles of colonialism; whose mind hasn't been liberated enough for her to appreciate the richness of her heritage as an African woman and gladly dances to the tune of anyone who requires sunscreen while standing in our sweltering heat.

Divide and conquer.

Boy, were the colonial rulers shrewd.

It sickened me to be there, it truly did.

The building was the kind of building which swallowed up an entire house, its lounge and master bedroom.

I never felt welcome, not once; my tongue doing a phenomenal job of holding back a battle between paranoia and common sense.

It was on the fateful night I managed to get there. Here I was once again, taking flight as a result of emotions clouding over reason.

I knew all along the man of the house would have bones to pick with me, because in Kenya the child is always wrong and the parent(s), always right.

A child receiving respect from the elderly was equal to the tail wagging the dog.

There was always this icy tension in the air every time I walked into the house. I always felt this heavy tension which, for some reason never eased up no matter how many DSTV Premium gadgets were on display; no matter how many Business Daily newspapers lay folded in the passenger seats and no matter how many foodstuffs greeted you upon opening the fridge.

For some reason everyone idol-worshipped them, chained by the shackles of having uncontrollable desires for the finer things in life they had, the finer things which were completely under their mercy yet mocked them because of the immortality us living things will never possess.

As might be expected, wealth was commonplace, but wisdom was always going to remain rare.

My aunt was the one reason I felt welcome there. She was an intellectual woman who was not only smooth with the manual stick shift but was also smooth with diplomacy and neutrality. Because of her, their home became an Eden of sorts, only it was an Eden created by her womb.

She knew I had run away. It was clearer than the HD flat screen TV they all stared at as they chomped on KFC chicken, the ultimate testimony of 'Maisha London'.

I was an intruder to their 'Maisha London', an individual who didn't deserve a mere whiff of their KFC chicken, all because I dared to go against the current.

As I watched them guzzle down bottle after bottle, I couldn’t help but notice how commonplace wealth became, and because wisdom missed out from wealth many times, disasters and scandals followed suit in being as commonplace as the wealth which eventually was going to be left behind for more family members to fight for, dividing themselves further.

I hated alcohol with a passion, and so many events which I couldn’t help but reminisce always reminded me why I considered a bottle to be less valuable than the life I carried within. Many always tried drowning it all, bottle after bottle, or through whichever substance did the favour of burying the consequence they always feared facing every time. But it always blew up in the end when they least expected it.

Whatever it was, from the deepest of fears to the most prevalent of regrets, it always showed when they were all at their most valuable.

The ice was broken with the following statement from the man of the house who had done the favour of accepting the woman of the house despite still bearing the scars of decisions made courtesy of a once clueless and rebellious youth, perched atop his hand-stitched, recliner throne placed in a strategically important part of the living room where he could watch the daily business news and have a 270 degree view of the lounge.

Listen to me and listen well, young man...

The minute these words started echoing across the lounge, one thing was certain, as I saw the KFC chicken being carried away by his wife, and everyone beating a hasty retreat.

The stage was set.

Once again, the child stood guilty of whatever was being accused, and the child was under no circumstances to voice any opinions or speak when spoken to.

Kenyan parenthood got summarized in no other way.

After the incident it was clear;

If you, as the child, didn't accept the unspoken fact obedience came before intelligence, you would become the black sheep and would have to put on your big boy trousers much, much earlier.

The finality of it all was what confirmed everything.

Sitaki wakora karibu na watoto wangu, sitaki wakora karibu na nyumba yangu, na nikiamka asubuhi nisikuone hapa.

(I don't want crooks near my house or my children, and let me not see you in this house when I wake up).

The whole time something made me shut up. Something wanted me to learn from his lectures. It was the fail safe mode my tongue had resorted to, a plan to protect my integrity and learn from a proud and arrogant buffoon who thought he would be buried with the many assets accumulated over the years.

It was my soul's way of teaching me something, a lesson so important and long overdue.

The KFC chicken had lost its flavour by the time he was done, and without a mere glance back he rose to retire to bed so as to remind himself once more he hadn’t lost his Bedminton prowess despite his age.

I sat there for a moment, looking at the chicken he carelessly left behind, and remembered how, a few days ago, I was learning first-hand what it felt like to have nothing in your stomach, and it would rumble so ruthlessly you would remember once more something down your throat was now valuable enough to keep your life going.

The house help cleared the table and winked at me as she did so, a brief and comforting gesture.

Looking at her, one thing was clear.

She knew.

I HIGHLY DOUBT THEY lived a life where they lacked the most basic of necessities. If they could be careless with things which had to die so they could fill their rich tummies, let alone cutting their tummies in order for the consequences of Bedminton to never get to change their lives forever, populating the world in the process, what made anyone think they would care about a fellow whose last name was the unspoken reason they tolerated him?

I had to decide.

I made up my mind as my eyes wandered around the dark room due to insomnia.

Sure enough, I was gone before cockcrow.

Only a backpack for a belonging.

Forward ever, backward never.

Poisoned chalices, we walk in numbers.

Proud of their beauty oozing poison, a good number are.

Proud of the fruit being more poisonous, not many will say they are.

Proud of your behaviour as if you were a pet, many wish you were.

Proud of you for getting back up, many deep down say they are.

Poisoned chalices, we all are,

For not one is the first to cast the stone,

Our skeletons hold us back through our reflections.

I was no longer Daniel.

Or was I?

PRESENT DAY.

THREE YEARS AFTER SUNDAY, SAYID AND SHIRO’S DEATH...

"...Daniel,

One thing for certain, it always haunted me more than our nights in the streets of Johannesburg.

Everything about your father... our moments together, as the flute played in the background...

In his embrace, I only had one thing to implore...and Tshala Muana just had to put my thoughts in a song.

Usinitese moyoni... (Do not break my heart...)

From the look on his face, he implored the same from me too...

He implored from his eyes to love one another and be each other’s rhythm, our hearts beating to conform to rhythm we sought from one another...

Despite my incomplete chest...thanks to the scar a Magumaguma had to inflict on me while trying to remove a bullet...

Despite an incomplete life, no matter what it was, I still tried and I still try my best.

But then again, the dream came back,

Him in my arms despite being incomplete,

Me feeling more loved than ever before... the one thing which came to me, Daniel, which gave me the comfort of knowing I was appealing to a person despite being incomplete, and for a brief moment, I lived, I loved, nurtured and taught despite all I saw, lost, felt and learned.

Once you learn I was the one who nourished you enough to grow, in those brutal streets of Johannesburg, you will know while your father Sayid danced his freedom away, a breast had to be sacrificed for you to be a person who truly deserved more, should accomplish more, and deserved to be more complete than I ever was going to be.

And it isn’t just because of a disease which ate me from the insides,

A bullet ate me from inside.

No matter what you hear of me, dear Daniel, in particular when I am no longer alive to be reminded how incomplete I am, nomvula do me one favour.

Love me for being incomplete enough to make you as complete as you should be.

Love me, Daniel.

Shiro..."

Daniel looked up from the letter, and suddenly felt hollow. Then he took a look at the suitcase contents, and immediately understood why so many people wanted the suitcase, and also why Sunday had to sacrifice his life for a suitcase to reach one person.

"... I am just as hypocritical, but I am too scared to admit, because it turns out I had to lie down 9 months in a row so as to bring you to a world where the others will never know what it takes to fend for yourself like you did, Daniel.

I am too scared to admit I too made my own mistakes and I pretend to be in a haze all the time, so as not to ever admit my soul is tarnished with déjà vu.

Daniel,

I will never deserve to bring another soul to this world,

But I hope wherever you are,

You will bring souls who will shun hypocrisy like you did.

You will be the phoenix we all in the family got scared of becoming.

You will be the