Years back, when I was single, desperate, pregnant and fat, hiding away in a small rural town, my then best friend was called Doris, or Doríthi, as the town people would fondly call her. Doris had a boyfriend called Wanyoike, who was the founder and CEO of Nyoiks Base, a small retail shop whose anthem was: ‘ngai, ma sina shange aki’. Wanyoike had Jeff Koinange’s hair, only that instead of gel, he’d use some water every 8 minutes, and he had what people with relaxed hair call ‘growth’. He had Eric Omondi’s body, and a fuller version of Diamond Platnumz’s lips. He had small eyes, thick eyelashes and bushy eyebrows. He had traces of acne on his face and his teeth had been badly browned and yellowed by years of smoking Rooster, but those years were then in his past. He was painfully handsome. When you are single, desperate, pregnant and fat, you cannot afford to find unhandsomeness in any man. On Sundays, he’d wear his Salvation Army uniform and match to church to praise and worship his Lord. He was born again.
He always wore a t-shirt, shiny, faded, over-ironed office pants, his only pair of old Reebok sports shoes (without socks), a black, plastic Casio watch and a white Pilsner-branded cap. His fashion sense was unrivalled. When you are single, desperate, pregnant and fat, you cannot afford to criticise a man’s taste in fashion. Wanyoike was also one of the few young men in the small town who had managed to complete high school and he never missed an opportunity to remind everyone by throwing in difficult words like ‘herium’ or ‘crassification’ in simple conversations about a sick, dying cow. I thought he was wonderful. When you are single, desperate, pr…well, you get it. Wanyoike’s favourite drink was Krest.
Before going out on a (lunch or dinner) date at a local bar, Wanyoike would always eat at home first to save money. He was very wise. Doris would order her múkimú and he would order his Krest and she would ask him, “Kwani hukuri?” and he would say, “Nimeshaa kura kúu múcií.” and then proceed to down 78 more Krests. Since I gave the best company and was always such a welcome delight, I’d usually be invited to those lovely dates. The invitation would go something like this:
“Why don’t you go with them, Wanja?” I would ask myself.
“If you insist,” I’d answer myself.
“I do insist,” I’d make it clear to myself.
Then I’d go. I always could tell from the rolling eyes, sudden, uncomfortable silence and the angry “Ngai, ríu umekuja ku do nini gúkú na wína nda?” questions that they were always thrilled and grateful to see me, and I never felt like a third wheel. In fact, I felt like Wanyoike was OUR boyfriend and I would even tell him some of the things we’d need for OUR baby. Wanyoike was not exactly the man of my dreams, but when you are single, desperate, pregnant and fat, the man of your dreams can wait.
One afternoon, Wanyoike and Doris broke up after getting into a heated difference of opinion regarding Múchiri, Doris’ ex who had just bought a brand new Black Mamba bicycle and had given Doris a lift on it. Wanyoike had seen him peddling up a steep slope with her clutching onto his back for support and assurance, and of course, was overcome with jealousy. Being the loyal friend, I used the opportunity to let Wanyoike know how I felt about him and how Doris was not cut for him. He turned me down.
“Nií nimeokoka, siwezi kutanga tanga. Arafu ngoro yakwa í kwa Dore ona korwo anakurwo ní Muchiri.”
Early the next morning, a giggling, pregnant woman was seen sneaking out of his house. Strangely, she looked exactly like me, wore the same clothes I’d worn the previous day and was also called Wanja.
It wasn’t me.
WANJA KAVENGI