Feb 24
A Game of Chances: In the shoes of Bolivar.
A trauma of love and identity crisis.
These are late night thoughts pumped up today on a rainy Wednesday evening on the volcanic soils of Mt Kenya Highlands. Seasons have really changed. During February it used to be sunny for as long as I can remember. A memory so clear because nineteen years ago, we were running home all the way from school to go collect mangoes that had fallen in the maize portion of the Shamba where the mango tree stood. The mango season was in February. You were/are not allowed to climb a tree when it was rainy. So, it shouldn’t be raining in February like today. I guess it’s what they are calling climate change. But how can a poor soul be concerned about climate when they are starving to death, clinging by the edge of life. Life for them continues. Once fed and full and hopefully healthy they might think about the climate. Maybe to you that is ignorant but how many times do you put yourself in the other person’s shoes? Hopefully healthy because you don’t want to be sick in this country & without a functional affordable health insurance scheme for a ‘Wanjiku’ your life hangs by a whisker.
I’m here with Bolivar. His full name is Bolivar Kinuthia Mukefe. He is very sad because life is becoming difficult every day. Today he has just knocked on my door in the evening. Without even notice. I wanted to tell him I got married yesterday just to turn him away. I had plans for the evening, alone. That statement would have just aroused his curiosity and he would have forced himself in to greet my newlywed wife who I don’t have. Lucky for the bastard, literally, it was raining outside, so I let him in. As much as we are saying the climate has changed for the worse, for Bolivar it was a blessing. He is twenty-four years but his face has evidence of old age, poor bastard looks forty-eight years. He looks like he has already been through another lifetime.
“Bro let me tell you”, his deep voice scratches his throat, probably rough from all the ‘soot’ and nicotine. He loves smoking cigarettes. There was a day we were having a drink one afternoon; he went through ten cigarettes in four hours. He has tried to stop apparently but it never works. He has lied to me severally hence I don’t believe him. He is just trying to look good, to impress me that he has changed. I have no idea why. “If you get married and be blessed with kids or let’s put it this way to cater for what we used to call unforeseen circumstances, if you father kids, do everything you can, to be in their lives” he continues. Bolivar does not know who his father was. When he has had one too many, he calls himself ‘just a nut’. His father bounced when he heard Bolivar’s mother got knocked up. Excuse my language, these are Bolivar’s words. That for him is a trauma he will never heal from. He was raised by his mother and their neighbors in the dark shacks of the ghetto.
He says he loves the bottle because he didn’t suck enough when he was young. How could he and his mother was also the provider. He had to forego sucking for his mother to hustle and get food. “I love my mother, it’s the only reason I am alive”, he says. “I know I have disappointed her but she still loves me” He starts to pat his pocket and I just look on. Scrambling for the cigarette. “The throat has requested”, he grunts. “Bolivar…!”, I call out. He was staggering when he came in and you can tell by the stench of his breath, he has been having cheap liquor at the Githuku Liquor store. After three puffs, he gets more drunk and starts to stammer. “Are you okay brother?”, Bolivar asks. “Yes, I am” I respond to him as I turn facing my computer. He is an intelligent young man. He has been taught a lot in the streets where he has probably spent the same time as he has in school. He was among the best students in his class. He has a degree in Chemical Engineering but he says he wish he knew. He would rather have drunk that money than go to school. Mark you, he got a second class, upper honors. He is frustrated again by life. He worked hard and took a chance in education but the rewards are nowhere. To get through to graduation, him and his mother worked hard, saved and lived on a small budget of expenses. Life has already beat him two nil. He is an addict too. He is just a poor drunk unemployed bastard.
He asks me how the world expects him to win when he has been knocked down twice yet in both situations, he had no choice. He had no one to look up to when growing up and especially a male figure. The ones he knew were passers by who were his mother’s “friends”. They Came with goodies and then disappeared for months before showing up again. At twenty-four he is astounded by how stupid he was, he didn’t know what was going on with all these uncles he had. All of a sudden, he starts crying. He calls it ‘kutoa kichozi’.
“I know I show up unannounced to your house and sometimes I call you but we all know it’s rare. We have come a long way. I pass by to check on the brother I never had. I didn’t even get a brother or a sister. I was just alone like a pile of shit in the bush.” his imagery captures my attention. “It’s because when I come to your house as a visitor, you are hospitable and in a different way than most people. I am a visitor who doesn’t disrespect the host by being glued to my phone yet I’m in their space. I would rather just stay in my house. Some hosts will be on their phones all along assuming your presence and its discomforting. People cannot even have conversations; you know the exchange of words one on one. I always appreciate our conversations and you lending me a listening ear. Have yourself a lovely one bro. Remember, it’s a game of chances. My mother took a chance with my father and look what happened. Me. I happened. I know my chance will come, I am hopeful and this will be the past. See you when you see me.” He picks a banana as he opens the door. “Remember to eat bananas!”, he shouts.
Every time he visits, Bolivar says women like men who eat bananas if I know what he means. He shuts the door behind him as he disappears through the poorly lit corridor..
