Friday To Freedom

FRIDAY TO FREEDOM-By Samuel Otieno.
samihotieno@gmail.com 

 Sunday night was exceptional; still and numb, apparently from the wild painting sprees by revelers following a three-day holiday period occasioned by Madaraka Day. In downtown Nairobi, the popular night club ‘The Rendezvous’ reiterated the mood apart from Ashanti’s ‘Rain on me’ playing crisply on the decks, treating the inebriated patrons to its soothing and subtle pen work:

                ‘Rain on me’

                 Lord won’t you take this pain from me

                 I don’t wanna live, I don’t wanna breath

                 ….Am losing and turning and thinking about burning these walls’

As the night laboriously trudged on, the traffic eased along Ruvino Street where ‘The Rendezvous’ stood briskly overlooking the usually busy street. The lazy mode was in the air. A few meters down street, Monik a frequent twilight girl in these parts, puffed away under a dysfunctional street light post, sending circles of smoke into the numbness of the light. Business was bad for her that night. She stood there smoking and occasionally touching her red-hair Mohawk. She always did this whenever she was depressed. Further down street in a poorly illuminated alley, a couple of pitiful dogs were sniffing at something, circling at the lifeless thing with profound caution. It was no mistake. Even the mongrels seemed to know they had stumbled into something big. It was the body of a middle aged African woman, probably early twenties. Her mascara, lipstick and eye shadow were still intact. She was scantily dressed and one of her stiletto high heels was lying aimlessly a few paces from her. She was a beauty. Who would kill a beautiful woman? A drunken chap who had gone to relieve himself in the garbage heap was the one who roused frenzy on Ruvino Street. Every prostitute and patron from the nightclubs all crowded at the scene. The two mongrels gave indistinctive growls and scampered away into the night.

                “Call the police,”

    “Who? Me. So that I get arrested? No thank you, am not that stupid,” said                                 another

                 “That is the work of the police,” came another

The argument got intense. The drunken ones were a little rational. Everyone in Nairobi had learnt to mind their own business. So they stood there shaking their heads.

Two days ago. Friday night. Monik and the other twilight girls were working their shift. Sabine, who had recently joined Monik’s group had not shown up because she was a little hazy and had to stay in bed. Getting sick was the only way that could keep one away from the hustle, otherwise off days and holidays were all a pipe dream. The streets were tough-yes. But the show had to go on. It didn’t matter whether you got a prize beating from a disgruntled customer or contracted a god-knows-what. It was nothing personal. Just business. Sabine had never wanted this in the first place. She had lost her mother to a hit and run incident in Nakuru back in November 2007, leaving her at the mercy of, her stepfather who took advantage of her until she ran away to a maternal uncle in Nairobi who in the end got tired of having to feed an extra mouth. He threw her onto the murky streets. There she met the 27 year old Monik who taught her the maneuvers of the streets to fend for her six siblings since her mother passed away; she couldn’t remember when she had never known her own father. She didn’t care whether he was in a ditch sleeping away the fumes of yesterday’s drinking or in a mansion licking the hindquarters of his employer. He was dead to her. She was characteristically beautiful and her mannerism was controlled as she never used swear words nor did she overindulge in alcohol. The two women, Sabine and Monik had gone ahead to forge a silent pact to protect and help each other. They had both rented a shanty in Fuata Nyayo estate for Kshs 800 a month. Getting by was this continued hard struggle that seemed to add more weights of pain with each passing day. They had learnt to hide this painful reality. The hazy feeling had not left her and the white tablets of aspirin that she had taken earlier made matters even worse as she experienced a stint of vertigo. She tried to get out of bed. She couldn’t. Her strength had been shackled. Her body and spirit were both weak. Such moments made her think of her late mother. She would then cry for hours on end until her face became sore and puffy. She hated this life. The life of living close to the shadows of fear and deceit. But where would she go? Had she saved enough like Monik, she would have have started a business or something. She sighed heavily. It was all hopeless. As hopeless as trying to baptize a cat. Somebody tapped softly on the cardboard door. Sabine thought it was a dream until the tapping was followed by a voice.

                “Sabine, it’s me Shiro, are you still sick?” quizzed her neighbour who sold bhajias at the shopping Centre.

                “Come in Shiro, the door is open, I am afraid I cannot get out of bed,”

                “It’s alright I came to bring you these,” she showed her a basket of fruits

                “Oh, that’s very kind of you...just put them there...no here...just there...thank you,”

                “No problem. Am afraid, I can’t stay. Soni should be crying by now. She’s a naughty one,”

                “It’s ok...would you kiss her goodnight for me?”

                “I will,” with that, Shiro closed the door behind her.

Sabine felt like breaking down. It was that feeling again. She envied Shiro who had her own child, little Soini who was barely six months old.

                “Bastard!,” she cursed at no one in particular.

Her mind worked like clockwork. She had forgotten about her sickness and heavily climbed out of bed and opened the mattress cover and felt the Kshs 30,000 notes. They were Monik’s savings. Her heart raced. There was no time to think. She quickly took a pencil and roughly scribbled a note on a carton piece.

                “Sorry about this….It was not personal…Love, Sabine.

She then quickly removed the tattered dress and put on some skimpy outfit and stilettos. She heard footsteps outside, then a couple of loud chuckles. Ah…It was nothing. She tucked the notes in her bosom. A distinctive voice came from the yard. Monik? No? She quickly slammed the door behind her and stepped into the dark only to stumble into the dark silhouettes. It was Monik and the other girls.

                “Sabine...are you okay?” quizzed Monik

                “Ah…yes...I was…,”

                “Wait...Why are you..? She grabbed her by the collar and led her into the house where she searched for her money.

                “Hei!” Monik was boiling now. Her eyes glowed as she flung the helpless Sabine on the haid floor.

                “Thief! Where is my money bitch! Nataka pesa zangu!” hissed Monik

                “What money?” came the reply.

A scuffle ensued and the three other prostitutes held down Sabine, slapping her and heating her head against the floor. Monik had gone to the cutlery rack picked a knife and brandished it at the diminutive woman. Seeing death, Sabine flung the three girls and rushed at Monik. There a silent moan. All was hushed up. The knife fell on the floor as Sabine collapsed, bleeding from her midsection. She did not move thereafter.

                “Is she dead?” asked one

                “No…No…Sabine don’t do this to me”, Monik was shaking Sabine. She was dying.

                “Sabine! Sabine!..Marie am not going to jail; we are dumping this one,”

                “Where are we taking her?”

                “To some place I know, help me”,

They carefully wiped the blood on Sabine’s face and applied eye shadow, mascara and lipstick. They later put the body on a wheelbarrow they stole from the landlord and took turns to push it until they came to a heap near Ruvino Street. They dumped the dead body and pushed the wheelbarrow in a ditch before disappearing.

When the public later showed up that Sunday night, someone in the crowd had told them how he saw a red-hed and two other people dumping something. They loaded the body into the black land rover and sped away after trashing the man’s story saying he was drunk. Meanwhile, Ashanti’s song was doing its last lyrics

                “Am so tired of the rain in my life”

                Am so tired of the strain, I ain’t gonna lie!

The song faded away, so as the night that stood dead waiting to give the baton to daybreak.