The Wasted Chance

The Wasted Chance

That day emanated its hours very fast. Marriam had promised to meet me at a downtown pub in Nakuru. I wore my ironed Kongowea clad and got ready to meet the bile of my gall bladder – my only rose flower: Marriam. I had asked my brother’s wife, Naomi to prepare breakfast and take it to my elder brother, her husband, who had been remanded at Sirikwa Police Post. She had however tarried at the police station and I was loaded with all thr household chores. My mother had gone to visit my stepmother who was nursing my bedridden father. It was a turmoil.
Recalling the previous day when Marriam came home, I become stupefied. I stared at her and walkef away in disbelief. All my worries had not been vanquished. This girl had been the major cause of the bankruptcy of my cyber café. The days I used to adjure my brother’s wife as inept in typing and gave the job to Marriam. The days home lost a meaning and later I resented. Today my keja is a shanty. My investment all reduced to rubbles. Marriam made me stare at my weak body, depreciated sense and more so reminisce of my troubles the days she dated my cousin two days after she kissed me off unceremoniously.
***
Dim were the club lights. Six sub-woofers were on four tables at the corner of the pub. I had my Mandela shirt on, grey jeans, and laced rubber shoes. I stared at a wide projectuon screen and continued sipping my mango juice diluted with my favorite VAT drink. Girls of all walks of poverty were present, who were poor millionaires busy drinking on their so called ‘sponsors’ to their fill. I recalled the days I was in form three when life was a bit loathsome; when my friends used to bring wine to the dormitories, and I used to be a staunch Christian, and never swallowed a bit of the same.
Two men with kinky hair walked across the front row of the chairs and ordered for ther drink. I just stared at them. I looked at my watch, and realized Marriam was a bit late. Suddenly as a sting of a bee, a lady dressed in an Italian dress with high heeled shoes came to my direction. Her chest was almost bare and the beastline was visible. Her waist was stringy, and to confirm my doubt_ she was Marriam. Her pristine designer dress she came clad in. All eyes gazed on her direction as if to welcome her. As I pulled the seat for her, I looked like a President’s only daughter’s bodyguard.
“Nakupenda vibaya” she said nonchalantly.
I just stared at her.
She looked at me with glittering eyes. Her eyebrows were well lined and accentuated her doll face. Her coal black hair reamed perfectly with her marginal body. She jogged my thoughts, cuddled my senses and abducted my feelings.
*
After a drink we entered one of the club’s lodgings. It was unbelievable of what I was nearly doing. I was near to hitting the best cul de sac of love life. I thought to have been deceived and defeated. A sensational guilt ran over my body. Marriam wanted a date with the poet- but I was a poor introvert – who had loathed lost the only hope to the world. Even though I was the best joker (when with her), she genuinely loved me- and laughed at my tiny jokes anf thought she was faking. So I sat on the duvet of the bed to pass minutes, and of course to stare at het once admirable body [that is to me].
She touched my body, and cold pain of guilt ran from my head down the spinal cord. I excused myself out to the lavatories and closed the door slightly behind me. Sure that Marriam was not to follow me, I lept across the pub, and went straight home to my shanty, where crickets had missed my snoring to compliment their chirrups.
An hour past midnight, a vibration of my phone, with ‘Darkest Heart’ name appearing on the screen, Marriam called me. I picked the phone in fright, shaking hands. She asked me to stop believing in what people say of her tattered prudence because she loved me deeply.
“Could I visit you the next day?”
“No!” I found myself saying in between soft sobs in my bed.
“Why dear Jasiri? I love you darling. Why should you do this to me?”
She continued talking with evident cry in her voice.
“I’ve been contemplating masturbation , but avoided due to my Christian views. I know you are my oasis in this desert…” she never finished and head a bang at the other end and I consented that she broke her phone.
I could not allow her to come to my shanty. Not to come laugh at my empty room-with a cupboard; a den of emotions, complete and incomplete manuscripts, rejected pieces, tattered novels from my favorite author friends. To me, Marriam came from a well-a-do family and was just animating me. I mistook her for an enemy, worse still, a critic to ridicule my poor self.
——
A year later when I learnt she became a radio prrsenter, I actually heard her sat that her inspiration came from the only love of her life- a poor introvert poet, who could not love her because he did not know how to love; whom she had visions of destiny with him, and felt like a parrot in a cage;- and she vowed to be a spinster until the time the poet reached out for her. She concluded that she believed innately that the poet is still a bachelor.
I knew that I had missed her, I had missed a chance of life_ a golden buzzer from Tyra Blanks!
#Awakening Dreams

Kipkirui Borusei

Borusei Kipkirui is a novelist, short story writer, scribbler and a poet born on 22/12/2002 to a family influential by Royal leadership. He was not for royalty, but for revolution: where he at a very early age learnt to fend for himself. He used to compose protest poems against barbarous teachers' treatment and saw him being expelled from school. Serving this tenure, he sat down and penned memoirs of his school life, all in a collection of memoirs: A Silent Grave (2019). He went far from home and sat to be a lonely person; vowing to be a recluse, basically from what he felt after being sent out of school. He joined a literary platform where he wrote as a guest writer, and met Lewis Wamwanda- who rekindled his intuition to public again;-the dream of being published. Kipkirui combines the power of oratory and mystery to tell of African stories. He has since written 'Home Bells, a Poetic novella' and ' I Saw You (2018). He has participated in the coming up of an anthology of poems: Shackles of Pain (2020). He is currently working on a longer memoir: Yolks Of Regret.

This Post Has 3 Comments

  1. This story is awesome. It relates with your story: Forever Yours. You are a powerful writer. I enjoy reading.

  2. Borusei, you were to go far as I knew. You are still my love. I ought to be Marriam!

  3. Kipkirui Borusei, I advise you to compile your short stories in an anthology and publish.
    I’m in love with your ink. If it’s possible, do so. I support you my boy.

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