Long January Evenings

I'm 200 words away from my last article of the day. Try as I may, my mind is doing cartwheels and is shut down for the day. No more sentences it says adamantly. So I download an episode of my current watch, Watchmen and get some water from the kitchen as I wait for it to complete. No one is at the office, except an academic trainer who I have never walked in before or left after. It is 6.20 PM on a sunny evening in a February so hot it could as well be a January in disguise. The download is complete.

I pack away my laptop, lock it up in an office in the premises and gather my belongings and put them in my round rattan bag, which one time a makanga had asked if was a bluetooz dewice. I select the Homecoming album on a streaming app, plug in my earphones and get into the zone as I begin my walk home. It's a 40 minute walk and which I prolong because by the time I'm almost home, Mi Gente will be playing and I will go around the block to ensure its complete. 

This hot, dusty season I have absolutely been relishing these walks. So much so I have been walking to and from walk. As I meander the tarmacked roads of an estate where people were born with a silver spoon or whose father's started their chicken empires with a feather, I can't help but enjoy the false sense of security. You can't take these walks in many other areas of this our town. 

A mixture of dust and it's occupants, jacaranda floral scents, consistent exhaust from a series of boda bodas and a faint frying onion rent the air. I'm not wearing a mask, even though I would like to because sadly it's still hot and the elevation makes me pant in a way I wish my syabrite cardio exercise did. Also, how I'm I supposed to beat pandemics if I don't microdose on poison everyday? 

Beyonce is performing Sorry as I near the governor's (second? Third?) Office. The is dipping behind my back, painting the sky and my city with it a fierce orange. I'm walking down the hill with a stunning view of the lake. My watch reads 6.55PM and the sun is still reluctant to fully set. There are two pickups packed at the bottom of the hill and two men race each other up the treacherous hill. Because it is never enough that the government is giving us high blood pressure, we must manufacturer our own. I secretly judge them for doing something I don't have the grace nor the mental capacity for. 

I take another turn at the 2star hotel. A V8 (yes motorheads, I know) sleeks into the premises as I walk past. I wave to the gateman, who smiles back and gives me a nod as he closes the gate. This hotel has some good food I'll tell you that. I like their landscaping too! 

As an interlude plays I lose concentration on the concert and fight the demons of impulse buying who are trying to convince me to get a snack at the supermarket I'm walking past. I cross the road away from the entrance ( take that consumerism).

This stretch I don't like much. I have lost the advantage of loneliness and the freedom to twerk at my convenience without an audience. Unfortunately I have to behave as Beyonce synchs into Partition. I pass by the test drive area of a popular petrol station. That space is so dusty, if you're a desperate influencer who needs a fake Dubai, I highly recommend this space. 

Crossing the petrol station is hard when you don't want to take off your earphones but you also don't want to be crushed by a transist. If I die here, make sure Lindsay Stirling writes a song in my memory. Crossing the road to the other side is less stress compared to the harassment I will endure from makangas asking if I'm going to Lanet, FreeArea, Kiundu, Gilgil, Nairobi and other places along A104. 

Feverent headshaking doesn't cut it and I have to quickly walk past. I pass by a joint (restaurant? Nightclub?) with a big banner of a popular Kikuyu musician who is set to perform there over the weekend. The musican holds a guitar and dons a cowboy hat. Are you even a legit Kikuyu musician if you don't have a photo in that attire and sing music attacking your wife who ran away?

Another corner is cut as I take the path to the hospital. This one puts the hospital in hospitality, it is a luxurious accomodation facility with a side of medicine. There are trees surrounding the premises that I'm sure I've seen some homeless guys sleep in. Perched like birds. Hanging in the balance. Sometimes life makes you really why people are classified as mammals. 

I'm almost home, I slow my pace to ensure I internally dance to Mi Gente. As Beyonce synchs into Mine Boy, I'm opening my door. I'm panting like a burukenge but I barely notice. I remove my shoes, put down my bag, take off my jeans, light a candle, unroll my mat and settle into sukhasana. If I sit down first I can as well forget this entire routine. 

I'm not a very prayerful person, even though I'm trying to be. My mind is still in concert mode and I'm trying to ground myself. I take a few deep breaths, reflect on the day and try to wad of thoughts of the hell I'm going to make for dinner. 

A few stretches later, I roll up the mat, connect my phone to the bluetooz dewice and step into the bathroom just as Giveon begins Let Me Go.