What I’m going to tell you is not a story. I’m not a story-teller.

The candle is flickering as I write this. With the unwavering hope that a desperate publisher will find this third-rate piece of literature worth cracking his hairy knuckles over. The tin of Crown paint I’m sitting on is really cringing my bottom. Not that I’m enjoying it but I find sitting on a leather coach to write so ironical. Words flow from my head when mostly under pressure; pretty uncomfortable. Broke, dumped by a K-street whore, locked up by City Council askaris, kicked out by my sadistic landlord. Under the influence of frothy stuff people call beer. A peruse through the book of Revelation, surfing the internet on demonic stuff and shit, also fills my head with a chain of words that can be pieced together to make a fairy tale.

Well, today was Saturday. National Peace Reconciliation was held in on the KICC grounds. The pot-bellied government goons were their checking idly at the various display spots the Nairobians had to offer. I followed along the crowds, mingling with pickpockets, junkies, whores and all the myriad of humanity any cosmopolitan city could offer, at any given time anywhere in the globe.

The bodyguards kept pushing the people backwards.

But I saw him alright. The same cynical smile. He shook hands with an old lady. From where I stood if I had a 9mm. Colt, I could take him out clean. I pitied the human puppets called bodyguards. They looked hard faced and uptight with dark suits for nothing. Security my foot. All I had to do is aim, squeeze the trigger, wham the two burly guards on either side then dive to the nearest tent and walk home, my heart satisfied.

Or, if the bastards got lucky, I would lie in the city mortuary with a smile on my face. The invincible fate of an assassin – kill or get killed. But make sure you do the former first.

At that moment I lacked two things: a gun and the guts to do it. I was never born a killer. But like every human being, I had murdered a half of the people I knew in my mind. A bullet in the head, a truck run over, poisoning their meals – any imaginable curse for all the people who had hurt me once or twice.

As for the Vice President, I wanted this to be real. Practical. State funeral. Flags flying half – mast. National mourning holiday. The CID spending sleepless nights searching for the assassin-if I hadn’t died then. The Police Commissioner addressing a press conference: the killer and accomplices will be brought to justice. God. I wanted him six feet under and probably in hell. Having breakfast with the devil. His fat ass kicked by the demons of innocent souls he had murdered.

He didn’t see me. Of course couldn’t. I had lost weight terribly. Hair turned greyer. Fore head receding at the speed of light. My once pot belly was gone. I could feel my cheek bones vibrating against the wind. The media no longer recognized me. Literally. As a matter of fact, I didn’t exist. Dead. Eaten by hyenas in Karura forest. My wife probably pistoning her hips into some bastard’s groin. My boy Ryan calling another man “Daddy”. My brothers probably confiscated my farm in my rural home. Mother still mourning her defiant son. My old man dead by now. When I dropped out of school, he was already using a walking stick, took a bath once a week, couldn’t tell the difference between his sniffing powder and ground coffee…

Sick to my empty stomach, I moved on to another stand. The Vice President’s face in a coffin haunting my mind. His demise could naturally trigger another political turmoil. Or would it? The president didn’t like him much. Neither did I-

Suddenly a gun shot echoed through the air.

It wasn’t my imagination.


5 thoughts on ““Where is my Money?” [Chapter 1]

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