Stories with feet

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I’d like to begin the year by narrating the shady things going on because no one is interested in my happiness anymore. Not even my lovely Elsie. Most people, including most of my relatives, want me to be miserable so that they can have things to talk about. For the longest period, I have come to know that they love bitching and bingeing on grapevine. This year, I will not give them the pleasure of seeing my pain.

It all began last year when things were not going well for me. I had, for most days, contemplated of taking the easy way out of my misery. There are moments when I spent time visiting the recesses of wishful thinking. There was joy in doing so because I forgot my pain. The thoughts numbed my agony.

During the time, I was ravaging through social media since I had the time. Most of these platforms being Telegram channels that thrived on porn, news, and hookups. I don’t know why I was going down that road but at least there was entertainment for me. I giggled at jokes in some channels, marveled at 101 sexual positions paraded by porn stars and enriched my mind with the current news.

One day, I think the devil led me; I joined a hookup channel. I don’t quite remember the name but it was being run by a girl by the username @Cinthyacinthya. The channel had thousands of subscribers. I decided to stay there for a while, everyone else was. Why go when more than 20k men and women were basking here without worry? There must be something worthy in here, I thought.

Just like most hook up channels, there were things that dominated the platform.  Men and women were looking for hookups- casual sex, fuck mates, sugar mammas looking for toyboys, people looking desperately for partners for a relationship- and then ads to other hook up channels, betting channels or even porn channels.

At some point, I got bored. I tend to move quickly from one thing to another. I love spontaneity and new things. So I inboxed this admin requesting her for a hookup, to which she told me to pay a hookup fee of Kshs. 700. Well, remember this was November and I was broke AF. Trouble was looming everywhere around me and my life was hanging on a loose string. My balls were hurting, I couldn’t control my urine well, and I was a mess in bed. I was having all these bad days. Read more about this here.

I asked her the process of the whole affair. I love details. Though not always, but for this, I did so that in case she fucks up, I’ll have the legit reason to clip her ass.

I scoured my pockets and managed to send her the money. The number she gave me, 0705688637, was registered to Winfred Kagiri Nyambura.  I notified her. The number was not going through but she was getting the money. I don’t know whether she blocked someone once they sent the money or what.

I notified her that I had sent the money. I wanted a sugar mamma. Don’t ask why. But if it is your business to know, I like big mammas. I have always liked them and will always do. I told her I wanted someone between 30-45 years for a long-term affair, if possible. Someone who is not someone’s wife as I am not a home breaker.

Things didn’t go well. She requested that we do it the following day which was Sunday claiming that it was a bit late.  The next time we talked was two days after. And it is me who followed up to her to which she started asking silly questions like if I had paid the hookup fee. I was thinking, ‘bitch, we just talked two days ago! Why can’t you go through the conversation?’

We tussled a bit. I was not worried by the way. Long before I decided to send her my money, I knew what fate awaited her if she didn’t honour her word. I was prepared to make it my life’s mission to make her suffer. You see, I was in a tight spot already, given up on life, sick, wiped out and seeing my own things. There was nothing else to lose. It was only her and her alone- she was my mission. Therefore, I already knew that she might be stupid and try to con me. All odds were against her but I guess she had no idea. She thought me as any usual bastard looking for hookups on social media, who had money to lose, and that if I lost it, it was a small amount to whine about. I had seen her through because she was not the first to try to defraud me.

After going through our brief conversation, coz she mostly played cold war, using one word, she agreed that I had paid. I tried as much as possible to keep my identity under the covers because I knew if she knew who I was she could blow my cover. I guess that is why I am telling this story before she does because soon or later she will if she fails to return my money. I was afraid of her letting the dogs out, though I didn’t care that much.

Her chats were like:

Nyambura: Have got

Me: So?

Her: Location

Me: I’m in Nairobi, Satellite area.

Her:  0717588805

Me: Whose is it?

Her: Nancy

Me: Will talk to her then. Any info you can let me know about her upfront please? (You see how courteous I was)

Her: She is aware

Me: okay thanks.

I was not feeling enchanted as I should have been when she gave me the number. I have this thing to do with instincts, which for some reasons, are terribly strong when it comes to predicting occurrences. I couldn’t tell her that my instincts were not amused. I had to try out first so that I can have real evidence.

As the gentleman I was raised to be, I texted Nancy asking her when she will be free we talk. She asked me to text on WhatsApp. We talked a bit. I told her something superficial about me, still trying to stay low key. I asked her what she was looking for and she said she was a student looking for a man to take care of her. You hear that! A man to take care of her. She was 24. I told her I like older women. We didn’t go any further because we’d been mismatched.

I texted Nyambura.

Me: I’m quite disappointed that you could hook me up with something I didn’t ask for even after being particular with what I want.

Her: what (you how the bitch was economical with words? She didn’t explain shit or feel remorse.)

Me: The lady you connected me with is only 24.

That was 11th December. Nyambura never replied any of my texts. Her number not going through, I was only at the mercy of her telegram handle. On December 17 I texted her.

Me: So what have you decided?

She replied the following day.

Her: Chill

Me: I’m chilled. It is your lack of straight communication that agitates me.

That was the last she ever texted me. I even tried to ask her to return my money but all in vain. Surely, 700 shillings is little money for someone to bother another person. But what if she is taking 700 from a thousand people? Isn’t that a crime? Should someone like that go scot-free?

The thing is I had already sentenced her to a plan because I had foreseen her intentions. I wasn’t going to let her take my money. Maybe others were willing to let it slide but I wasn’t…

On 3rd January I took a bus. A crooked bus with all kinds of things in it, including animals, chicken, and luggage. It reminded me of Nyabiosi, my little village, only that where I ended up was quite different from my village. I don’t remember who sat next to me, or if he greeted me. I remember him chewing miraa. A green bag full of mogoka was tied to his trousers. I heard his stench and carefree chewing of the miraa.

I slept because I wanted all this to end quickly. Travelling in a crammed bus heightens my motion sickness to optimal levels. The only option I had was to zonk out. There were hours between Mwingi and us. There, I was to meet a friend of mine who knew someone who could help me find justice. The friend’s name is Mutinda and we went to mjengo together, some years back when I was not afraid of attacking any job. I had liked him, not because of his work ethic, but because of his ease to interact. He had stories and he narrated them in a very enthusing way.

He had moved to the village when things became hard. Not that they were easier there, but at least he had a roof over his head that he didn’t have to pay for. He was glad to meet me when I arrived. I had narrated to Mutinda my circumstances with this woman called Winfred Kagiri Nyambura, and he’d told me I could find a solution to all the mess quite hastily. He had then informed me that he knows a person who can make me pursue and acquire ultimate justice. At first, I was skeptical and against it as I don’t much believe in dark powers, but the thought of being able to have a good payback to someone who underestimated me charmed me a tad bit. That is how I made up my mind to go see Mutinda and his justice grantor.

I knew I was in a jungle, with this depressing heat and miles of dust with almost nil trees.  We chatted a bit and he led me to this witchdoctor, respected for his powers.  When we reached the gate of the compound, he told me I should go in alone. The compound was fenced with cactus and euphorbia.  The gate was made of thin barbed wire attached to a rectangular metal.

I pushed it open and went inside. There were many houses dotting the compound, all bricked. Many lacked windows. There was one, a distance away that looked like a real home. A number of goats and sheep loitered in a distance, working through the shrubs for their meals. I went straight, following the dusty path that led to a bench.

From here, I could see a number of people. Some in the windowless houses, others just outside the houses having badinage. It looked like the mganga was making a kill for himself from his work.

When I approached the bench, a well-fed man in a decent attire walked out from a bricked hut just nearby. He greeted me without shaking my hand.  He had no resemblance to the normal, frightening witches we see in movies. He was like any man, too good to be true. He was better dressed than I was and his body was full. I was only a tad taller than he was.

He asked me to sit on the bench while he sat on the seat before me.

Him: What brings you here?

Me: Shouldn’t you be all knowing now that you’re in that department?

Him: I would like to but I need preliminary information to build on what I already see.

Me: A lady tricked me and defrauded me Kshs. 700.

I offered a lengthy explanation, as I didn’t want him to miss any details. I insisted on the lady’s arrogance and how she’d stopped even talking to me, how she’d made me beg and look desperate. I wanted him to know that I had a huge, unforgivable reason to be there. I wanted him to know that this was not only about the dough but also the disrespect this woman had shown me, and her arrogance. Therefore, I had three reasons: fraud, arrogance, and disrespect. These made a solid case.

Him:  Is that right?

Me:  All of it.

Him: Follow me.

I followed him. My mind was at ease for no reason at all. We entered the hut he had come out from and sat on the floor. There was a nice rug on the floor and I could feel it gently massage my butt.

Him: Where have you come from?

Me: Nairobi.

Him: Karibu.

The conversation happened in Kiswahili.

He mumbled a few words while he looked around the room for something before grabbing this thingamajig I can’t really explain and placing it on the floor.

Him: You will pay Kshs. 2,000.

I reached the money from my wallet and handed it over to him. He folded the notes into two and put them into the breast pocket of his shirt.

Him: This girl (he called her so), what do you want to do with her?

Me: What options do I have?

He looked at me for a minute. He fetched a mirror before he talked.

Him: There are many options. You could kill her, you could send a disease, you could make her return your money, you can derange her, you can make her body swell, you can make her property disappear or you can send visitors to her at night.

Actually, I was shocked for the first time. My heart was thumping my chest, making me lose my mind. In fact, all I could listen to for a while was my heartbeat. Those were many options! All of them at my disposal.

Me: Wow! Those are many options.

He again gazed at me, placed the mirror on his side, where both of us could see it and then talked a few foreign words. He hummed, and hummed and hummed. He repeated the words he’d said before. He did all these with his eyes closed.  To be brutally honest, I didn’t know what to expect. But the next thing I see is Nyambura’s picture on the mirror.

She was looking just like the pictures on her profile, pretty, light-skinned and innocent. Only that she had thieved me. How could such a beautiful creature be so dumb to steal from people?

Me: Is that her real picture?

I asked because I didn’t know if the pictures this woman was using were hers.

Him: It doesn’t matter if it is hers or not. The right person will suffer the consequences.

I was in my thoughts when this man interrupted me.

Him:  What do you want to do with her? If you cut through her picture with this razor blade, you’ll have killed her.

I looked at him horrified. At this moment, I realized I had gone to Mwingi without an idea of what I wanted to do with Nyambura. I wanted to punish her. Killing her would be too easy, I thought. She wouldn’t know why she died. If she’s to die, she had to know why she’s dying. I said to myself. So killing her was not an option.

I wanted her to suffer and know why she was doing so. I wanted her never to steal again from anyone. But I couldn’t figure out what I wanted to make of her.

Me: I think I was not prepared to do this. But I’ll revisit when I have a clear plan. That day I’ll not hesitate.

Him: Are you sure?

Me: Yeah, because I believe in second chances.

That is how I left. But I had known that Nyambura was not insuperable as she thought she was. She was just another girl trying to survive through other people’s sweat, with her eyes on people’s wallets. Since I believe in second chances, I decided maybe she should benefit from it too. I give everyone else a second chance. And if she will get to read this, then she will know that this is her last chance.

If you know her, tell her to correct her ways in haste. Not many people get second chances. I have never gone to a witch doctor but she found me on a wrong time when every nut in my head is loose.

Happy new year!

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Where shall we go, we who wander in this wastelands in search of better selves?

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About Mzangila

Mentor, media consultant, photographer, editor, poet, writer, and counselor.

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