A GIFT

The sharp clank of a metal bar colliding with bone filled the midnight air. A scream, and then silence. The weapon glowed dimly as it was spun, melting into the air with the typical transparency of a rotating blade. Beneath an amber street lamp in Nairobi, a man lay dead. At arm’s length, another man cursed the perils that had now beset his life as he crawled away, dragging his jaw languidly in the mud. He did not get far. Nearby, two men tried to make good their deficiency in wisdom with an abundance in bravery. Only cowardice could have sufficed. “Kashike miguu! Kashike miguu!” the younger one barked, as his thick arm wrapped around a feeble neck. He squeezed, and a murderous grin cut across his scruffy face. He was going to wrench the life out of her without significant effort. Every lover of war knows the stir in one’s heart and the quickening of the breath that is provoked by the wham of a heavy blow sinking into an unguarded chest. If delivered with discipline and precision, about an inch above the solar plexus, a grown man can be winded even by a frail little boy.

The deceptively frail figure, now ensnared in a death grip, flailed its hands in silent agony, and grabbing a rock at hazard, swung it viciously into the brute’s face. As one thunderstruck, no sound escaped from the man. He released his hold, and pivoted on his heels momentarily, before a gust of wind aided his rigid descent onto the sidewalk. There are certain secrets about a man’s nature that are revealed by the manner in which he fights. The softness of his step and the pliancy of his poise, such that in a quick defensive retreat a drink would not spill from his cup, is the mark of a truly dangerous adversary. But these were drunk brutes whose natural prey were helpless girls and women that walk unaccompanied in the night. It was going to be a quick affray. The frail shadowy figure drifted gracefully amongst them like a little girl playing in the rain. Soon, two heavy screams filled the night. A low fog of dust floated about, such that from a distance one could tell that the earth had been recently disturbed. A cold wind took wing, and carried the waning moans and groans into the stillness of the dark.

Behind a window that was left slightly ajar, perhaps to let a draft of chilly midnight air wash in without disturbing the candles that illumined the room, a man stood, savouring the spectacular orchestration of debauchery that was spread before him. All things seemed to be dying wherever he turned his eyes. Drunkards, merry youth, and unhappy husbands were wandering from door to door like hounds on a familiar trail, in pursuit of lesser-known perversions that are the quickest ways for the purgation of such emotions that torment our souls. In a city of many pleasures, one tends to habituate into a daily pilgrimage to destinations which they would wish to remain unknown.

In tight clusters others stood, passing a cigarette (or so it seemed) amongst themselves while casting a restless eye about as one who thinks that they are being pursued. In the devilish shadows, at the blurry limits of a strained eye, five street boys were embroiled in loud disputations about who would go first, while gesturing towards a little teenage girl with her skirt hoisted up to her shoulders, sprawled at their feet. Further away, a man in police uniform consorted quietly with a woman, whose dress barely attempted to conceal her charms to which not even the officer was immune. He had a carefully clipped brow and a well-trimmed beard that would convince one to distrust him at once. The woman seemed to have soiled her precious face with cheap pastes and concoctions, intended to create a convincing illusion of beauty and to delay the approach of age. She was just another face that would soon be forgotten. She, like this modern civilization, had fallen from decency to dishabille.

Suddenly, the door behind him was flung open and slammed. What a most terrible interruption, he thought. A gentle breeze carried in a peculiar scent that seemed to lighten the solemn atmosphere in the room. Instantly, he recognized it as a delightful artificial fragrance worn by young women to conceal darker odours. His wicker chair, a fine work of hyacinth craftsmanship, squealed loudly as an unfamiliar weight tried to ease onto it. A low sigh escaped the intruder’s lips, and soon came the creaking of wood and the scrunching of strained leather as the weight was flung onto a more comfortable platform: his favourite chaise lounge sofa set. As the phantoms that his mind had conjured up while in contemplation were dispelled, he slowly turned towards the feline grumble of discontent behind him. His eyes roamed over the artifacts in the room before they paused on her. A small sweaty face gleamed in the dim light. She had rested her head upon the unsteady headboard to catch her breath, whose velvet-red upholstery had been darkened by age and perversities. Her sole ornament was a charm that she often wore for whom she was affianced, but to him, she was little more than “a common bride priced above her proper value.” She caressed a pen delicately between her fingers and fixed her eyes on the man who stood immobile, leaning onto the window seal. He seemed molded in such anatomical proportions that could disarm the most pious woman, even if she loved her husband dearly. His mere presence evoked in her, like a charm, the natural appearance of sin. Her lip quivered, but she bit hard into it. It bled a little but quivered no more.

She always wore this peculiar look, he thought, that one who caught her staring would have the impression of being intensely studied. In her yellow rimmed glasses whose frames were covered with florid arabesque lines, she was Shehat in all her glory, the Egyptian goddess of wisdom, who had come to open the gates of heaven for him. Dull-eyed and straight-faced, he looked away, as if his sight had fallen upon a featureless object, and said,

“I see it’s not only the devil that prefers the cover of night.”

“You know that I cannot be seen with you,” she moaned, unconsciously rubbing the ridge on her finger where a ring had previously been.

“And yet you are here.”

“Yet I am here,” she cooed, lowering her gaze to her feet. A wistful expression came upon her, but it didn’t linger long.

“You know that I must see you…” she started, and soon came the outpourings of her passionate devotion. Silently, he sauntered towards the glass table at the centre of the room.

Indeed, she had passed through all the tragedies that could befall a beautiful woman, but her face bore no proof of it.

“Were you hurt? Those men…You were outnumbered.”

A smirk flashed across her face as she ran her slender fingers daintily over her bruised knuckles.

“I’m fine,” she said. Her breathing had now slowed and steadied, and it was time for her to do what had brought her here. Her hands dug frantically into her purse and unearthed a peculiar book,old and leather-bound like a treasured medieval classic that is long out of print.

“Here,” she said. “You see? Just as I promised. You should learn to trust me.”

“I trust you, Adira,” he protested.

”Not enough. I know that you thought I would not return it.”

“A good book is hardly ever returned. How was it, little girl?” he inquired.

She pressed her burgundy lips lewdly against the book and shut her eyes as one relishing the nectars of her lover’s lips.

“It is a book of passions and sensations,” she hissed, “that not even music has conveyed to me before.”

”Carnal or common?”

“Divine. It marred my soul when it was touched by it.”

“And now your mind is a conclave of sinners?”

They laughed intimately.

”Anyway, here’s your gift.”

She placed a small brown bottle on the glass table and fell cozily back onto the place she had previously lain. A look of contentment came upon him, and as gracefully as he always did, he lowered himself onto the wicker chair. He was now looking straight into her eyes.

The poetry of conversation, with laughter as its refrain, was delicious upon her tongue, and her dread dwindled as she spoke to him. It was here that the courtesies that concealed her nature were always discarded, and the characters that disclosed it were displayed. Every feeling that stirred within her broke through her face by their own command, faster than her will could hinder it. She cherished the pleasure of telling him a secret, and he didn’t disdain being burdened by them.

On women, she remarked, ”Good women are troubled by a man’s opinion of them, and wise women, by a man’s opinion of other women.” On fear, she proclaimed that it extracts from the world whatever charms it may possess. He dispersed his facts amongst his opinions as sparsely as befits a casual discussion, and she, lacking any firmer ground than her own experience, never let his reason interfere with her faith. “I do not desire immortality. It is enough to have lived, and be but briefly desired,” she whispered, trailing a finger at the edge of her lip. His rejoinder, “The flames of affection are extinguished when touched by a singular instance of betrayal. Love would be immortal if it could learn how to forgive.” They agreed cordially on one matter and differed passionately on another. It often seemed to him that even the soundest arguments could not make an impression on her mind. “What your doubt depletes,” she swore, ‘my certainty sustains!”

As the moon hung low above the spectral skyline, a strong wind wailed as it fled from the city, throwing the window wide open. There are maladies so subtle that their only symptom is death. They are born deep within the provinces of the mind like thoughts that cannot be willed away, and steadily grow to afflict the body. They steal sleep from the eyes and rob the tongue of its want of food. They expel all joy and degrade our health, and make us forget all the happiness that we have ever known. Soon, we are dragged to the grave in the most agonizing fashion, though not quick enough. We are not bound to embrace the path that our ailments must dictate, a man in agony must have the right to free himself! He raised the little bottle to his lips and drained its contents quickly, shaking it till the last drop that clung to the rim fell into his mouth. A sigh of satisfaction parted his lips, and a slow tongue mopped up what was left from the corners of his mouth. “Thank you,” he muttered, looking into the horizon, ” for this gift of painless death. Do not mourn me long.” His words seemed to be pushed through his lips with much effort. A dreadful look quickly grew upon his face and weakness suddenly came upon him. The little bottle fell from his hand. Silence slowed the passage of time, and only a distant murmur of revelry broke the stillness of dawn.