BIRTHDAY BOY

One day you’ll turn eighteen. Probably you will wake up in a haze because you didn’t sleep the whole night due to wild and completely unnecessary excitement of becoming an adult. You’ll want to think that everybody remembers its your birthday and they’ll give you a surprise party or something like it. They don’t. Your dad doesnt even know you have a birthday. Old man never gets yappy about birthdays. He only marvels at the hallmarks of excellence. Parties are not his type. You cant ask him to give you money for a bash. On your sixteenth birthday, you tried to; and the response was not an iota close to what you had anticipated.
“Yaani wewe unanisumbua hapa na pesa ya birthday na wenzako wanasoma? Kwanza ulikuwa na grade gani last exam? Unajua ukona mwaka moja ufanye KCSE?”
You don’t want the story to go on because it may erupt into something big. So you just accept to eat the humble pie. No sweet sixteen for the t-bird. You dont get the logic of African parents. You only asked for a birthday bash,how on this fuckin earth did exam stories chip in? Anyway, its not your call to make.
Your mum hates romping. So theres absolutely no chance that she’ll even think of throwing a bash for you. She’s the typical African mum who knows that frolicking ends up in unprecedented difficulties. She thinks that them ‘bad friends’ will give you whiskey or shash or some other stuff like it, and will end up ruining her good son. She doesn’t know you’re the cartel boss. But anyway...
Feeling dejected that nobody cares about you, you just take your damn breakfast; you prefer a mugful concotion of sugar and Kericho Gold tea bag cause that was your favourite in highschool, plus two KDFs.
The breakfast gives you a paroxysm of immense nostalgia. It reminds you of the good old days in highschool. Them days when you used to stir a concotion similar to that in the cold mornings of Nandi and go to class with it. Cold Power was the name. In Camp Laz though, the name’s ‘Akadem’; short for Academic tea. That concotion never let you down. A mugful of it and you’ll not sleep in class. Then you remember how the guys used to celebrate birthdays. Funny.
Nobody ever wanted to make his birthday known, for on that day, you would be ‘cleansed’. Dudes had zero chills back then. They would chase you down the drive after classes with pails of water. A clique of 50 against one. You stood no chance of evasion. Then after the water there came the lashings. Nasty belt-lashings. But that was the fun. It made the days move.
You want something of the sort to recur, but it won’t; because the olden days are long gone. There’s no more crazy dudes around. Only your mum and dad and probably siblings who care no more than your old man.
After gulping down your concotion with the KDFs, you decide that you’re sleeping, as if sleeping will do the magic of mollification. When the sleep fails, you decide to play Dream League on your phone. After a game or two, you realise its not worth it. The PS would be much better. You hit your boy’s number coz that’s the one guy you know never disappoints. He’s a gaming-addict, and he got the cash. He doesn’t fail. Twenty minutes later, you’re in his living room coz guy lives alone in an apartment downtown. Pads are clenched tough as you’re on high end to scoring in FIFA 19.
The fun goes on and spills into the afternoon until its fun no more. Then suddenly your phone’s screen flicks. Its a text from a chick you’ve saved ‘bae’.
“Heyo ‘Kevo’, uko wapi?”(Let’s use Kevo for confidentiality purposes.)
You like that girl. Its not everyday you find one like her. She’s not like the other dumbasses. She doesn’t begin texting with a dry ‘Hi’. You know how that shit sucks? Shes not like the rest. She’s herself. Probably the more the reason you like her.
(Lets call the girl V.)
So V tells you to meet her down at the mall in an hour. V never asks you to meet her. She always comes to you. So this time, something’s up. You silently pray to God that she’s not going to leave town. You already have enough to deal with.
Fast forward to the meeting.
You meet with V. She’s looking awfully amazing. Curvy figure as usual. Hands are crossed close to her bosoms. A smile is patched across her excellently lit countenance. You feel like shouting to the people that V is yours. But you dont. This is Africa. You try shit like that and the whole town will stop to look. The news will get to her dad and one morning he’ll show up at your house.
“Ety ulisema msichana wangu ni wako? Umelipa mahari? Ukona kazi kwanza? Where are your credentials?..........”
Hell will break loose. You dont want that to happen. So you decide to let reason take prevalence.
You coll and fondle with her in low profile. “Kevo, bytha si today is your birthday?”
“What the what! Come again? You actually remember that?” You didn’t expect that. Not even your dad remembers your birthday. Now here she is, telling you all about it. Damnit. Something in you feels like shouting ‘Hallelujah’. You feel like thanking God for leading you into an amazing chic like V. (Of course you’ll thank God when the time is right.) She’s a blessing.
Then she takes her velvety arm and digs into the pockets of her mini short or whatever that thing she wore is called. The arm comes out seconds later holding a crumpled piece of paper. She hands it over to you. Its written ‘Happy birthday.LoL.’
Who on earth does that? Who calls you on your birthday and gives you such a note? She could have just texted. But that is what’s real of her. She’s not into the status quo. She does things her way. Another reason why you are addicted to her.
You don’t throw the note away. You don’t go around frothing or grumbling about its insignificance. Its just the remedy that you needed. Its evening time. The sun is almost setting. You decide to go sit on a hill and watch as it is swallowes by the unseeable void beyond the hazy horizons. Turns out you never needed the bash after all.

@oiraqaleb esq.

[As narrated by Big Man Kev. Big up bro. Thank you for giving a story. Happy birthday.(Late though)]