On the wall hang framed black and white photos. They are dutifully covered with vitambaas. Those very old chairs that had sisal stuffing and springs underneath them. All around him the room frantically clings onto history. When we walk we find him slumped in this chair that looks older than anyone who goes to The Mingle. I – together with my small brother – got there at noon. He lives alone in his – now departed – first wife’s house. He has been on the record for saying polygamy was one of the hardest – and most regretful- things in his life. Last weekend I went to shags to see him because he’s been asking, for ages, for us to go. But sometimes, at that age, life seems like a punishment, not a privilege. God has given him 20 more years over the 70yrs he has accorded us to live. We imagine that when we live, we are stalked by the insecurities of modern living when all along we are stalked by the prince of Death. It doesn’t even matter that you can spell “croissant”. You will die whether you take a latte at Art Café or a chai masala at Kwa Njuguna’s in Dagoretti. Folk will tag you on pictures you took together while you were a mortal.ĭeath’s certainty is as indiscriminate as it is absolute. When your heart has stopped beating, your Facebook account will have droves of “friends” professing your high virtue on your wall. You will die whether you have 50 or 45,000 followers on Twitter because, ultimately, death has the most followers. If you don’t die from any of the above mentioned, you will still die. Crushed in there, like a can of soda, music still playing as you breath your last through you bloodied mouth. At this rate it’s also possible you will die in your beloved Subaru. It’s highly unlikely you will live to see 90.
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