The Letter

Mugwe can’t sleep. He tosses and turns in rhythm to the thoughts wrestling in his mind. He opens his eyes to utter darkness; a blackness that envelopes everything in the room, everything except his thoughts. He stares blankly into the space his thoughts replacing the darkness. Images form in the dark, images he tries so hard to erase from his mind. He turns and faces the other side, the wall. He fills its presence, the stoic mass supporting him, being there for him, letting him rest, if only for a while. He gets up and finds the switch next to the door. He decides not to turn it on and instead reaches for the door handle. He turns it slowly, not wanting to wake Mureithi up.

He walks towards the kitchen, passing through the small sitting room decked with 3 old, brown (creaking) uncomfortable chairs that make a noise whenever someone sits on them. The TV, an old hunchback Toshiba nestled at the corner next to the 3-CD-Changer Phillips music system. On the far(thest) corner his brother’s guitar leans on the wall gathering dust and right next to it, resting on one of the music system’s speakers is his father’s framed picture taken during one of his acting days. It is black and white, old, probably taken before he met mum, before their fancy wedding, before they were given the brown fabric sofa set as a gift on that auspicious day.

The kitchen is small. He can see the white tiled walls as they reflect the light produced by the neighbor’s security lights. He can see the outline of the dish rack. He reaches out for a cup, slowly pulling it from the pile of washed dishes, hopping that he will not cause an avalanche. The cup is cold, smooth and cold. He passes his finger slowly over the surface feeling the smoothness, getting lost in his thoughts again.

A noise outside the kitchen window startles him. It must be the landlord’s dog, he concludes and reaches for the humming refrigerator. He places the cup on top of the small fridge about half his height. He reaches for the handle and opens the door. An icy blast embraces his body, jolting him wide awake. He looks around, still dazed, still cold. The fridge light reveals his nakedness. His checked boxers cling onto his body as if to escape the chill emanating from the almost empty refrigerator. He reaches for the white glass bottle and unscrews the top quickly, then pours the clear liquid into the plastic cup. He scans the label for a moment, glances at the half yellow sun that forms a backdrop to the two palm trees and then slowly moves his eyes to the writings: Malibu Caribbean Rum with Coconut. He places the bottle back towards the light and closes the door, the cold air letting go of him. He picks up the cup and brings it close to his mouth. The coconut scent is delicious. He empties the contents in his mouth, the cold water quenching more than his thirst. He fills the chilly flow inside him and secretly wishes it was actual Caribbean rum.

The sun’s rays struggle past the morning clouds. Mugwe looks at the grey glow round the bedroom window notices the room becoming brighter as the minutes pass. He can now see Mureithi lying on the mattress on the floor completely lost in sleep. Mugwe lies in his bed staring at the ceiling, the same spot he has been staring since he got up in the middle of the night. He reaches for his phone, a black iPhone wrapped in a black and white protective casing. He presses the lone button at the bottom of the screen and the display bursts ominous announcing the time: 6:45 am. He holds on to the phone, a gift from his father from America; he holds on to it and stares at the ceiling.

He doesn’t move, even when Mureithi mumbles something in his sleep, Mugwe just lies there, his head forming a depression on his pillow. Under his pillow lies the letter. He knows this; as much as he tries to forget, to wish it away, he knows that the letter lies on the other side of the pillow, crushing under the weight of his thoughts. He replays yesterday’s events in his mind over and over, the memory emboldened each time he replays it.

He remembers the gentle knock at the door, how his heart broke beat faster as he walked towards the door, as a cow would making its last stroll in the slaughterhouse. He remembers how Mariah stood there, a blank expression on her face and a white paper on her left hand. He even remembers how he stood on the other side of the glass door, bracing himself for what stood on the other side, how he opened it and how she talked. “Nimeambiwa niwapee hii.” She had said, with a submissive finality. He replayed that statement over and over again, wondering if he had missed an underlying truth in her voice, in her tone. He had thanked her, not really meaning it, the way you would thank the hangman as he places the noose round your neck.

He remembers how heavy the document was as he carried it towards the single seater chair facing the TV. How the chair squeaked its complaints as his rear rested on it and how the sunlight coming from the window behind him placed a gentle pat on his back, a comforting gesture. He sees himself unfolding the document, going through the contents, the air becoming heavy around him, choking him.

He gets up and puts on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He walks to the bathroom and brushes his teeth. He then goes to the living room and seats on the sofa. He stares at the TV and remembers the days it wasn’t there, how empty the room was. His mind wanders off to the days when the room had only two cushions on the floor and the radio. No seats, no drawers holding his books, no picture at the corner, no guitar, just two cushions and a radio. He thinks of the letter but decides not to read it again, he lives it to suffocate under the pillow, to become a bad dream that he can wake up from.

Mugwe gets up and looks outside the window, straight at his landlord’s house. The door remains shut but there is some movement in the house. He walks back to his bedroom and reaches into his closet for a stack of 12 1000 shilling notes. He looks at Mureithi who does not stir, he wonders if he should tell him, if he should wake him up from his sleep and into reality. He questions if he should tell him that they only have two more weeks to stay in the house before they are evicted. He wonders if Mureithi will understand that it was a misunderstanding at work that caused it all, that a mistake in an invoice meant that his money would come two weeks later and that it would already be too late to pay the month’s rent. He decides not to. He walks out of the room and whispers a prayer under his breath.

Mugwe opens the glass door and places the keys on the kitchen counter. He looks at the cold bunch of keys as they rest on the faux marble surface and wonders if at some point they will no longer be his. He feels the tears forming in his eyes; he holds them back and walks out.

Mugwe slowly walks towards the mahogany colored door. He can’t feel his feet, he feels like he is floating. Fear grips his heart and he wants to run, run from all this stress, run from Mureithi, run from everything, from the world. He remembers how he ran from Rongai, his childhood town, how he couldn’t wait to move away and be free. He remembers how he found this house, the one bedroom extension in Lang’ata conveniently placed between Rongai and Nairobi. An answered prayer he called it. He remembered how he got his first job, how he could barely pay rent and survive, how he did. How he moved in with James, how they struggled to pay bills and make rent in time. He remembered how he ran away from that job and decided to start his business, how hard it was, how late rent became the norm and how broken he felt when James went back to school and Mureithi moved in. He thought of how hard he worked and how things were finally looking up, how his business was catching on and how finally he could comfortably afford rent and spend his money on a few luxuries. And now, all that seemed to be for nothing.

As he makes for the door, he wonders if his landlord will understand that he was just another young man trying to make it in the city. He questions if his landlord will consider the poor state of the economy and how the price of things have gone up. He even wonders if the landlord will see him as one of his children, if he will picture his son in the same shoes, He wonders if his landlord will consider how far he has come to make this house into what it has become; his home and finally he wonders if the landlord even cares.

Mugwe stands at the door, the door mat hanging under his feet, the feet yearning to flee, to run like he always has. He pulls his thoughts together, this is it, then he gently knocks the door.