Kifaru

Come closer.

From the eye of a drone circling above, Mama Sandra is as clear as day. A stone clenches her right fist. With the left, she struggles to hold a loose leso threatening to slip from her waist. But modesty is the last thing on her mind. Bruises bloom across her brown skin. Bite marks stain her thighs and legs. Dust clings to her hair in tangled streaks. Her face is swollen with tears and terror. Moments ago, she had been pinned to the ground. Moments ago, hands had closed around her throat.

This is Kisauni, a village a few kilometres from Bombolulu, a place where everyone knows everyone—not just by name, but by lineage. Sons of sons. Daughters of daughters.

But wait. Hold there. Rewind. Further. Now play.

There they are. Mama Sandra and Baba Sandra walking home from the market hand in hand. She carries a bouquet of flowers while he keeps an arm around her shoulders. They move slowly, smiling at each other like two people who have discovered love for the first time. At one point, Mama Sandra rises on her toes and plants a kiss on her husband’s cheek. He smiles. Together they disappear into their hut. The villagers see them, and as always, the villagers say nothing.

Minutes later, a semi-naked man explodes from the doorway. A sufuria follows him through the air. The man ducks, but the sufuria does not miss. It lands squarely between his shoulders with a metallic clang. He yelps and sprints across the compound. Only when he reaches a safe distance does he dare turn around.

Mama Sandra stands at the doorway, hands on hips, eyes blazing.

“Umbwa wewe!”

Her voice cuts through the village.

“Ghasia ya mtu! Look at him! If I catch you today—eh! Who is Selma? Is this what you’ve been doing? Sleeping around like a prostitute?”

Now it is beginning to make sense.

Baba Sandra stares at her, then looks around. His eyes search for something—anything. A panga. A rungu. A stone. Something capable of carrying his anger. The bushes nearby offer him a fallen branch, thick and heavy. He grabs it.

Mama Sandra sees him. She darts back into the hut and slams the door. Baba Sandra charges. The branch crashes against the wooden planks once, twice, again. The door shudders beneath the blows.

“Open the door, you whore!”

His voice cracks. Spittle gathers at the corners of his mouth. The branch rises for another strike.

Then the door flies open.

A kick shoots out hard and catches him squarely in the chest. Baba Sandra stumbles backward. Before he can recover, Mama Sandra is on him. The branch falls from his hands as they crash into the dust. She drives him flat onto his back and rains blows upon him. Sand fills his mouth. His face grinds against the earth. He bucks and twists, struggling to rise, but Mama Sandra holds him down with frightening determination.

“Woi!”

His cry tears through the village.

“Ananiua! Ananiua!”

She does not stop.

Not today.

Today, Mama Sandra is deliberate.

She wants to finish him.

And she squeezes his neck hard.

Baba Sandra’s eyes stare in horror. The Angel of Death descends, ready to begin unravelling the despairing soul from his battered body.

“Anauuuuuaaaa!”

A scream nearby cuts through the violent air.

Seconds later, villagers descend upon Mama Sandra, trying to pry her hands away. She is a force to reckon with. Her arms locked around Baba Sandra’s neck. The more people join in, the more they succeed in forcefully loosening her chokehold.

Baba Sandra gasps.

Still pinned, he coughs, pants and spits. His eyes are beetroot red.

Men pull Mama Sandra away.

“Let me finish him!”

Foam gathers at the corners of her mouth. Sweat washes down her face. She struggles to steady herself as men and women drag her backwards.

Baba Sandra rises.

Like a wounded crocodile, he limps away.

It is night.

Barely four hours after escaping the jaws of death, Baba Sandra is holding a glass of beer. The Mombasa breeze wrestles with his loose T-shirt, one he changed into only a few hours ago.

He sits with his friend, Jomo.

The clean white cap remains spotless. So does the loose shirt and brown trousers. But the bruises are still fresh. A cut sits at the corner of his mouth. A dark bruise spreads across his left jaw. His left eye is swollen. Around his neck linger the marks of Mama Sandra’s chokehold, accompanied by a hundred scratch marks decorating his face.

Jomo does not speak.

He sips his drink and looks at the endless Indian Ocean before him.

“Eh, leo ulikuwa umeenda!”

Jomo finally says.

His tone is sombre.

“Najua, mazee…”

Baba Sandra’s voice is raspy. Earlier screams have left their mark.

“Achana na huyo mama.”

Jomo mutters more to himself than to his friend.

He knows.

Baba Sandra has tried several times to split with Mama Sandra. Yet, like the sun and its shadow, they always find each other.

“Msee ni aibu…”

Jomo says.

His blood begins to boil.

“How can you be beaten by a woman?”

“No.”

Baba Sandra finds his voice.

“No, she didn’t even come close.”

“Brooo… you were dying!”

Jomo interrupts.

“I was giving her time to get tired…”

No sooner has Baba Sandra spoken than Jomo cuts him off.

“Shut up. Just shut the F up.”

A long silence ensues.

Neither man speaks.

“Admit it. Huyo mama amekuroga.”

Jomo says.

“Nampenda…”

Baba Sandra says meekly.

Had Jomo not been listening carefully, the words would have escaped him.

“Repeat that statement.”

“Nampenda, bro.”

“Walai we ni mshenzi…” Jomo says throwing a side eye at his friend

“Na utakuja kukufa.”

Dawn.

Baba Sandra wakes up to Jomo’s gentle taps on his shoulder. Morning rays streak through the window. As sleep slowly leaves him, the bruises from yesterday’s fight with Mama Sandra begin to sting. The alcohol is fading from his blood. He is tired. Anguished. Yet, judging himself honestly, he is pleased with his mental state.

“Strong. Like Kifaru,” he whispers to his reflection.

Then he remembers Selma.

And smiles.

“Buda, una smile nini?” Jomo asks.

“I’m going to Selma’s,” Baba Sandra replies.

“Your age mates go to work early in the morning. You go to a woman’s.”

Jomo shakes his head.

“We listen, but do not judge.”

Baba Sandra washes his face in the sink.

“Not funny. Not funny.”

Soon after, Baba Sandra hops into a tuktuk.

Off he goes.

Past Nyali Bridge and towards Tudor.

The breeze is perfect. The sun is still low. The humidity is merciful. Mombasa is only beginning to wake. Few cars occupy the road. Above, the sky is crystal blue, untouched by clouds. The rising apartments have made the city feel hotter than it used to, but this morning remains kind.

When he alights, he pays the driver and walks past stalls selling coffee and mandazi before entering a newly built apartment block.

Fourth floor.

He decides against the lift.

A few minutes later, he rings the bell.

“Nani?” a soft voice calls from behind the door.

“Nick.”

The door swings open.

“Oh my God! Oh my God! What happened?”

Selma throws her arms around him. Then she pulls back and inspects his face closely, turning it this way and that like a doctor examining a patient.

“Oh my God, Nick. What happened?”

“Some thugs tried to rob me last night. I fought them off.”

“Nick, stop lying. It’s that crazy woman, sio?”

“No… no…”

Baba Sandra quickly dismisses the accusation.

“Oh, my Nick…”

Selma hugs him again.

“Come here.”

She bends down and gently removes his shoes. Then his socks. She leads him to a bathtub filled with warm water and red roses. Pulling off his trousers and leaving him in his shorts, she helps him settle into the water.

Baba Sandra slides down until his head rests against the edge of the tub.

Then he closes his eyes.

Selma sits beside him.

She knows that whenever Baba Sandra closes his eyes, he is thinking.

And she never interrupts his thinking.

She simply lets him be, gently massaging his neck.

Selma is petite. Childless. Perhaps that explains her figure. Brown-skinned and neither too light nor too dark. She never wears a wig and prefers diracs most of the time. Three years earlier, she had walked away from a marriage that never worked and chosen instead to focus on herself and her work. She cooks well. Coastal delicacies especially. Soft-spoken by nature, she pays her rent comfortably and, more often than not, chooses peace.

“I swear I will kill that woman,” Selma says softly.

“Babe, I told you it was thugs.”

“Okay, babe. I believe you.”

She lets it go.

Deep down, she knows how violent Mama Sandra can be. In private, Selma calls her a witch. She can tolerate many things, but violence against a man in whom she has found peace is not one of them.

Still, Baba Sandra insists it was thugs.

And so she lets it go.

Baba Sandra will recuperate for a few days.

And Selma will take care of him.