CHAPTER FIVE
The urge to meet Shillah must have spurred me to remember her cousin’s phone numbers.
I knew this cousin liked me, as she would often refer to me as “in-law” during our many night outings on campus.
The results exceeded expectations. Makena was gentle and warm as she disclosed that Shillah had relocated to Mombasa and that she visited Nairobi once or twice a month.
She also informed me of the exact place I was likely to find her within Kisauni.
The following day found me in Mombasa. The city had greatly improved in terms of aesthetics, with massive infrastructure projects coming up in every corner of the coastal town.
I refreshed myself at a nearby hotel and ate breakfast. Three hours later, around 1100 hours, I awoke with a clearer head.
After an early lunch, I headed straight to Kisauni, where I had been assured of finding Shillah.
I knocked on the office door, and immediately I could almost feel the excitement of the front office manager as she ushered me to a chair.
I told her I was there to see Shillah.
“Tell her it’s Mwangi,” I asserted.
“Okay, she will be seeing you in a minute,” she said when she came out of the office a while later.
We took to chatting, and I was pleasantly surprised when the receptionist hailed my cologne, saying it smelled nice.
Concerning the cologne, I purchased it from one of the online stores after reading some positive reviews.
In one of the reviews, a man who had used it claimed that his boss, a curvaceous spinster in her early forties, had complimented him twice, and eventually the two had ended up dating.
In another, the man said women at her workplace would flock around him as his male colleagues sank in envy.
“Hey Jay! “Long time!” said Shillah as she emerged from the office.
I stood up, and what followed was the most intimate hug, followed by a light kiss on the lips. Together, we sauntered into the office, and I took a chair beside her.
“What brings you here after avoiding me for years?” Shillah posed in her typical guilt-tripping fashion, which always made me feel like the culprit.
I told her that I had come for her, this time for a serious relationship and eventually to marry her.
“Have you found a job, or are you still trying things out?” she posed in obvious jest.
I did not answer, but I could see her face break into a satisfied smile after scrutinising me from head to toe.
Thereafter, we had a long chat on various things, ranging from our experiences on campus to how we had ended up in love.
Interestingly, this time around, it appeared Shillah was the one pushing the narrative that we were destined to be together.
After a light but expensive lunch in town, we headed to Coast Provincial General Hospital, where Shillah’s cousin was hospitalised.
She had been diagnosed with brain cancer and had recently suffered a psychotic episode. She could not recognise Shillah and seemed lost in her world.
“She’d have been moved to a better hospital if her family had the money. But, again, the oncologist told us the other day that the cancer has spread to major organs and it’s only a matter of weeks,” Shillah lamented.
I shook my head, having understood that being diagnosed with cancer in Kenya was as good as a death sentence.
The hospitals were ill-equipped in terms of trained personnel and equipment to handle patients.
What’s more, chemotherapy and radiotherapy centres were few and overwhelmed. Many patients died as they waited for their turn for treatment.
Some of the patients had aggressive cancers so advanced that even a layman could see there was little to be done to change the inevitable.
Also, the number of oncologists in the country was low and fell below expected levels. Furthermore, the country’s few hospices were ill-equipped, with some lacking essentials such as morphine.
“I think we should leave her to relax; we may return to check on her tomorrow,” said Shillah as her voice brought me out of my deep thoughts.
We spent the rest of the evening enjoying Bango music at one of the famous restaurants in town.
We danced as we sipped our wine. By midnight, Shillah was tipsy, and I thought it was time we retired for the day.
In the room, Shillah was very outgoing and frank. She told me she had missed sleeping in my lean yet strong arms.
This was what she said as she pressed a prominent vein on my wrist and massaged my hairy chest.
What followed was an unbridled hour of passionate lovemaking that left both of us drained but satisfied.
Shillah’s eyes glowed as she kissed me goodnight. As for me, my whole being was tickled with such great excitement that I toyed with the idea of waking her for a few more rounds of lovemaking.
That night I dreamt that I had married Shillah in an elaborate ceremony attended by who’s who in the country, but our car had gotten a puncture just as it was leaving the church compound.
I woke up abruptly only to find Shillah staring at me with eyes that communicated wonder and surprise.
It took me at least five minutes to calm her, assuring her that there was nothing really alarming in my dream. I could sense that she was not convinced.
We spent the day in our room and later went to the beach. Shillah had told her office assistant to take over the office operations while she was away for a day or two.
In the evening, we parted ways and agreed to meet the following day. I paid a visit to my dad to brief him on the happenings in Nairobi.
My dad was elated to see me happy and in “better shape.” He teasingly inquired whether I had married Shillah.
“You look better even after saying no to treatment,” said my old man as we sat down to watch the day’s news.
The news was the same redundant stuff that characterises prime-time news in Kenya.
The same people were arguing about their stake in government and wanting to prove who was more powerful.
Later, at the dinner table, I told dad that I wanted to boost his engineering company.
Dad, who had an analytical mind, was dumbfounded. It took a few minutes for me to convince him that I had landed a high-paying job with an international publishing company within my second week in town.
That settled it, at least for the moment.
To make it more believable, I told him I was set to repay the loan in five years. That now served to convince my father that I had not become a scammer or thief in the big city.
My old man resented quick riches and had always valued the process.
That very night, I had KSh 2 million transferred to my father’s bank account to boost his struggling business and also renovate an old building he rented out in Nairobi.
We parted ways the following morning as he headed to work and I went to meet Shillah.
In the same vein, I told my father I would hang around for three weeks, but we may not meet often owing to a demanding job assignment on the South Coast.
I took an apartment in Bamburi, and Shillah moved in with her belongings. She told me she feared another woman could find out what she was enjoying and cause trouble in our relationship.
The following two weeks saw Shillah introduce me to all her relatives, who had nothing but compliments.
They said the two of us were a perfect match and would make a great couple. Most teased her for landing herself a tall and handsome guy.
It was during one of those evenings that she introduced me to her mother, who was on vacation in the coastal city.
We were relaxing in our apartment when Shillah, out of the blue, asked me to accompany her to meet someone in town.
We drove to one of the posh hotels in town and headed straight to a table where a woman with a striking resemblance to Shillah sat.
“Mum, meet Jacob Mwangi.” He’s the man I want to marry. “I’ve already told you a lot about him,” she said as I extended my hand to my prospective mother-in-law.
The three of us shared a meal and had an enlightening chat for about an hour or so. Shillah’s mother was a well-schooled lady inclined to deep, meaningful, and philosophical conversations.
We talked about the economy and the politics of the day, and her knowledge shone brightly as she supported her perspectives.
I was hesitant to expose my unbridled position before a prospective mother-in-law, and that might have explained my guarded and measured views.
However, I intuitively sensed she liked me, as Shillah would later confirm.
It was a relief for me when she excused herself to leave, but not before reminding me that I must visit home before she could “give” me her daughter’s hand in marriage.
That same evening, we listened to Bango music at a popular North Coast bar.
“My mom can be difficult at times, but it has surprised me that she’s accepted you with ease,” she said.
“I’m happy that she likes me. I’m also very lucky, you know.” It’s not easy finding a well-mannered, beautiful girl for a wife these days,” I complimented.
But amidst all these positive developments, I felt restless, like something was eating away at my health.
The news of Shillah’s mother liking me and, of course, the prospects of a wedding boosted my moods.
However, that night, Shillah complained I was not as “tenacious” as I had been in the past few days since our reunion.
I knew she was disappointed when she said she feared getting married would extinguish the awesome spark of love between us.
That night, I woke up to vomit. Shillah comforted me by saying that it must have been the nyama choma we had eaten earlier at the Bango joint.
She opined that it must have stayed in the fridge for weeks. The following morning, it was clear that I needed to see a doctor as I felt like I was having a malaria attack.
Shillah accompanied me to a top hospital in Mombasa, where they carried out tests.
The doctor, upon reading the results, which included blood tests, called us in and told me that I needed to see a top oncologist in Nairobi, ASAP! Shillah was perplexed. But I wasn’t.
That evening, I boarded a luxury bus to Nairobi after having assured my dad and Shillah that I would be fine.
That must have been the longest trip I ever had, as the bus had to stop several times so that I could puke through the window.
My throat was as rough as sandpaper. I was awakened by the conductor’s announcement that I had arrived in Nairobi. I looked around and saw that I was the only passenger left on the bus.
I checked into a hotel to freshen up before going to town an hour later. I was in a taxi when I experienced a sharp pain and thereafter passed out.
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From a distance, I can hear a nurse preparing to inject me with a cocktail of drugs.
One of the nurses tells a colleague that the past four weeks have been difficult. But I’m a fighter.
She tells her colleague to tell the people coming into the high-dependency room to remove their shoes and don face masks and sterile scrubs.
I can feel a lady donning an expensive wig sitting on my bed.
“Jay, honey, I’m six weeks pregnant.” “I wish you lived to see our child,” says a voice that is unmistakably Shillah’s.
I can feel tears trickling down her cheeks. She’s devastated.
I recognise my dad’s and mom’s voices and that of Shillah’s mother. All agree that I should be left alone to relax.
It feels like I’m floating in the air. Yellow flowers bloom in the morning dew. Everything is crystal clear…
My prayer is that my unborn child will find a better country to live in than my world, which so far has been a cul-de-sac.
—–END
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