From Sparks to Stories

 So ngaiz, you remember that 'hotspot lady' I couldn't keep quiet about? The one who made my head go into a fizzy the other day? Yes, that one. Imagine I found out that she eats ugali with a spoon... aiii! like who dasdaat ? Anyway, due to public demand, I am here to tell how it went down, haha! (continued). ..You know that feeling that comes with you successfully getting her to give you her number. Feels so good, right? so, this is me. It's been like thirty minutes since we part and I see the need to 'pop' her phone with a follow up text, just to make sure she doesn't forget about me you know.  I look at my phone, it is 3.10 pm, that's good timing, so I send the text.   'Hey there Pretty, It's Hans, the hotspot guy!' Just so you know, Hans has been my pen name since I went into writing. I find it a lil' classy. You might as well call me Brian but many are the times I have had ladies tell me ' haukai Brayo, wewe baki tu kuwa Hans...

He says that growing up, he had a rather salty relationship with his dad. His dad was the typical African dad. Those fathers who expected everyone to be on their best behavior when they returned home When he spoke, you obeyed. You'd never say anything back. You were never allowed to hold an opinion, and in case you did, you kept it to yourself. Not like in our days, where we have the audacity to scream, "I hate you!" and run to your room and slam doors. He paid fees, and you went to school. He said you'd study medicine, and you said "Yes, dad!" only to discover, during one of your attachment periods, that you hate what you do and end up hating the people you do it with, and the only thing you want to do is stand in front of crowds with a guitar in your hands and a crowd shouting in your direction. We are seated in this spot, under some shade, on a sunny afternoon, the kind of afternoon that makes you think, ‘What if the sun had moved an inch closer to eart...

I look at his elbows, they have wrinkles,  and those wrinkles have their own wrinkles.  The bottom of his trousers patched with a darker shade,  probably a tailor's effort to try and extend its time of use.  His head is bend low, like he is obsessed with sadness.  On his feet, are old dusty pair of sandals,  looks like those maasai's pastoralists wear in their quests along great spans of unforgiving deserts.  According to Troy, he looks like those men who wear their right sock on their left leg, he toils more than he breathes, sleeps less than a sinner, eats like it is a duty and forever walks alone. And, whenever he is walking along those campus corridors, he is always in a hurry, like he is always late for something. To him, every second counts.   He is an introvert, not because that is how he is or he would say 'I was born like this' but because his circumstances have made him be accustomed to that kind of approach to life. ...