Dear Tyty, my lovely wife and best friend:
Now you have lowered your arm. I too have lowered mine. You were waving so frantically I was moved. I am sure somebody found something queer in the way we said goodbye. Hugging at the bus stop is not something that happens daily at the countryside, you know. Tyty, didn’t we even kiss? I’m sure that gesture is going to be controversial. But I don’t care less. As I watched you diminish while Nyamira Express moved me away from the stage, I felt philosophical. I felt like writing a poem about your bulging tummy. Hm, I’m eagerly waiting for our firstborn, and how I pray that it be a girl?
Dear Tyty, I have found it absolutely necessary to write you this. Something tells me that I might not come back. My journey from Kisii to Nairobi then to Mombasa and back might as well be my last journey on earth. Who knows; I might not even finish sending this message to your Facebook inbox before I expire. Sweet Tyty, I want to tell you who to point fingers at if I’m found dead.
If I’m found dead in this bus, blame it on the driver. He is driving the bus so recklessly I fear something untoward might happen. See, I am on the back-left seat; the seat I told you is my favourite because it makes me get new ideas to write about. As I tyPe tHis pa_rag.RapH on my laPtOp, tHe buS iS MoVViNg on a rRroUGh and BumPy strEtcH. I am suffering at the back seat because the ride is twice as rough. I pray that the driver will not ram us into trouble with this reckless driving on ‘holy’ potholes.
If all goes well in the bus, my delicious Tyty, I will be in Nairobi in about six hours. I plan to spend a week in Nairobi, collecting material for the novel I am working on. Right there in Nairobi (sometimes called the Great Nairobbery) I fear something will go wrong. If I’m found dead on the streets of Nairobi, blame it on stray bullets. You never know; fate might take me into the heart of a crossfire session. Or I might be a victim of mob justice. As you are aware, dear Tyty, I’m not a very street smart fellow. Someone might cry wolf and implicate me as the thief. So if I’m found dead with stones all over me like Naboth, blame it on mob psychology.
Over the weekend, I plan to go watch a Manchester United game to see how they will hit back after last week’s terrible defeat. Remember that night that I couldn’t eat, and you said that I kept mumbling “why always Balotelli?” in my sleep? My team had lost terribly. So I can’t afford to miss their next game. Yet I feel something might not go right in the place I shall be at. If I’m found dead at a pub or any other DStv place, blame it on al Shabaab. As it happened on Sunday night, some weirdo might decide to throw a grenade at us. Unlike Bruno Mars, dear Tyty, I’m not good at catching grenades. So a grenade might claim my life.
If no threatening incident happens in Nairobi, I plan to go to Mombasa for another week. I will spend some time at my uncle’s, also collecting material for my novel. Yet I also fear something terrible my happen in Mombasa. I might drown at the beach, be kidnapped, be shot or even be killed by the black magic that is said to abound in that coastal city. Honestly, I don’t know who to blame if I’m found dead in Mombasa. But you can also blame it on al Shabaab.
Yet if everything goes right, if nothing makes me encounter what the singers of The Band Perry call ‘the sharp knife of a short life’, I will be back home, dear Tyty. I’ll be back to get your massage and to eat your delicious food; to listen to your stories and hear you sing to me; to write a poem for you and about you; to love and to laugh.
Oops, I forgot: if I’m found dead before my two-week journey ends, blame it on missing you.
