Port Heya Chapter 2

2

Two weeks since the eventful outing with his class, Kwame sulked in a gloomy corner of Kimathi Conference Hall at a party in honour of one of the professors who had made tenure. While his cohorts thrived at social congress, Kwame’s chronic diffidence and self-advocated indifference to anything jamboree condemned him to a perpetual wallflower. Though physically in the building (as polite convention dictated), his mind wandered off, dreaming of far off realms unblemished by the scourge that was humanity.

His peace came asunder as a woman with a pleasant-going-on-plastered face weaved through the throng of boisterous partygoers and set a beeline for him.

“Please don’t, please don’t,” he prayed silently, unaware that he was whispering the words. “You have a choice of prey at your disposal. Some of them might even enjoy the company of an all-consuming Basilisk.”

The woman came to a stop a foot away from Kwame, swaying to and fro like an air dancer in a fake blond wig and heavy red lipstick on fat lips. She switched her glass from the right hand to the left and thrust forward five unsteady digits.

“Hi,” she said, somehow managing to drag the word into a two-second syllable. “So nice to see you here. I’m Sandy. Sandy Karanga.”

Kwame shook her hand. “Oh, hi Sandy. I’m Dr Kwame Amadi. Nice to meet you… again.”

“Again?”

“We shook hands not more than half an hour ago.”

“Yeah?” Still teetering, she knitted her eyebrows, narrowed her eyes, and burped as loudly as a woman wasn’t supposed to in the beau monde. “You’re right. What the fudge? Musta gone right through one hemisphere and out the left.”

“Hemisphere?”

Sandy barked a broken laugh and tapped her temple. “The old noggin’, is what I mean. The old joy juice kinda makes it all porous, you know?”

“I wouldn’t say I do.” He raised his glass of mocktail. “Only pear and rose punch for me. But I’d hate to see your booze take all the blame, Sandy, seeing as we pass each other in the Lecture Hall 2 corridor almost daily.”

“We do?” She looked even more mystified than before; a feat Kwame would never have given her credit for. “But you know what they say, right?”

“What do who say?”

Pride steadied her long enough to deliver a practised line. “The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.”

Kwame pretended shock. “They say that?”

“Friedrich Nietzsche did.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Pray tell.” She ran a long, manicured nail along the lapel of his jacket. “How be these hallway encounters you speak of, good man?”

“Oh, forget it.” He waved his hand nonchalantly. “It’s nothing.”

“No, please.” She lay her hand on her bossom where her modest breasts choked under the torturous grip of a red silk shirt. “I feel… and this is coming from the bottom-est part of my heart, I feel like I have something to atone for, you know? A correct to wrong. I mean, a right to correct.” She howled a woozy laugh. “See what I’m saying?”

“Please, excuse me.” Kwame reached inside the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket and produced a phone that hadn’t rang, making sure to keep the back facing Sandy. “I have to take this call.”

Sandy touched her armpit and sniffed her fingers. “Nah.” When she looked up, Kwame had snuck away and out of the ballroom.

Alone in the dark, the welcome chilly night biting into his cheeks, and the background awash in the muffled cacophony of inebriated revellers sifting through the doors, Kwame finally found the pluck to make the call he should have made ages ago, convention be damned.

“Hi, honey,” Zuri answered the phone, sounding nothing at all like someone who had put in a sixteen-hour shift at work. “How’s the faculty shindig shaping up? You calling your workaholic wife to make her jealous?”

Kwame scanned the lighted dials of his wrist watch. Ten minutes after ten and too long since the soiree became a snoozefest. “I want to go home.”

“What? This early? C’mon, hon. It’s not even eleven. I guess no one’s drunk at the party.”

“Sandy is.”

“Sandy? Which one is Sandy again?”

“Tight shirts, short skirts, freshman English Lit.”

“Oh, that Sandy.” A soft laugh. “Did the liquid courage finally bring her out of her giggly shell? ‘Dear, handsome, Mr Amadi. If only you knew how your dreamy eyes and large, manly hands make my knees go all gooey when we bump into each other in the hallway.’”

“I wish. She didn’t even know I existed before today. What time will you be home?”

“Me? Not until late. The girls decided to take this new handsome doctor out for drinks after work. You didn’t think you were the only one having a good time tonight, did you?”

A slight tinge of misplaced jealousy streaked across Kwame’s heart and disappeared as fast as it had come. “Sounds too quiet in the background. Your shindig must be as boring as mine if not more so. What do you say we both blow our joints, go home and split a glass of mock mojito between us?”

“How about we split the second? I’m staring at the bottom of my first.”

 

***

 

Under the dim light of the single low-watt bulb hanging over the tiny balcony behind their three-bedroom flat, Kwame gazed upon the light haze beyond the dark blocky silhouettes of the neighbouring middleclass flats.

“I’m so tired,” he said, setting his drink on a small wicker table.

Next to him on a matching wicker two-seater, Zuri slid closer and snuggled up to her husband. “Didn’t you say you didn’t dance at the party?”

“It’s not just the oafish bashes.” His voice was low, almost melancholic. “It’s the oafish characters in the oafish bashes in the oafish institution. No matter how hard I try, I never feel like I belong. And everyone lends a hand, oblivious as they are of my existence. Not just Sandy, mind you. Everyone. The dean, the chancellor, the senate…” He cocked his head towards his wife. “Do I have such a forgettable face?”

She ran a hand over his cheek. “You have a handsome face, dear. It’s your brain I worry about.”

“I doubt Koba would notice me on his grass should my foot wander.”

“Koba?”

“The groundsman. He’s anal about people straying off the paths, and once he addressed me as Mr Abdala.”

“You’re not invisible, silly.” Zuri laughed and caressed his arm.

“Wait!” Kwame pulled away. “What do you mean it’s my brain you worry about?”

“I mean… you think too much.”

“I don’t.” He looked away. “I allocate every issue its requisite amount of thought.”

“See? You overthought that statement.” She pulled him back to her. “Relax, dear. I know what’s bothering you, and it’s going to be fine. Your research paper will go through this time. Fifth time’s the charm?”

“Seventh.”

“Oh, dear.”

“My point exactly.”

She lifted her glass and took a sip. “Bleh. I’ll need something stronger if I have to sit here and listen to more of your griping.”

“More?” Like a shadow, sadness clouded his eyes. “I don’t complain that much, do I?”

“I don’t know. Just the requisite amount necessary, I guess?”

He ribbed her playfully. “I see what you did there.”

“You’ve earned it.”

“The right to gripe? Damn right, I have.”

“Jabari wasn’t even born and Stella was only a year old when you started work at Green Valley. After fifteen years as a lecturer, you shouldn’t have to beg for tenure. That party should’ve been for you. They owe you that much, at the very least.”

“Three of those years as a senior professor, mind you.” He started. “Wait a minute.”

He pried the glass out of her hand and took a small sip.

Zuri giggled. “What are you doing?”

He handed her the glass. “Nothing. I wanted to make sure your mock mojito is indeed mock.”

She laughed some more. “Why? Because I said you deserve a promotion?”

“When did you convert from Miss Patience to…”

“To what?”

“This. This… Sheena queen of the jungle. Wait till my wife comes back and finds you here in your tutu.”

“To hell with your meek wife, Kwame.” She squared up to him. “You know what you should do? You should walk into the Chancellor’s office and give him a generous piece of your mind.”

“Right now?” He made as if to stand up.

She punched his arm. “I’m serious, Kwame. It’s about time you stood up for yourself.”

“So, you mean tomorrow?”

“First thing in the morning.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday, dear.”

Punch!

She shook her head. “First thing Monday morning.”

“But Monday morning is Tribal Rites. I love that class.”

“F**k Tribal Rites! You march right into Mr Bokole’s office and you tell him it’s either he keeps his word or Tribal Rites gets it.”

“You want me to hold a class hostage? Ha-ha. What’s got into you?”

Deflating, she sank back onto the couch. “The new doctor.”

Kwame shot up, stiff as a steel rod. “The new doctor got into you?”

“No, dummy. He gets on my nerve.”

“Please tell me you’re being facetious. You mean to say he’s real? You took him out for drinks and whatnot?”

“That was a joke.”

“Phew! For a second there�"”

“He got the corner office.”

“He what? No, way.”

“Yes, way. Six years I’ve been waiting for Dr Wale to retire�"”

“Or die.”

“I never said that.”

“But you thought it.”

She punched him again. “Can we get back to my griping?”

“Sorry hun.” He kissed her hand. “Go on.”

“Guy’s not been in the hospital a minute, and he gets the best view.”

“How did your boss explain it?”

“No relocation budget. Can you believe that? And you know what I told him? I’ll move my own damm desk if money’s the issue. But no, it has nothing to do with moving a few files. It’s all about balls.”

“Balls now? What balls?”

“The testes dangling between Dr Danilo’s legs.”

“Who’s Dr Danilo?

“The new guy. Aren’t you listening?”

“New guy, balls, corner office. Got it.”

She stood up. “I’m gonna check up on Jabari. He’s had a cough for a couple days and I gave him a menthol rub.”

“Okay, Dr Adala. I hope a six-year-old isn’t your last patient tonight.”

“Huh?”

“I feel a swelling coming up around here…” He took her hand and put it on his groin. “Feel it?”

“Oh, my. That’s not good. We need to take care of it as soon as possible.” She paused halfway through the open door. “Say, I’ll be visiting the steam chamber soon as I’m done with my current patient. You know, in case you…”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Kwame shot to his feet and began writhing out of his jacket as if it had suddenly caught on fire. “I’ll get the shower going.”