by Otieno Lynn
Frank Morison ~Urban Mannaerism

Viviane did not come home last night. I know so because I waited up till 11 P.M. for that screeching sound that her door makes whenever she opens or closes it. I was seated there wondering what could have happened to my dear neighbor, you know with lions roaming the streets it’s not wise to take chances. I wouldn’t wish to speculate, but I can’t help it. Just like I said before, we are part of each other’s lives, all thanks to the proximity of her balcony to my bedroom, or my bedroom window. Bedroom or bedroom window I guess it doesn’t matter, the most important thing is that we know “some things” about each other.
First off, I know for sure that after that phone conversation, she went to town. So here’s my hypothesis of how things might have gone down. Viviane must have met her informant to get the “hard copy” of the story. No doubt this informant is also a member of that circus of girlfriends. She must have told her every single detail of what happened and added a few lies here and there to make the “thief” look like a real villain. You know women of Viviane’s kind are always in a fluid emotional state. No doubt she wept gallons of tears. I’m glad that the informant was there to offer her a shoulder to lean on; literally offer her.

Viviane must have called her boyfriend to inform him that she was going to his place. Or perhaps, she didn’t. You see, you don’t date a woman like Viviane and not give her a spare key to your house. Considering that she was very mad at her boyfriend, calling him was out of the question. So, Viviane hurriedly boarded a matatu to Kayole. On the way, I’m sure she played it all out in her head on how she was going to make a dramatic entrance to the “stolen property’s” bedsitter.

Fast forward to 6 P.M. My vibrant neighbor has alighted at stage Kona. She is still very mad and is visualizing how his boyfriend’s “people” are going to ferry his very dead body to Funyula constituency for burial in a fortnight. She opens the door and voila! Candle lit dinner is served. Poor boy comes out of the kitchenette looking like a squirrel that has been rained on for hours. Remorse? He’s smiling sheepishly at her. Is he holding a bouquet of carrots and a bar of chocolates? Oh, yes! All the anger in her blood is evaporated and condensed into a jelly like fluid and deposited in her knee joints. Her knees give way. What an anticlimax.

It’s not easy for me to guess what happened between then and now, but I can imagine one or two things. Viviane ate all the food. She then had chocolate for dessert. Her boyfriend then told her a few sweet nothings; the things women like to be told; the things that keep humanity sane; the things that have the power to make or break, and she’s probably waking up now to a sweet, lazy morning breakfast in bed. Wait a minute! Her boyfriend knew she was coming and that she was breathing fire, right? I’m headed to a Kamba funeral ceremony, but when I get back I’ll knock on her door and exchange pleasantries then I will pretend to be complaining about KPLC and their untimely power outages. It is going to be the perfect opportunity for me to ask about yesterday. On second thoughts, though, I’m enjoying our mysterious relationship, so I won’t.

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