Rocks

By Natasha Muhanji

The sun slowly sets as Koome stares at the dusty ground before him. The ground is heaped with concrete and rocks that once held up eight floors of a flat. Brown sandals that still look new, save for the thin layer of dust on them, lie a short distance away from his feet. His gaze slowly moves downwards to focus on his toes. The largest one is crooked from when he banged it against a stool in his parent’s living room when he was five. He broke it and did not go to school for a week, but finally, he went when he could stably walk with it taped to the one next to it. He stares down at his toes, dusty and cracked, as they sit on top of his grey slides. A drop of water falls slowly, resting between his toes and splattering on his slides. Another drop falls, and another follows. Tears. He is witnessing the aftermath of a tragedy. 

It has been half an hour since he arrived, and he is still standing at the same spot, standing, staring. A situation like this is not meant to occur. It is incomprehensible. Nothing made sense to him, considering he had only just left the flat to go to Quickmart for some boneless chicken Muna wanted to cook tomorrow. She wanted to marinate it overnight with garlic, soy sauce, pepper, and some salt, the way she always does. He had just walked out of the flat, had he not? How many minutes had it been? Ten? Fifteen? 

“Hapana! Gai! Mungu Wangu!” 

His watery eyes sweep around, trying to locate the source of the screams. They sound far off. He focuses his vision and blinks, his ears suddenly attuned to the sounds around him. It is as if he is in a bubble, and it has just burst open. A woman is crying not far from where he stands; two women are at her side, holding her up as she trembles. She is barefoot, and her purple dera is damp with water from the sewage not far away; Koome can tell because of the color. Her face is contorted painfully as she sobs, and he recognizes her as his downstairs neighbour, Janet. A few paces away from them is a teenage boy seated on the ground. Being a new tenant, Koome recognizes his face but does not know his name. The boy is holding onto his leg, blood seeping through his torn jeans. There is a slightly dense crowd surrounding the rubble, staring ahead just as Koome is. He cannot move. His eyes drop to the brown Quickmart bag on the ground next to him, and he hears the ambulance siren from afar. His ears ring as he tries to take deep breaths, feeling the world suddenly expand around him.

Growing up, Koome did not know how to react to things. He always felt things but seemed to skip outwardly reacting to them. He stared straight ahead until what he felt lessened, and only then would he continue moving. “A man has no time to scream and cry,” he always lived by his father’s words. He would take beatings with a straight face, flinching slightly and taking deep breaths until it was over. He was a man. The first time he was arrested was during a protest he attended because of the high cost of living. The police officer hit him with a cane on his shin, and he fell, taking deep breaths as his leg throbbed. 

"Kijana hii ujinga mtawacha," he sneered, grabbing Koome's arm. Another pair of hands proceeded to roughly push him onto the truck, which ended up ferrying the arrested protestors to Central police station. He had wondered why the police officers thought protesters were stupid, yet they all suffered under the same regime.

The impact gave him a greenstick fracture, which was diagnosed once Muna had bailed him out and taken him to the hospital. He was twenty-five, and she was twenty-three. She had yelled at him for being so careless. He saw it on her face, just how terribly worried she had been when he had not come home the previous night. He thinks of the foolish grin he sported at her yelling; it had made him feel loved despite the circumstances. He got a cast, which was taken out four weeks later. It has been eight years since then. He is now retaking deep breaths, trying to see clearer.

He is staring at his hands as they hang limply at his sides. They are shaking and slowly trembling, and he cannot stop them. His head is spinning, and he does not think he is awake, yet he is. It is dreadful that he is. He feels his soul stir in his core. It is spinning like a tornado, uprooting and destroying everything in its wake. He is frightened that his soul will spin him into a black hole, to be lost forever. 

"How many people, wamekufa?" He hears a voice beside him. To his side is a man with a brown Stoney Tangawizi t-shirt. It is faded and he wonders when Coca-Cola shirts such as that one had ever existed. People always drank soda, and he never saw the need for Stoney to be advertised. It is like an open secret, always on shelves and never on screens or promotional material, just like salt. Coke is the poster child of the brand, after all. The man scratches his chin, which Koome notices has several bumps, probably ingrown hair from using a cheap razor. 

"How many people have died?" The man repeats his question, and Koome's heart drops. He heard him the first time but did not think the question was directed at him. After all, he is not here. There is no way he is here. He is asleep, and Muna is seated next to him, watching Big Brother on their velvet couch. 

The man faces Koome and looks at him, opening his mouth and seeming to change what he is about to say. "Uko sawa?" He inquires slowly, and the other just stares back at him. He looks into his eyes, noticing how the man's sclera has a freckle, coffee brown, with a tinge of yellow at its sides. He tries to open his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Uko sawa? Is he okay? Is Koome’s seemingly stunted reaction okay? He takes a deep breath and points to the rubble with shaking hands. He notices the veins in his hand are full. His blood is moving. It seems to rush inside him akin to a turbulent river. He breathes, and his skin is hot.

"My family," he finally manages to choke out. The words, once out, burn his throat. He keels over as his chest is suddenly hot. Koome wants to scream, but he can only breathe. He can only take deep breaths. He holds his head in his hands as his chest rises and drops fervently. His knees hit the dusty ground, and he starts to tear up again. 

“Muna.” He whispers.

Koome was twenty-one when he first met Muna. She was in an ash-white dress with white tulips in her hand, staring ahead at the plants in the garden she had been seated in. It was the 10th anniversary of the August 7th bombing, and he had gone to pay his respects to his sister—an unnecessary death. His anniversary visits to the August 7th Memorial Park were more tradition than habit.

The memorial park always held a somber mood because of the tragedy of 1998, which had concluded with a death toll of two hundred and eighteen. Many lives had been lost, and the country had been rattled to its core. Koome remembered his sister’s smile, her dark spectacles, and the skirt suit she always wore to work. She was forever in his memory as an excited young lady, eager for her first month at work, never ceasing to be a role model to him even as a decade passed. He always thought of her and what could have been. How would she look aged up? Would he have nephews and nieces to take to Lunar Park?

It was amid his pondering that he had seen Muna’s white dress, and it caught his eye as he walked into the park. At first, he did not think much of it, intending to walk to the memorial wall and look through the names as he always did each year, trying to sharpen the edges of his memory to recall his sister’s smile. He was to look at all the names, imagine the families of the victims and how much sorrow had been held in their hearts, then be on his way out, reminding himself of the fragility of life. Grief was never ending and would forever be. 

He stood before the marble wall and began his introspection when he noticed a bright reflection against it next to him. He glanced to his side and caught sight of the lady in the stark white dress. She was also staring at the wall, the flowers still in her hands. 

“Mother, you?” She whispered, still staring ahead. “Sister,” he found himself saying back. He did not speak after that, thinking the air was too heavy for conversation as they continued staring at the wall of names. She reached out, pointed to her mother’s name, and turned to him.

“What do you think about death?” she whispered again, and he turned to face her, his eyes resting upon the scar on the bridge of her nose. He was not familiar with maintaining eye contact with strangers and always did that. It was unusual that she had a scar there, but he did not mention it. Instead, he asked her a question as well: “What is there to think about death?”

“Well, there is a lot to think about death, such as what happens after it, why we die, why everyone must die, why we live, why life is,” she smiled slowly, huffing out a breath, “ I digress. What’s your name? Mine’s Muna.”

“Koome.”

Muna had been twenty, and Koome turned twenty-two eight weeks after he met her. It was a meeting that had led to the exchange of contacts after Koome decided to sit in the garden with her for an hour. They talked for a while, and he walked her to her stage at Ambassadeur. The pair ended up exchanging text messages for two weeks and not speaking for another five. 

Koome was entranced by how she interacted with the world around her. From the pictures she posted, he was surprised to see that she almost never wore white. Busy fighting through his last year of university, he consciously decided to stop speaking to her frequently, for he felt she was consuming him entirely with her musings and thoughts. As an artist, Muna always thought and never knew when to stop. He was quickly tied up in her musings, feeling himself dangerously drawn to her and so quick. Too quick. It was akin to losing control, and this scared him. Sometimes, she spoke about her mother, whom she had lost at nine, and how she rubbed her back and fixed her laces. She would not speak to Koome for hours after mentioning her mother, and he understood.

After the fifth week of not speaking, Koome called her, asking her out to the park the following weekend. She hesitated but, ever curious, accepted his offer. They sat in the park for five hours, speaking like they had never stopped. At the end of their meeting, she wished him a happy birthday, and he asked to take her on a date the following week. Unabashedly, she accepted, and they saw each other twice more, after which he asked her to be his girlfriend. 

He felt that it was fated, this meeting of theirs, the white dress, the flowers. By withdrawing himself, he had been fighting against fate. Fate would always conquer above all and changing it was nearly impossible. As in Coelho’s book, the universe had conspired to make everything happen as it had, for he had subconsciously wanted it. Her dress and mystery amidst grief had drawn him in. The sadness in her eyes was raw, and he started wanting her the moment his eyes saw the scar on her nose bridge. Strangely, she had been perfect for him.

Koome now stands up fast, rushing towards the rubble. Eyes follow him as he bends towards the grey rocks, lifting pieces and throwing them to the side. He lifts a rock, throws it, lifts another, and tosses it wildly, his arms flailing after the throw. Blood flows from his palm as a few bystanders move towards the rubble, holding him back, and he thrashes wildly. He huffs as he reaches for another rock, eyes set on the ground before him, shirt stained with mud. He struggles against the arms holding him and attempts to jump towards the rubble again, eyes bloodshot and wide open, staring at the rocks.

"Saidieni!" He screams, "Please help me. Muna is in there. Salma. Jamal. Please help me get them out!"

A couple of bystanders within the crowd shake their heads and look down, their faces masks of sadness and pity. He continues thrashing for a while, and the men holding him almost falter, but he suddenly falls back to his knees, holding his head in his hands once more and trembling. The blood from his injury flows down to his cheek from the palm pressed against his temple. His chest moves up and down. His eyes move wildly, and he is in a bubble again.

Muna gave birth to Jamal when Koome was twenty-six. He was their firstborn and an older brother to Salma, born two years later. Koome's mother, before she died of a stroke the previous year, often joked about how much her grandchildren had taken after Muna, telling Koome to step up his game. Jamal and Salma both had their mother's smile. They often went out to play together and returned with dirty clothes and Muna’s cheeky smile. Before Koome left the house for Quickmart, the kids had just returned from playing. Due to the heavy grey clouds, Muna had called them in earlier than usual. Salma was prone to catching colds. 

“What if the sky had not been grey? What if I had not gone to pick the boneless chicken? What if I had not been so damn slow?” He now whispers to himself.

“I should have been with them.”

Koome’s chest burns, and he chokes, letting out a scream that sounds foreign to his ears. He raises his face to stare at the sky, “Unfair,” he seethes. “Why is this world so unfair? What did I do to deserve this? God, have I not been a good man? Why must it be me?”

He is not here. Salma just walked into the house with Jamal in tow and Muna is watching Big Brother. This is all but a dream he is having on the couch because how can his family be dead?

How can his Muna, his darling wife, patient and loving, with arms of gold, be dead? How can his five-year-old Salma be dead? His son Jamal, who first raced to meet him at the door after work as a toddler, strengthening his resolve as a father, is gone. How is it possible that he will never see them again in this life, those to whom he is tied? How is everything so definite now that this has happened?

Koome is angry. He wants to destroy everything around him. He wants the world to go up in flames, for he is now placed on a podium in the middle of a panopticon, being speared from the shadows. The world is watching him know pain, but nobody can begin to understand it. Nobody can fathom the pain that turns into anger. His blood is full of it, searing and heavy. It has been poisoned with rage that lacks a target, and he shakes with it. His shaking soon turns into sobs.

The arrival of the ambulance and fire brigade precedes the police, who get to the scene and immediately begin to scout for signs of living. A dim flame is still lit in Koome’s heart at the possibility, but it is slowly flickering. They had rented out the seventh floor because Muna liked to watch the sun high up in the sky without obstruction from the buildings of the city. She had painted several images of the sun and how she experienced it at different times of the day. She never ceased her artistry, and as lone candles made of different colours melted into one by fiery passion, they had come together to create a beautiful existence with each other and their children. The flame of his heart is now steadily going out, and their candle is dying. It is slowly becoming an unlit candle that will never light up, for the world has now crumbled around him.

There are no survivors.

Koome does not want to see their bodies. He briskly walks out of the complex and down the highway, away from everyone. Cautious eyes follow him, but he does not look back even as he moves further away. Muna is in her white dera as she was, waiting for him to get back. She had gotten it the previous week at Eastleigh while shopping for a new set of curtains. He was pleasantly surprised in the morning to see her in white. This morning, just hours before, seems like a lifetime away. Perhaps it is because lives have come to an end. 

Passersby go on about their evening activities near the bus stop, and weary faces alight and boarding vehicles from work and others on transit to where they are needed. Koome wants to scream to them that he has loved and lost. He wants the world to know his pain, but he cannot bring himself to do anything other than walk straight ahead, face set unnaturally stoic. He does not know where he is going; he is just walking, getting away from everyone and everything.

It is now almost dark out, and Koome is wondering. He is seated alone on the ground, and streaks of drying tears on his cheeks slightly reflect the light from the emerging moon. Is all of this fate? That which cannot be altered, that which was already set in stone, and that which would never be changed? Had he been fated to sit on this grass and weep, staring at the Nairobi river with bloodshot eyes?

Fate is cruel. Reality is cruel.

He takes a deep breath and stares at the filthy water, seeking answers. The pungent smell hits his nostrils, but he does not flinch. He feels nothing, and perhaps he will not overcome this. 

Elsewhere, a hand picks up an acrylic painting of an orange sun setting in the distant hills. “Beautiful,” the person mutters, and it is beautiful even as the waters of a filthy river are finally still, the last of a froth of bubbles coming up and bursting against its surface.

TRANSLATIONS -  (Swahili to English)
Hapana! Gai! Mungu Wangu! - No! God! My God!
Kijana hii ujinga mtawacha - Young man, you will stop this stupidity.
Wamekufa - Have died.
Uko sawa? - Are you okay?
Saidieni! - Help me!

Biography

Natasha W. Muhanji is a Kenyan writer with a great interest in the human condition. She aims to capture its aspects summatively throughout the creative work she intends to produce during her lifetime. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming on Brittle Paper, The Kalahari Review, WSA-K Magazine, Cosmorama Magazine, Konya Shamsrumi, Sxynergy Collective, African Writers Trust, WhoWhatWhere KE, 2024 Our Stories Redefined Anthology for African Writing, the Voices of The Revolution Anthology, the Suppressed Realities Anthology, and the first and second editions of the Qwani Anthology among others. She received the East Africa Sondeka Awards 2023 Short Stories Prize, is a CC Adetula Fellowship for African Women in Creative Writing fellow, and is an alumnus of the Writers Space Africa (WSA) Creative Writing Academy. You will find her on Discord, gaming with her friends when she is not writing.