A Letter to Wa-mayai's Daughter
Dear Wa-mayai’s daughter,
I hope this finds you well.
Allow me to address you as such for I do not know your name. Not yet at least. I hope?! But I'd like to think that your name could be Waĩtherero or Wamutĩtũ because those are the only names my imagination could match to your delectability. So for the purpose of this letter, I will refer to you as Wamutĩtũ. Wamutĩtũ Wa-mayai.
I am writing this letter to let you in on a side of my mind. One that you have devoured and conquered. One that was before filled with the mundanities of my every day life but now has blossomed with and ouroboros of memories of you. Filled with the scent of your enchantment. Your disposition. Thinking about you has been my masochistic pastime. And I do not complain. Not even once. You consume my mind yet leave it whole. Like a moth to a flame, I can not stop it. I do not will to stop it.
I had to write this letter to quell the the flame my desire burns. A concession. Out of deep contrition. One that I feel for not talking to you when I had the chance to. But I am here to break down the events of that day. So let me start from the beginning.
On that day, my mother sent me to the market. “Thie thoko, ũgũre matumbe. Shifu na mũtumia wake nĩ maroka kuona TV īno. Nō ginya tũmakenie.” (Kikuyu for: Go to the market and bring me a tray of eggs. The chief and his wife are coming to see our TV. We have to impress them). And so I left. Just as I was. Paying no attention to my appearance. The pants I wore that day, were not my best. I got them years back and my mother refuses that I get rid of them. They have become short and torn. My mother says she thinks pants that reach the shin are rather fashionable. Every time they get torn, she repairs them with a patch of upholstery from an old sofa. But if it counts, I hate them. I just wear them out of deficiency.
On top of that, I had just come from the shamba. Mother did not give me a chance to rest or freshen up. So I just left. I was looking rough and forlorn, possibly scary. I admit. But Wamutĩtũ, I promise I don't look like that on my good days.
And so when I came to your father's stall, at first I thought I was lost. I expected to see him. Not an angel. I had to confirm that I was in fact in the right place. I felt bad. I felt weird. How would I look like that in the presence of a goddess. It seemed as though I did not honour your beauty. I thought of turning back but your features riveted me to the ground. Your brown eyes. Your prominent ears that rebel alignment with your head. Your cute little nose that could invite a gentle nibble. Your succulent two-toned lips. Your meticulously curved body. And the air around you that had a light glow. Everything around you seemed to obey your presence. Even the noise of the market. Before I realised it, I was ogling and I figured you noticed. So I had to run away. I don't know what was going through my mind at the time. I still haven't figured that out. But one thing I know for certain is that that was cringe.
When I got home empty handed, my mother served me the cleanest uppercut of all time. She then shoved my head between her knees and struck a bamboo stick on the line between my buttocks. Needless to say, Wamutĩtũ, the guests were not served any eggs. And who serves boiled githeri with fried eggs honestly? My mother also denies me four o'clock tea since that day. But I do not count it as loss. I encountered an angel. That is all that matters.
And frankly, I think watching all this wrestling has gotten into my mother's head. I refuse to believe that the precision of that uppercut was inherent. It was learnt. Observed. By an apprentice.
Matter of fact, the wrestling is not the problem. It's the T.V. Ever since that mhindi my dad was working for donated the T.V, mother has started eating ugali with a spoon. How on earth! But from that T.V, I now know my dream car. A red Datsun 240Z. And soon I will buy it. And you will ride in it with me. To Nairobi or wherever your heart desires. Only if you will.
Enough of me.
Indulge me I your world. Tell me about you. I am looking forward to your response.
Yours truly,
Kaminju, the runner.
This letter was carefully folded and placed inside the pocket of the pants donated by the mhindi. Awaiting the next time Kaminju would be sent to the market.
Glossary.
Wa-mayai- One who sells eggs.
Waĩtherero & Wamutĩtũ- Names for females of Kikuyu origin.
Shamba- Farm
Githeri- A local kenyan dish made up of maize and beans.
Mhindi- An informal way to refer to an Indian.
Acknowledgement.
Special acknowledgement to my mum (the lovely Florence) and my sweet cousin Eunice Wanjiku (Shiku) for helping me out with the translation from English to Kikuyu and the writing of the Kikuyu part and on top of that, investing their time and knowledge in me.
Without forgetting, special acknowledgement to you my dearest reader. Thank you for the support this far.
Xoxo
This is an awesome read. You have the twist to leave room for us to picture all them events from the uppercut to the lashing. Looking forward to the next💯💯
Your writing is just out of this world. Love it. Esp the vivid description