THE RED MOON

Image by B.Wachira Kyalo

The distance remained wide and explored, the shadows of the ruins were stimulating and the grass would give in to the wind like a snake listening to a gypsy playing the flute. He somehow knew what would set my soul a blaze and wallowed in the ideas of my indifference.

The moon would elude us from time to time denying us the opportunity to decipher the emotions on each other’s face. But it didn’t matter, he couldn’t deal the right card if it was poker and deep down I was a joker.

He liked the fact that I could wander so deep in his thoughts audibly and have a mirrored effect. It was refreshing. The mystery in his eyes illuminated each time when he raised one eyebrow; I could get lost in it trying to guess what he was thinking or if he was thinking at all.

He rarely spoke in a barbed tone, we would speak of life, and we would immerse ourselves so deep about its source, the source. God was frequent in our conversations, not in the same light I’ve seen Him before in but definitely in the light that had lit up my path.

On the stroke of ten thirty at night, there was a soft amber light in a far distance, it gave off serenity that you only come by when you use Thika road at night. I could clearly see the path made by people who traversed before us. He confessed to have been here before multiple times before that day.

I remained silent but appreciated the sense of security he had extended; he was berserk for walking this path so deep into the night especially alone, but it made me feel safer that he was conversant with the land also that I am a fast runner.

We were only four bracing through the clean cut cold night, brave and unwarrantedly guided by something we cannot see, touch or explain. Grass, mist and unfinished buildings were the only predominant fauna; the air felt dead but would brush against me occasionally to prove its point. He walked on and would look back from the side of his eye every now and then to check if I was following.

The latitude of romance was hanging so close but we both knew that we were parallel yet so identical. We finally reached the old building, it was beautiful. Like most of us, it was built half way, it was a mess and lonely, it etched for hands and life from passsers by who went on without notice.

It felt empty and its walls plausibly yearned for care, for completion or some sort of reverence; it was like us. Incomplete, desolate and filled with crave for more, sometimes too much more that it would kill us. It was like Edinburgh (a hostel in Moi University, slants to the side like the mps at Nyayo House)

I am not genetically programmed to express my emotions but; I was moved. My eyes lit up in elation, he could tell I was happy more so impressed. We went up the unguarded stairs despite my fear of heights; I couldn’t let this moment pass.

I looked over the lands; the serenity of the night washed over me, the wind almost carried me off the edge, the trees swayed and made the leaves ruffle, a streetlight would illuminate us form where we were standing and I would mistake it for the moon from time to time. He would let out a smile as he saw my eyes wander and take in the nature around us.

Our two friends disappeared to the other end of the spectrum; we could barely see them given the darkness. Time was drawing near but not fast enough, the moon is definitely a woman. The clouds often enveloped it and we would struggle to make out its location. We sat down by the edge and let our legs hang free playing with the wind. It was bliss.

I laid my head down on the cemented floor of the one storied building in search of this wonderful creation. The red moon. I thought of everyone who was looking up at that moment; I wondered if they shared my thoughts and if we are connected in some way. We would often forget the moon as the clouds devoured it. The cold would return us back to reality and we would search for the moon again until we located it.

The talks had wavered my interests; it’s rare to have an intellectual conversation these days especially in person. From time to time, conversations would be on false ‘I miss yous’, unakuwanga wapi sijakuona siku mingi, ntapitia and what does your tattoo mean then I would end up saying I don’t have one.

I am guilty of copy pasting answers but what can a girl do when it’s the same approach each time. I am a walking answer sheet and I’m not apologizing for other men’s mediocrity. I might be called a bent coin but be sure to know all ladies do this, you are not special; sorry definitely sorry. Sapiosexual? I concur.

He would rampage things I knew of and things I didn’t know of without making me feel intellectually under equipped nor bloating himself. He spoke without ego or malice, his answers were not calculated, and they were real and tangible. He was free. A free spirit just like me.

Its scary meeting a mirrored version of yourself especially when you are not ready (if ready is the right word). I couldn’t succumb to his whole aura, I was too distracted by my own journey, my wild thoughts, my needs and self inflicted wants that I categorized as needs and this moon (the red moon).

I could hear motorists from where we were and the loud noise from F2 (a local pub- safe haven for all who turned their backs on solace). I saw the moon again and I drifted from his voice, all I could hear was nature whistling. My thoughts were still, they are hardly ever still; they dance around sometimes to mock me, to elevate me or both simultaneously.

It was forty three minutes past midnight, I was getting uncomfortable and wanted to go back to my room. The red moon continued playing brikicho as we made our way. The Eldoret full moon was somewhat like Big Pin; it comes every a hundred years and is hardly recognized.

3 COMMENTS

  1. Like most of us, it was built half way, it was a mess and lonely, it etched for hands and life from passsers by who went on without notice.

    This got me. I felt it. And it’s very accurate.
    Great piece sis..

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