Don’t die before you fall in love

 

He was a beautiful boy. Tall, well over six feet, slim, not skinny, not tiny-waisted and broad shouldered, but rather streamlined with a slight courtly stoop that went very elegantly with the grey suits he so loved.

A music and languages teacher, you would often find him at his desk, humming tunes from some score that he was either learning or writing. He would be tapping time on his staffroom desk with a long pianist finger or a biro, his deep voice husky to the point of hoarse.

But it was his character that made him such a good guy and my best friend at the time. He wore his soul on his long, aqualine handsome face. When he was cross, his bushy eyebrows met over his nose in a fierce scowl, his eyes burning like brown coals. But when he was happy, his smile was as bright as a thousand suns.

I am going to tell, briefly, the story of my friend since it is one of the most enduring and powerful love stories I have ever witnessed. Why am I writing love stories and not politics and other “big” things? This is the month of love, I am an old romantic and as a lesson to our children weighed down by depression and contemplating taking their own life. If you don’t have anything else to live for, live for love. Please don’t die before you fall foolishly, hopelessly in love with some oaf who kisses your eyelids and hums hoarse tunes for you.

Difficult time

It was 27 years ago. I was just a kid, taking the first bite on life. So I got a job teaching English and literature in the village. I would occasionally teach business studies for another teacher. It was a very difficult time: Teaching and a quiet rustic life were not a sufficient outlet for the fire burning inside me. I was like a dog in a cage, desperately looking for an escape route.

The other teachers were nice enough: There was our headmaster, Mr Kabithi, quiet and mainly absent; the deputy headmaster, whose name I have since forgotten but had a memorable squint; Mr Mwenda, the chemistry teacher, who had a good scientific mind and a deep love for chapati; the lady English teacher, who was just called “Mrs”; Mr Kirimi, a wise, wealthy former headmaster on demotion who had a big shop in Meru Town and drove a little Suzuki (the only teacher with a car in the school); and Mr Kimathi, who taught something or other but whose head had more business schemes than lesson plans. And then there was my friend.

I don’t know when he met the girl from the big house in the village. But he started acting crazy. One day I was watching him from across the staffroom and he furtively took something out of his coat pocket and theatrically rubbed it gently on his cheek, sniffed it long with his eyes closed, his habitually stern look replaced by a dreamy, foolish, eyes-closed grin. Then he put it back.

When I finally busted him worshipping this feminine garment, I think it was a scarf, my friend burst out laughing and laughed until he fell out of his chair.

Beautiful

So, by and by the story came out. He, indeed, had fallen in love with the village belle; the princess of that village in looks and manner. She was beautiful, oh my God she was: Tall, another six-footer, a flawless chocolate.

She used to walk the village roads ramrod-straight, a saucy jaunt in her step, her comely proportions swaying genteelly in the mountain sun. In the mountains, when the skies are clear and the season is right the heavens are azure and sun bright but cool.

My friend couldn’t have chosen a worse target for his romantic adventures. We were strangers in the neighbourhood. I had heard that her father did not embrace young men who entertained thoughts of “misleading” the apple of his eye but he had opened his doors wide to her boyfriend — a nice, friendly gorilla of a man who taught in a nearby school. I suppose he came from a big family in another village, making it a good Montague-Capulet match but without the family feud — or the romantic love.

Mr Kirimi, the wise one, had nicknamed my friend “Njorua”, a conquering hero, in part for his insouciant courage, an airy boldness and total lack of second thoughts about danger. Worse, he was so happy, so in love that most times he was delirious. We went on three-wheel dates and he carried her handbag, her jumper — hell, he would have carried her if she would allow him.

He couldn’t keep his hands off her, even in public. He held her hand, touched her hair, straightened her blouse. In private, he would look at her and beam with such an outpouring of joy. I have never seen a man chew his food and swallow while maintaining a big smile on his face.

This state of affairs caused a huge confrontation pitting an army of men supporting the big man on one hand and my friend, his girlfriend and I on the other. In one of many confrontations and negotiations, the big man broke down and wept. “Please leave my girlfriend alone,” he begged. I remember my friend’s cold and pitiless stare, his handsome face set. “I will never leave her alone. You can do what you like,” he told him.

By some miracle, we didn’t get killed.

Yesterday, I hunted down my friend after 27 years. “She was worth it,” he said simply. Happily married, still foolishly happy.