Jesus’ Torn Slipper.

As he trotted back to Chosen, the unforgiving July sun overhead scorched with fury and drove a spear
migraine through his miasma of euphoria. Rather, as he was staggering back. There was a thorn in his
left foot, that only ached when the lateral part of his heel pressed against a pebble or a hard surface in
the mad. He had had to batter his remaining pair of boots for a bottle of his regular, and a “well wisher”
had lent him the pair of slippers. One had torn a strap. They were both old, but one was ancient and
torn.

He vaguely remembered the previous nights events. A brawl. There was dancing, at least one girl, the
only girl, had flashed her saggy tits to the excited uproar of the patrons in the tavern. But mainly it was
mainly, the sporadic dancing, silent chewing and watching the silent flat screen television housed in
welded cage to the wall overhead. Someone seemed to have tuned it to an old martial arts movie
channel and had lost the remote controller. Maybe that is why his left neck hurt on the left side. Maybe
it was the punch he had shielded.

He bemused himself with these thoughts. The events of the previous night. The stories he was telling of
dissecting a human body. They helped distract him from the hellish ball of combusting helium overhead.

This was Tari Ndweku and the weather this time of year was Miami without the beaches.

He often marveled at his formidable intellect, that withstood the hammering of vodka and portable
spirit. Though it only profited him in drinks, he’d still find himself as astounded as the listeners.
Especially when it came to human anatomy. It was after all the love of his life. He could still remember
from innervation to origin and insertion of muscles of the human body from his anatomy class. Though
he had forgotten some details.

That was a long time back and he hardly completed his second year. But he could still remember. “Tako
kubwa na tako ndogo” the anatomy Professor’s feeble attempt with an archaic joke aimed at jolting
back to life the half dozing half hangover-ed first years at the back of the hall, his former domicile. But
everyone knew that joke. He had first heard it from a colleague of his cousin who was dubbed Fascia.
The nights spent at “sister’s mess” and the spirited discussions that he’d sat in on and this joke were all
part of how he had become infatuated and inebriated with the discipline. Long before he had formally
joined medical school.

The regular patrons of Gateway Pub, had however long ceased to derive entertainment from the tales of
Dagitari son of Joseph and Mary. Now, it was mostly in scorn that they referred to him as Jesoo. He was
indifferent about the salutations or their loss of appetite. The new patrons were his catch. He prided
himself in that he’d ultimately get a cup or two from them. And the more they came the merrier he’d
get. But today, his heart welled with pride because of a different achievement.

He had convinced Wa Muriu, the barkeep that she needed a more sophisticated cleaner. One who
would be and asset in her business because Roba, her go to person, was often recluse after his duties
and could not entertain the clientele thus urging them to spending more time. And most importantly
their money. He had offered to use his old dell computer, his only remaining possession, to Deejay
alternating weekdays with various music, in addition to his cleaning duties of course. Reggae nights,
Mugithi and Rhumba were the popular genres and he would only require a bottle of Munyago. It was
enough to turn his lights out. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was out of pity or there’d be strings
attached. He overflowed with pride nonetheless. The deal had been struck. And Roba had punched him
in the neck.

“Fuck!” he hissed as the thorn in his flesh dug deep.

The pain streaked, then it waned and almost instantaneously disappeared, as his heart had started
thumping and thudding with excitement for just a few steps yonder lay the highlight of his day. It was
like the alarm clock, that throbbed his heart back to life. He instantaneously, grinned.Phiona’s
voluptuous, adipose welling gluteus maximus, barely perched on a wooden vibrated vigorously from the
shock waves sent by the electronic pedal of her sewing machine. It didn’t make things better that her
second name was Mitaako. His posture straightened as he slowly moved towards her. She was humming
her usual tune that she worked against. He’d become the envy of all for what he was about to do.

“Cava chuchu” he greeted her as he brushed against her equally abundant hips. “Cava mon cheri oh!!...”

“désolé cheri” He quickly feigned an apology.

“Mng’aramutse!”

With the usual beaming wide smile, that she received the salutation every sunrise her head glided
upwards revealing the glistening ivory moon of her smile, pivoted atop two glorious mountains that
would have fattened The Messiah’s multitude after his sermon.

It was Madiba who once said that “If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his
head. If you talk to him in his own language, that goes to his heart.”

Tom’s words pierced Jerusha’s heart every single morning. It was only the one, or two words that he had
mustered but she was pulled back into a vortex through space and time into her native Butaro. She was
home again.

“Oh!” She gasped again, but this time it was from what she saw.

“Where...” she asked gesturing with her palms at his feet.

“Amafaranga gashize chu” He said with a coy smile. He thought nothing of the matter but Jerusha would
have none of it.

“Oya! Oya! Oya!” she shook her head with vehemence. She was aggrieved at what she was witnessing.

She rummaged through her lesso, forgetting that her shaking head was also shaking her monstrosity of a
bosom. Tom saw them bubbling in slow motion. That should’ve been the pair that was being flashed the
previous night. Her succulent lips should have been the ones shouting. Then she’d have dived towards
him arms open and their lips would’ve locked into a…

“Take!”

He snapped back to reality, only to see his palm rest on a note on his chest. He looked down and saw his
palm holding a 500 Kenyan shilling note. He froze. He couldn’t understand why. Why was he holding a
KSHS 500 note? The last time he was this confused is when he had learned of the death of his father. He
looked up from his palm, only to see her smiling with a sense of accomplishment, palms clasped as she
swayed from side to side like a little girl who’d just stolen her first kiss. She was now removing her lesso.
She covered his shivering torso. He looked at her in obvious befuddlement.

“Now carry, please”

She pointed to he sewing factory, that she transferred to the nearest shade during unstable weather.
But it was sunny. He looked up, just as a drop fell on the tip of his nose. A grew mass was beginning to
form overhead. He was now even more confused than ever. “Cheri what day is it?” He asked as they
trotted slowly to the makeshift front end shade of Gateway Pub. “Thursday” she giggled and shrugged.
“Oh shit” he muttered under his breathe. It had been another blank week. He literally thought it was
Friday. That was when this bender he’d been on started. He turned to find Shaz, as he referred to her
sometimes under the influence, scrutinizing him. He’d been staring blankly at the wall opposite them.
He was experiencing a whirlpool of emotions. The thudding in his chest had grown more determined.

Pineapples. Yes! A welcome distraction. “Ah! Kasee wasiyata yu!” he greeted Komando, the leader of
this particular faction. “Ni kuseo Ndoc! Uko na ndawa?” Tom searched through his pockets for a roach,
but he didn’t find any. “Labda baadaye ni kama nilimaliza.” Komando gave a thumbs up and the group
retreated to the kamuteini market under the Mugumo tree, next to Wairimu’s timber yard. Each one of
the members carried at least three succulent pineapples. They had just come from picking the fruits. It
was their season after-all and the ready market was all but excited to gorge themselves with their pick,
to their fill. He suddenly remembered that he had KSHS 500 that he could partake in this foreboding
pleasure. But he was still struggling to understand why his perennial crush had given him the handout,