The minute hand on the clock seemed to hover over the roman numeral twelve forever. His right eye twitched as he tried to will the hand to move, for time to pass by. He desperately wished for the next minute, for the next thirty to fly by. Or he wished he could give his breath for the last fifteen to never have happened.

His left cheek burned from the slap that had knocked him onto the floor. He called it a slap because he was too masculine to admit that she had shared her best right hook with the side of his face. He could feel the cold tile against his right cheek, and could feel the grout between the tiles. He wondered who laid the tile, if she had used Njoroge like he had advised or if she had, as she tended to, gone her own way and used her own person. He wondered if she had called Maryanne. The lady with the purple dungarees, tattered and torn, covered in paint but she swore that this Maryanne was the best Man-Friday in Nairobi. His right eyelid had not batted since the hit, and he stared at the clock. Why did she have a clock in the bathroom? Did she time her bowel movements? He had never noticed. But then again, he had known her for only a year, started dating her a mere four months back. He had never observed her toilet manners. He remembered liking that about her. She never did anything unladylike in front of him. His mother’s words came floating into view, “A real lady never farts or pees in front of her husband”.

He remembered his mother clearly now. Why did he remember her now as he lay, sprawled out on the cold bathroom floor, staring up and sideways at a clock that did not Continue reading →