How I Remember Everything

It starts here

We met on our first day in college. My father had brought me and his mother had brought him. We were both seated at the reception waiting for our parents to do the paper work.

We were both excited; it showed on his face and I felt it in my blood. Our college dreams were kicking off. Later on, out of class and along the corridors, our love lives would coincidentally kick off too.

'Hi' soon became 'hey!' And then there was 'How are your studies doing?' And then we would meet at the school cafeteria, at the games, outings and, again, along the corridors. I was busy feigning shyness while he was busy fighting the same - waiting, gathering courage, and saving money for a proper date.

He never got enough money for a date, but life gave him courage. "Can we take a walk?" I shrugged a "yeah". We walked to Uhuru Park on a warm Christmas Eve. We sat under a tree and watched civil servants stride and amble and tiptoe from the government offices in Upper Hill into town. With the only coin he had - an old twenty bob coin with bruised corners - he bought a doughnut and nothing else. I remember he tore it into two, gave me the three-quarter piece and we munched with glee; we chatted and laughed and held hands and we both agreed that it had been a day full of butterflies in our bellies…and l was like “This is awesome!” And he was like, “so freakin’ awesome. Can we do it again?”

And I was like “Hell yeah!”

That day was the beginning of our love story, a strong bond that I have since gotten addicted to. Later, after a few days, we sneaked from college again. We walked the stretch from college, passing right through the heart of Nairobi, and took a corner at Kipande House and crossed into Central Park. It was a rainy season. So we expected the green grass. There it was, a meadow so inviting and so romantic. We lay there and listened to us tell stories; I told him how I used to fear thunder as a kid and he told me how he used to fear darkness. He wanted me to know of his family. I told him of my family too. It was interesting to him that my father was a teacher and my mother was a lay reader. “A reader and a teacher!” he said. We giggled about the loftiness of our dreams and shallowness of our ambitions.

We were always broke. “Let’s break bad”, he always said. But my guy had inexpensive, even brilliant ways of having fun. Often times we walked towards Arboretum; we would stroll up passed Mamlaka Chapel, shy away from Nairobi University hostels and the zigzag, hand in hand, until we saw the Statehouse's white fence. We feared walking too close to it. Munching on crisps, or njugu or popcorns – those days we ate everything, no wonder we farted a lot too -we would ramble on the other side of the road.

Those days, Arboretum had scores of broke people, which was good because then love was real – even sweet. Lovebirds were everywhere in that beautiful park. They were under trees, on the grass, at the other end of the park, or narrow pathways, or hidden behind the shrubbery. It was naked love. Once in, we would choose the quieter corners of the park where the grass was taller and privacy was guaranteed. I always carried a leso, which we spread on the meadow. We kissed for long hours. But he did not lift my skirt and I did not touch his zipper, which was good because he would later do it in a special way.

I later met his mother, a humble woman married to a good humored husband. She prepared me githeri and chicken and later, after we were full, she prepared ginger tea. She said it was good for a full stomach. "This helps in digestion, my daughter." She never had a daughter and so, naturally, I was a daughter she never had. Even after I had gone, she still called my name until her son, my sweetheart, reminded her that I had left.

He came home too. My father liked him very much. They often enjoyed sipping tea and nibbling on cashew nuts. My father liked to think of himself as a poet, even though he had never written one. They differed on who was better between Robert Frost and Pablo Neruda.  Sometimes they would ask for my vote so that a winner could emerge from their arguments.