Sheila was the bane of my existence. I loved her. Deeply, in that teenage boyish fashion. Sheila’s beauty was a little bit physical; she was short, dark, curvy yet lean. Her hair was always tied in a pony tail, blow dried. She mostly wore pants, denim, with a plaid jumper just a size too big. But this simply added to the allure; it made me imagine what lay underneath. Mostly though, she was just cool, and suave. In a way I could never hope to be. Her eyes had this way of passing over you that left you feeling both the luckiest man alive, and also the sorriest human anywhere! It was bittersweet. It was a drug that I could not get enough of. And I craved for my daily fix: every weekday evening on my way home from school.
After getting off the bus at Embulbul terminus, I’d walk through the one-street town. The main road splits the shopping center in half. Right next to the tarmac was a government-sponsored water project which in addition to selling portable water to local households, also had a tree and flower nursery going. You could buy trees every rainy season to fulfill your part in the national drive towards reforestation. The plot next to the tree nursery was empty, offering space for events as varied as evangelical Christian crusades, or open-air film screenings courtesy of the Kenya Film Commission. I only attended these night events once or twice, but I knew the routine well: action flick projected onto a white sheet, powered by a rowdy generator. Once the cowboy, or more recently, Kung Fu picture was over, you could expect the violence to migrate from the screen to the audience. Rotten eggs, moldy and smelly vegetables, and sometimes human feces, would fly in between rivals gangs: boys with grand dreams of thug-dom.
Fittingly, the opposite side of the road housed Embulbul’s bastion of peace: the Catholic Church. It was still under construction, a mabati structure that was a sizeable upgrade from the timber church a few blocks down. The congregation had expanded, enough to afford the architecturally ambitious edifice for which we were forever contributing donations and performing funds drives. There was even a 3-D model displayed at the church’s main entrance. Right next to the fountain containing Holy Water. Our future cathedral promised to be a scenic upgrade in a town where half the homes were still built of mud and wattle.
An avenue branched off to the left towards Wa-Job’s shop. He was our family grocer. He extended us credit, as well as other smaller favors. I could deposit my gumboots in his shop if it had been raining on my way to school in the morning. Two blocks down, on the same side of the street, was the local Masjid, the mosque. The Muslim community was not that large, so their white and green structure would not need an upgrade for another decade or more. I’d branch off the main street and weave in between narrow footpaths, past Peninah’s house, and John Mzungu’s compound. Peninah was cute, but she had nothing on Sheila. Sheila was a bad girl, Peninah was just nice. Mugumo-ini Bar and Restaurant was at the edge of town, just where the nascent municipal council ceded authority, and plots were actually titled. D.O., as the proprietor of Mugumo-ini was called, having been a former District Office, had opened a beer and nyama choma joint. It was frequented by some of our neighbors, at least on those off days when, lacking cash, they needed credit and could not visit the more popular watering holes such as Jamba Square.
Past Mugumo-ini you go down hill, with two local tycoons’ homes on your right: Jimmy’s first, then Kirui’s. Both men made their money from quarrying stones in the area. This was Embulbul’s version of industrial magnates. Opposite Kirui’s house was a large real estate development that had been built in the late 80s. It probably held close to a hundred 1 and 2-bedroom apartments, all single storied. For some reason, however, Kamunya’s private development never took off. Most of the houses were empty, despite the formidable stone wall that fenced the entire estate. This was in contrast to an 8-roomed affair that always had tenants right opposite the main entrance to Kamunya’s property. The wooden structures of this two-rowed apartments were already aging by the late 90s, but that did not detract potential tenants. And right next door lived Sheila, with her mother and elder brother.
Mama Sigidi, as Sheila’s mother, ran a small vegetable stall right at their front gate. The structure was hurriedly knocked together using Eucalyptus poles, poached from Oloolua Forest, gunny sacks, and one piece of mabati to keep away the elements. The mabati mostly failed in its duties. The produce was often sitting in the sun, or had to be shelved away whenever it rained. Sheila ran the stall. As children are expected to. She’d open shop in the evenings, just in time to catch the work crowd hurrying home to prepare supper. Kale was on offer, so too was spinach, tomatoes, onions, sometimes even a few roots of garlic. There were also fruits, depending on what was in season: avocado, bananas, oranges, and plums. Other than plums, the rest could be bought wholesale at Mkulima’s farm – a big operation on the next ridge.
So get this, Embulbul has a sizeable farmers’ market, where you could find all kinds of fresh produce. In my pubescent infatuation, I would however, walk right past all these offerings, just to go buy a banana, at Sheila’s stall. And if I was feeling particularly wealthy I’d throw in an avocado. The 3-minute interaction I’d have with Sheila was absolutely worth it. That I was also getting a healthy daily serving of fruits was just an added bonus. I’d say hello, my school bag slung on my left shoulder. Looking cool even as my heart fluttered. I’d stretch my arm, snaking it past the small window where customers handed in their cash. I’d point to the banana I wanted her to sell me. Having chosen an avocado that was just ripe, I’d reach for my wallet in right back pocket. If I was lucky our fingers would graze as she accepted the cash. Heaven was finding her in a good mood so that we could chat for a few minutes longer.
The magazines I’d read about girls told me it was quite important to establish what their hobbies were. Sheila’s were reading novels (Danielle Steele), traveling, and swimming. In hindsight, we all had those canned responses. Borne out of strange fantasies to connect with foreign pen pals who would revel us with news about the west, perhaps send us expensive books and electronics at Christmas, or possibly airlift us out of Moi’s austerity-prone autocracy into legal adoption, free tertiary education, and a Green Card. And so we all listed swimming as a hobby. Even though we could not have seen a swimming pool but once, or twice, and even then only on TV.
Often I was unlucky. And the girl of my dreams would be sitting with one of the tenants who rented a room from Mama Sigidi. While I didn’t hold grudges against the lady, given that I didn’t even know her name, I did grow to loathe her. She seemed alive merely to thwart my romantic aspirations. She would impatiently stare at me while Sheila counted out my change, as though I was the intruder. I resented those looks! And I envied her easy familiarity with Sheila, that she lived right next door to the woman I wanted to take out for a date. Since I could not genuinely hate her, I transferred my dislike to her diseased ear lobe. She had a tumor the size of a golf ball growing off the top cartilage in her right ear. It was ripe and shiny, swollen tight. And sometimes I could spot a dribble of pus making its way down past her ear lobe. Probably an ear piercing gone wrong. I never found out, and had no sympathy. The universe, on my behalf, had served her poetic justice for her rude interruptions.
The best part about having teenage infatuations is meeting these people, fifteen years later, and seeing how much or how little they’ve changed. Sheila is still good looking. We’ll walk past each other, like ships in the night, perhaps once every time I’m in Kangawa. Cheers to our younger selves!