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Written by Juliet Maruru
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Tuesday, 18 March 2008 |
Roman showed up at my mum's front door three days ago. I had last seen him five years before that.
Five years ago I was 21 years old, ambitious, adventurous, working as a store manager for an Italian Cookware Company in the central business district of Mombasa Island, volunteering at a children’s home every weekend, playing soccer and diving in the ocean every Sunday afternoon, and was the naughty young lady engaged to be married to the minister’s son. Roman was older, strangely settled at 29 and eager for me to stop being bad and wild so I could be his wife.
I was not ready to get married, let alone to the minister’s son, who was himself aspiring to be a minister soon. I broke his heart, at least I thought I had, until he married someone I used to call ‘my best friend’. That was about six weeks after we broke up. Yes, I was hurt and jealous and angry. And don’t forget I had dumped him. Then I packed up my bags and moved to work as a junior manager for a smaller store owned by the same company I had worked for.
Roman’s divorce came through seven months ago. She ran off with his business partner a year after they were married. And all I can say now, because my mind shifted into gutter standby when I saw him, all I can say are three quite unbecoming expletives in one breath.
I am 26 years old now. I dare say I am still ambitious, but perhaps in a non-corporate direction. I have become quite a couch adventurer who gets horrible blisters on the soles of my feet every time I dare hike up a hill to prove to Leni that I am fit. I am in between jobs (hahaha) but contentedly occupied as a glorified caretaker for my uncle’s properties. I might dare lay claim to the title of a writer, never mind that my folks now claim that my dreams are the reason I am jobless. (It is true but don’t tell them I admit to that). Since that strange time five years ago when I actually wore the minister’s son ring, I have successfully programmed the Oxytocin receptors in my brain to reject any chemical suggestions that might result in the horrible mental disorder called love. Then the divorcee showed up at my door with a wicked grin and a lewd wink that had me thinking that he had not become a minister after all.
He said a friend of a friend had told him I had moved back home with my mother. Then the friend had pointed him in the general direction of my mother’s home. All he had to do after that was ask for the lady who wears baggy clothes, keeps cats and talks to animals. The cat lady. That called for a few more creative expletives from me which quite clearly delighted the minister’s son.
“Come on TJ,” he used to call me that, Tomboy Jules, and that seems to be the virus that crashes the programming in my brain. “You always kept and talked to cats. I didn’t think you would change much.”
Ah! I have changed! I am older, not wiser, a few pounds heavier, almost done with a degree that took too long to start, still wear clothes two sizes larger, now live back at home, have a friend who is a girl and wears pink nail polish, still have more male friends, don’t have a real job, still write and I still keep cats.
When I was twenty, I lived with a male cat, his harem of three cats and at one point 7 kittens. My flat was not mine. Everything that happened there had to be negotiated between me and cats who either had title deeds to my pillows or couch, or had degrees in the use of household appliances by furry felines. Every day I was reprimanded with sharp howls for stepping on a cat’s tail or angry mewls for dislodging a sleepy cat from a couch.
When I got home, I would prefer to drink something cold while watching TV. Tom knew how to use the remote control. As I was struggling to get the TV back on, some other cat would topple my drink. I would scream in rage. And the cats would look at me with an assortment of black, blue, grey and brown eyes. Innocent. Blinking. Why are you angry, cat lady?
When I was ready to go to bed, I had to negotiate with Princess. The bed was hers and my place was at the foot of the bed. And if I dared lock her out, the howls usually worked to make me let her back in. After quite a bit of negotiation, I got one pillow, the one on the left. Then she would lick a paw, curl up proudly, yawn and go to sleep.
Everyone else slept either on my desk or in my wardrobe. Either way it meant that I would show up at work with cat hair on my clothes, and customers with sensitive respiratory systems would sneeze.
My then fiancé once declared that every time he dropped by my flat he would pause in trepidation at the idea that I had someone else with me, only to realize that I was talking, and fighting with my cats. I must have been close to being lynched for witchcraft. If that was the case then I was blissfully ignorant of it all. I was nutty, naughty, more willing to invest tolerance and love on cats than on human beings. I would party and soccer but always come home to feed my cats. Cats don’t lie. Humans do. So I never lied to my cats.
One day Roman went off in an angry fit. I wouldn’t go off to Malindi with him for an important diving event. There was no one to leave my cats with. “How can you be so selfish? How can you chose a cat over me?!”
Cats. I got the nice neighbor to feed the cats for me, so I could go with Roman. But he was already upset. And I couldn’t explain the mad attachment to animals.
I’ll try now. The day I turned 7, I woke up excited and ran to Daddy. He seemed tense but I was just a child. I wanted to know if he would bring me a present later when he came home. He said he would. He never came back home. Next time I saw him I was 13, bitter and wild. I don’t know whose fault it was that he never came home. But that day, I found a tiny little kitten that I was allowed to keep.
Spots was special. She loved to play and knew her name. but she wouldn’t come running if you called her and she didn’t want to come. She never made it a secret that she loved me because I fed her and cuddled her. Other than that, I could possibly not be as interesting as the rabbits and wild cats in the field. Spots stayed until 4 years later when mum ran over it with her ugly cream Peugeot.
I still hurt over the lie Daddy told 19 years ago. He contacted me recently. I just can’t forget that lie. I sit and have coffee with him at Dorman’s as he politely inquires about my life and career aspirations. I keep thinking, “It’s too late, can’t you see?”
I still don’t want to marry the minister’s son. Or play with him, which is what he seems to prefer now. But the anti-virus programming in my brain is not working very well. If he hangs around I will be in so much trouble.
At the doorstep, I laugh, “No I haven’t changed much, Dibs.” I used to call him that. Because every time he needed to swear he would say dibs instead of something that might make his mother have a heart attack. “I still keep cats and talk to the neighbor’s goats”
He touches the top of my head, “I missed you, TJ. I just wanted you to know that.”
He finally walked away. I kicked myself then grabbed my rucksack to go meet my friends at the Conservatoire for a show. When I get there, Leni is mad because I am 20 minutes late. I try to explain about Roman, but Sid appears with a tiny beauty on either side. They giggle and blink adoringly as he tells them about the book he just sent to the publishers. He does love his own writing. Leni grabs the tickets from Sid before he gives them to the beauties. Randolphe calls to say he is held up at the Exhibition (which one?) and can we see the show without him? Will he show up later? No, he is meeting a friend for an Ethiopian dinner. Cinnamon (yes that is his name) calls to say he can’t make it but he is thinking about me. Then he says his air time is out and hangs up. Stingy. Leni looks around wildly then pretends that she is picking cat hair off my blazer. Her eyes light up though and I look around to see that Ibra, her handsome Senegalese destiny has finally arrived.
Did mum remember to feed the cats, I wonder as we go in to watch the show. And is that Roman, with some tall pretty lady on his arm…..
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Juliet Maruru |
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Last Updated ( Wednesday, 19 March 2008 )
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