by Dhasi Mwale
Besides, at this point, she probably deserved it. She’d so quickly let Josiah go, even though Wezi hadn’t made any commitment to her. What an utterly idiotic move.
She came to a stop somewhere between the stage and the VIP-only area where the trailers were set up, unable to wander any longer. She forced herself to listen to the performances and even clapped along with the shrieking cloud to not draw attention to herself and her genuine struggle.
She whooped after some Zed pop song that made the crowd go wild.
“Since when do you like Zed pop?”
Wezi’s voice shattered the cage around her heart. She looked up and restrained herself from jumping into his arms.
He beamed down at her, looking just edible in his ensemble, blue jeans, and a white shirt.
“Hi.” Suddenly all the things she’d sworn she’d say to him when he showed up evaporated, and she could only gape.
Affectionate Wezi leaned in for a tender kiss that made her heart somersault. “Sorry, I had to bail on you this morning.”
“No problem. I assumed you were busy,” she lied.
Laughter danced in his eyes. “No. I’m almost certain you thought I’d disappeared on you.”
“Okay. Fine. I did. You went quiet. Don’t do that to me again.” She hit his chest playfully, then pulled him close to her as if letting go meant he’d walk away.
“Never again.” He wrapped his arms around her.
Katenekwa pulled away, a little uneasy about this much PDA. “On a weird note, Dad knows about us, somehow.”
“He is a very perceptive man,” Wezi said. “And I may have mentioned it.”
Katenekwa gaped at Wezi. He’d felt comfortable telling her father he was in love with her when she couldn’t even fathom what a conversation like that would look like.
So many questions, but nonrelevant to this moment.
“Where did you go so early?”
“I had to pick something up for you.” He pulled a box from his pocket. “I had this made for you before you, you know, told me to hit the road.”
“To clarify, I didn’t kick you out. You left.”
“Fine, before I left.” He opened the box and pulled out a locket. Inside was a photo of Katenekwa and Kawana and on the back an engraving, Beloved. “You once told me you felt like his memory was slipping away from you. I know this isn’t the same, but I hope it helps.”
Katenekwa wiped away a stray tear and allowed Wezi to clasp the chain around her neck. She pressed the locket close to her heart. “Thank you. I have to confess, you’ve surprised me these past few days. I didn’t think you were the romantic kind. But this, and the note—you’ve surprised me.”
“About that, not to jinx this, but when I saw you that day, you were fuming. You were sure I was back with Felicia. What changed.”
“Felicia explained everything.”
“She did? I’d never imagined her doing something to help someone out.”
“Oh, she wasn’t. She was complaining about Kitty. She doesn’t know I’m Kitty.”
“Does that mean…” His eyes widened.
“That she told me why you broke up? Yep.”
“Oh. That’s embarrassing.” He buried his face in his palms.
“Nah. It’s so you.”
They stood in silence for what felt like an eternity until she spoke. “So, Mike told me you signed with Media GQ.”
“Yeah. It was time.”
“You know you didn’t have to do it. I’m sorry I implied that you didn’t know what you were doing with your life, but you don’t have to do something you hate just for me.”
“Oh, I know. Mike hates my songs. He said they were too melancholy. Until Felicia and I sang together. He liked that, and he signed me. Of course, he made me promise to limit my moody songs.”
“And our song? You never told me you wrote it.”
“Well, K was very much against me telling you how I felt.”
“Kawana knew?”
He cupped her face in his hands and looked into her eyes. Love spilled out of him into everything around her. “Kitty, from the first day I laid my eyes on you, I have loved you. K tried to get me to forget you. He didn’t want me to distract you. He loved you so much.”
“I know. You know, we aren’t fighting for the first time in days.”
“Oh, yeah. What’s changed?”
“I believe you now.”
“I’m not like K.”
“I know.”
“I won’t cheat on you.”
“I know.”
“I won’t hurt you.”
“I know.”
“And I will never, ever stop loving you.”
“I know. I truly do.”
He drew her to him in a kiss that made the birds sing and the sun shine brighter. And this time, she didn’t worry about the future or mind that they were being watched. In a world with Wezi, nothing else mattered.
The End
Thank you for reading Note Worthy by Dhasi Mwale. If you enjoyed this story, please support the author by leaving a review on the site of purchase.
About the author
Dhasi Mwale is Tumbuka, a fledgling scientist and sometimes blogger. She writes fun stories when she’s not pretending to do important science stuff. She’s an expert at building castles in the sky and hopes to retire to a cabin in the woods one day. But first, she wants to get her books onto your bookshelf.
Connect with Dhasi:
Blog: https://dhasimwale.wordpress.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DhasiMwale
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/dhasimwale/
Keep reading for an excerpt from Beautiful Mess by Mukami Ngari
BLURB
Makena and Daniel meet at the beach and a whirlwind romance begins.
But the past comes calling when she finds out that her father murdered Daniel's dad. The only man she loves is the one she can never be with.
Is their love strong enough to overcome the dark past?
Content warning: sexual assault.
CHAPTER ONE
~~Makena~~
August 2012
Even to this day, I enjoy travelling. I find little pieces of God when I’m inside a moving car, looking out the window, watching the people and the trees move backwards. There is something about these moments that just factory resets my mind.
The soft sound of snoring occasionally distracts me. My best friends, Wanja and Nduta, have been asleep for six out of seven hours of the journey, while I’ve stayed awake.
The bus pulls to a stop. We are here, in Mombasa.
Finally, warm air hits my nostrils as we get off the bus. The turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean sparkle in my peripheral vision. Going down to the beach is on my bucket list.
There is that thing I must do, for my sanity’s sake and for my dear mother.
I feel for the yellow thing in my bag, buried under my blue Sunday best dress and my beaded sandals.
Mombasa is hotter than any place I’ve been, but I’m too excited to complain. Instead, I take off my brown knit sweater and stuff it in my bag. I wiggle my sweaty toes, inside my black plastic shoes.
“Tosh.” Nduta drops her bag and starts running.
Turning around, I see her boyfriend. His name is Gitonga, but we call him Tosh. His family owns the one and only posho mill in the village.
Tosh and Nduta hug and kiss and laugh. They haven’t seen each other in three months.
Looking at them makes me wonder how it feels, how love feels. I’ve never found a boy who excites me enough.
Tosh sees Wanja and me standing by the corner. We wave, and he frowns.
“Sorry…until you pay her dowry, expect this lot,” I tell him as we hug.
His perfume is a little too strong for me. I crinkle my nose.
“It’s okay. She is worth it.” He smiles.
Nduta blushes and stares at her feet.
Wanja and I approve of him. He is sweet and kind to our girl.
“Loyal too,” Wanja would add whenever we speak of Tosh. She is on Facebook as Alicious de Pretty.
And all the pictures on Tosh’s social media pages are of Nduta.
Wanja asked one of her pretty college friends to try him and see if he would fall. The friend messaged Tosh some pictures, but he never replied.
He is a cool guy without many words. Although, I don’t like how he texts Nduta with stupid spelling mistakes—sweetat, my daling, plecious.
“English is not our tongue…it came on a boat,” Nduta always defends her sweetheart.
Tosh looks different from when I last saw him. He’s added some weight around the midsection, which is a sign of wealth back home. The job at the port must be paying well. He’s grown a beard and a moustache too. He looks all serious and grown-up.
“It’s good to see you, Tosh.” Wanja squeezes him into a hug.
“Ehen, let’s go, my beautiful girls. And stick close to me before someone steals you.” Tosh laughs at his own joke.
He walks in front, holding Nduta’s hand. Wanja and I follow closely behind, on the path he is parting through the busy streets.
There are ancient houses, Arabic-design mosques, tuk-tuks, and women wearing diras walking with the men in kaptulas, exchanging Mashallahs between them.
Ah, this place is perfect.
In my Heaven, there will be a little section that looks like Mombasa.
We arrive at Tosh’s place sooner than I want. His house is in a row of cream-coloured houses with the paints peeling off. The cream and black patches remind me of burnt chapati. His door is marked ‘7’ in black.
“Welcome.” Tosh opens the door.
The home is unlike any I’ve been in. Everything is in one room—the metal-frame bed, kitchen, small TV, low table—and a door leads to the toilet, which doubles as the bathroom.
The place is tidy and smells of his strong perfume. He presses a button on a remote, and soothing RnB music breezes through the room.
“Is that Burning Passion?” Nduta asks about the Mexican soap opera playing on the TV. It is her favourite show.
“Yes.” Tosh smiles.
Paloma and Diego, the Romeo and Juliet of the show kiss on-screen. They are hiding behind her father’s barn, their rendezvous point.
Wanja and I sit on two plastic stools. Tosh and Nduta are on the bed, exchanging smiles.
I feel a little pang of envy.
“You girls must be hungry.” Tosh stands, ready to buy food and reaches for a green paper bag under the glass coffee table, the prettiest thing in the house.
“Tosh, why are you insulting me like this?” Nduta hangs her head. She tries to look cute and disappointed at the same time.
She attended Iregi Catering School and caters at the weddings and funerals back home.
She’s one of the best cooks I know. She has a gift. No matter how many times she teaches me how to cook pilau, the amount of garlic needed, or how much Royco cubes to put in beef stew, my food never tastes as good as hers.
“I will cook,” she says and reaches for her bag at the foot of the bed. She pulls out a leso, ties it around her waist and heads to the kitchen area.
Tosh smiles, her ‘wife material’ points probably increasing in his head.
An hour later, we indulge in extremely sweet biryani. Tosh feeds Nduta.
I watch them and pray for a boy like Tosh but without a potbelly and better-smelling cologne.
A knock sounds at the door. Wanja opens since she is closest to it.
“Oooh, babe,” she shouts and flings her arms around the tall, brown-skinned Somali guy with soft curly hair. He’s in a red Manchester United shirt. Then she kisses him full on the mouth.
My cheeks heat up. I count all my toes close to four times before they come up for air.
Wanja introduces the guy as Noor, her boyfriend from college. Nduta and I look at each other. So, this is the legendary Noor?
Wanja talks about him all the time. They slept together eleven times. She tells us everything while we’re on the way to the market, hurdling and whispering like we always do
He’s very handsome with big bright eyes and hot pink lips. He sits, and Wanja climbs astride him. They kiss and grope each other as if their world is dark.
“I missed you, babe.”
Noor unzips Wanja’s blue jeans pants and slips his hand inside there. Wanja purrs like a cat in heat.
I stare at my bag, wishing to fit in it.
He whispers something to her, and they stand. He takes her tiny purple suitcase from the floor, and they wear their shoes.
“See you tomorrow, my kinsmen,” Wanja blows kisses in the air as they run out of the place.
***
After Wanja leaves, it’s just Tosh, Nduta and me, the third wheel.
As the only one without a boyfriend, I shouldn’t have come. I squirm uncomfortably.
“How is everyone back at home?” Tosh asks.
I tell him about the long rains, the newly-weds, the fresh headteacher at the primary school, the recently built church by the river and the story everyone is talking about.
“You remember Wa Muthoni? The woman who sold peanuts along Ena Road. She was crossing the road to grab a customer when a vehicle appeared out of nowhere and ‘phu’ she was squashed like a watery cabbage.”
“Eeyy!” Tosh exclaims.
“It was a ‘very very shiny’ black Mercedes, but the driver hasn’t been caught because all the witnesses are the idlers at the bus station. People are saying the Mercedes man paid them for their silence. But God is not a human being. One of them, Gicara, you remember him? The one who walks with a limp, yes, that one, a muvariti tree fell on him the other day, and he died.”
“Very sad,” Tosh says. “I feel for her little children. They are four, right? The last one is what? Two years old?”
“He is one, and a half…It’s just sad,” Nduta replies and Tosh caresses her back in consolation.
“How about you…how have you been?” I ask.
“Like is okay. I can’t complain.” Tosh rubs his stomach. “But I’m lonely, you know. I miss my sweetheart. Life is extremely hard without her.”
He looks at Nduta and caresses her chin slowly, as his throat ripples.
“I will…let me go out and get some air,” I excuse myself and step out on the veranda.
Tosh raises the volume of his radio.
I take a walk around the block. The air smells of masala, ginger, and garlic. Mothers are preparing supper and calling their children back home.
A group of little boys are playing football on a dusty field near a filthy dumpsite. One of the boys tells his little brother to go back to the house, but the little brother doesn’t listen and keeps following him. They never pass the ball to the youngest boy, but he keeps running after it and tripping each time.
I return to the house an hour later.
Nduta is in the kitchen area, washing utensils and preparing supper. Tosh is on the bed snoring. He sounds like a power saw running out of fuel.
That night Tosh gives me a mattress to place on the floor, moving the coffee table aside. He creeps into bed next to Nduta. It’s a little room, and I hear all the grunts and moans they make half of the night. I almost crawl out and sleep on the veranda instead, and when it becomes too much, I think about cutting out my ears.
When I get the chance, I will strangle both my friends. This isn’t why I lied to my sweet mother.
The lie: We are attending a church revival in Nairobi.
The plan: We visit Mombasa and tour the coastal town. My friends will say hi to their boyfriends for like an hour or two. Then we all head to a club, dance the night away and get drunk in this city where no one knows us—it will be my first time getting drunk, and I’ve been looking forward to it. I shouldn’t be the only twenty-one-year-old yet to do it.
Afterwards, we’ll take the evening bus, return to our little town, and tell our parents that the church revival was such a blessing. Moth
er will be so proud. She always wants me to take my relationship with Jesus to the next level.
***
The next morning at dawn, I tell Nduta and Tosh that I will tour Mombasa independently. They need time alone, and I don’t want to keep being the third wheel. Wanja hasn’t come back. She’s still at Noor’s place. The return ticket is for the 10 pm bus, so I have a whole day to explore.
“I’ll meet you at the bus stop at 9:30,” I tell Nduta. “Tell Wanja the same when she asks.”
“Sawa,” Nduta says.
My mission: go straight to the beach, watch the beautiful blue waters and finally, get rid of the yellow thing in my bag.
However, I make so many stops along the way. First, I buy a coconut and drink from it. It’s not as sweet as I thought it would be, so I throw it away.
I think of going to Marikiti market. Instead, I visit Fort Jesus, the fortress where the Portuguese fought the British for the coastal strip.
I want to retrace my steps to Marikiti market. What for? He can’t be around there still, can he? What if this is my only chance to see him? Think Makena think.
I go back.
Five months ago, our pastor, Dr Dr Humphrey—yes, he uses the title twice—had a vision about me. I told him in secret once about how I yearn to meet my father, and he told me he would pray for me.
Three days later, he comes out of his fast and calls me to his office. He tells me he knows my father’s location—God showed him in a dream.
At the prospect of a reunion, my heart plays a crazy fast soundtrack that makes my knees weak. I take a sit to listen to the good news.
“I saw him, Makena…I saw him in a dream. He looks just like you,” he says.
I believe because mother once confirmed it, that one time when I was seven. I fought with a boy in my class, Mutemi, who liked putting frogs in my school bag. He also called me bush hair because I had a very thick mane. One day, fed up with his ‘bush hair’ taunts, I beat him up until he peed on himself.
