This morning in church, as the sun poured through the stained-glass windows and the choir threatened to out-sing the angels themselves, our pastor—may the Almighty continue upgrading his wisdom like an iphone—stood tall on the pulpit, thundering, “LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF!”
And there I was, nodding along like the humble, God-fearing man I am at times. “Amen, pastor! Preach!” But little did that good man know, as I clapped in holy agreement, my mind had packed its bags and traveled back to a certain “neighbor” from my reckless village youth. A time when I took that commandment a tad too literally. A neighbor by the name… of Nafula. Oh, Nafula omwana inyanya, omwana mabere, omwana indumbu! The original heartbreak distributor.
Nafula was our own version of Helen of Troy! To say she was beautiful is to disrespect the very concept of creation itself. Nafula wasn’t just beautiful—no! She was an international incident. The type of girl who could cause a stampede at the cattle dip just by bending for firewood. I mean, the day Nafula smiled at me, even the village madman, Induswe, saluted me respectfully. And me? I loved her with the kind of stupidity that should come with a health warning. I loved Nafula the way termites love a mahogany table. Fully. Recklessly. Without an exit strategy.
Understand, village love was not your urban nonsense of chocolates and Instagram captions. Tawe! Our romance was forged in the trenches: stolen glances after school, whispered jokes on the path to the stream, and me abandoning my herding duties, leading to many a bovine trespassing incident to help Nafula fetch firewood. And yes, for my efforts, I received beatings so severe they made me consider converting to a religion that forbids corporal punishment. But did I care? Please. One whiff of a combination of the Bint-el-Sudan & Rexona scents from Nafula and I was ready to face the cane like a warrior.
Now, to the day of my downfall. The infamous Sunday. Elureko Market day. A sacred occasion. First, because it was the Lord’s Day, and second, because it was the only day I could “accidentally” encounter Nafula without painful posterior consequences.
My mother handed me a list: soap, salt, omena, and tsiswa. But between us? I only heard “Nafula.” I sharpened my eyes. Polished my smile. Practiced my most dangerous greeting: “Eshiombo shianje, umeamua leo kunimaliza na hiyo kitenge?” I was ready. Destiny was calling.
But fate… fate is a comedian.
As I turned the corner near Mama Akinyi’s stall, heart pounding, lips rehearsed, there she was. Nafula. My Nafula. But wait. She was laughing. And not the shy giggle she reserved for my predictable jokes. No! This was a full-throttle, neck-thrown-back, “marry me immediately” type of laugh.
And with whom? Brace yourselves… none other than Mr. Ochieng’. Yes. The Mr. Ochieng’. Our Business Education teacher. The man who taught us about supply and demand was now publicly demanding the attention of the only woman who kept me breathing.
Bwana niligongewa….Nafula alinimaliza, na sio na kitenge!
I stopped. Completely. Mid-step. Like a phone that has run out of charge. My heart paused. My hands & brain forgot the shopping list. My brain began buffering. For a good thirty seconds, I just stood there blinking like a village goat that’s heard its name on the slaughterhouse schedule.
And Nafula? The same girl who had once whispered, “Without you, I cannot breathe”? Bwana, she was breathing just fine. In fact, she was inhaling and exhaling extra for the both of us, giggling like someone who had just been promised a trip to Nairobi.
As I pondered my next move—confrontation, retreat, or spontaneous combustion—Nafula glanced in my direction. Our eyes met, and for a brief moment, the world stood still. Then, with the grace of a gazelle and the ruthlessness of a lioness, she turned back to Mr. Ochieng’, her laughter resuming as if nothing had happened.
Death? I saw it. I welcomed it. Right there next to a sack of moldy beans and three tired tomatoes. I considered collapsing for dramatic effect but decided to suffer in dignity.
And what of me? Did I confront them? No. My legs, the cowards, organized an emergency retreat. Head down. Shoulders slumped. I walked home like a man who had been kicked out of paradise.
Even the cows sensed the tragedy. They grazed quietly that evening, mourning with me. The chickens didn’t cluck. The goats avoided eye contact. It was a village-wide moment of silence. It was an emphatic practical delivery of a lesson in Economics: High risk does not always mean high reward.
Bwana, nilipigwa character development!
Nafula, wherever you are… may your Wi-Fi be slow.
So as Pastor finished, waving his Bible and declaring, “LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF!” I simply whispered to myself, “Yes, Lord… but please… not Nafula.”
