We took a waterbus from Mbita, sailed to Mfangano Island then spent the night on our seats by a reluctant fire. A bitter wind howled from the lake.
The next morning we buried a relative against the steep hill of the island, jumped on the waterbus again, and landed on the shores of Mbita.
We then drove to Kisumu and checked ourselves into an Airbnb in Milimani estate. We were thirsty as those who have buried one can be. Thirsty for life. Thirsty for the present, for now.
“There is a place down the road that sells alcohol,” the Airbnb manager said. We sighed with great relief.
“You can walk there,” he said.
So we did. The place was like the many massive bungalows in Milimani estate that have been listed on Airbnb.
We walked past a darkened living room with a big-screen TV where two couples sat, one with very arresting blonde hair. The living room opened to a garden transformed into a seating area with umbrellas and chairs.
Many people were having the time of their life. The music was upbeat. I was with my brother and my cousin. We were later joined by my brother’s pal who he studied with in India. Yes, the same one I wrote about here not long ago. A tall lady with a devastating body joined us.
“How tall are you?” my cousin inquired. “6'1”, she said.
So they stood and compared heights like lower primary children. She was taller and prettier, of course, and possibly smarter.
My brother and his pal got back to their India stories. They never get old. He talked of when he took a year off university to live in Goa, doing drugs, drinking and fighting in bars, and frolicking with tourists.
We laughed, mostly with envy and bewilderment. At 9 pm, we walked to our abode.