A few moons ago, an acquaintance made it into the newspapers in a murder case. I’d never read about anyone I knew in a scandal, let alone a murder case. He was held in the cell for almost a month before being set free.
Of course, he didn’t do it but he had had improper interactions with the accused. In the aftermath, his marriage crumbled and he had to relocate to his village in Oloitoktok where he thrives as a large-scale farmer.
I had been meaning to visit him for almost a year and last weekend I finally drove down there with two bottles of whisky and cigars.
The first evening we cracked open a bottle and sat in his long verandah overlooking Mt Kilimanjaro that was so close I felt I could reach out and stroke its peak. He had just turned 40. He looked settled.
He even had a new woman; a striking mixed-something who had just twisted an ankle and was on a crutch. He was raising two dogs. He still smoked a hell lot, still possessed a very sharp and entertaining witticism.
The next day we went for lunch at a small ‘resort’ called Vila Kusini, an oasis in Kimana centre. The lawns were a screaming green compared to the dry and dusty landscape outside. The food was unmemorable but the ambiance and service was excellent. [ Ask for Byrone, solid fellow. Tip him].
Chivalrously, he carried his woman to and from the washrooms, a burning cigarette dangling from his lips the whole time. Blowing cigarette smoke like a choo choo train, he told us how horrible police cells are.
At dusk, we visited a local bar and later polished off the evening at his verandah with grilled chicken and more whisky. At 2 am, a lady lit a blunt and said, “everything in moderation, including moderation.” [Oscar Wilde].
He said, “give us a quote, Mr Writer.” So I gave a quote relevant to his past woes. “All humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” [Blaise Pascal]. We all touched glasses.
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