The Donors (Short story)

I sit here everyday, unnoticed by some. I suppose after 15 years, one becomes like some sort of permanent fixture. Part of the canvas, like the mukuyu tree that provids shade for vehicles or like mucunu’s dog that always follows him to work. Mucunu is the local butcher. There is the stain outside Kinyua’s shop too. Near the door where the omo poster is or rather, used to be. One can hardly read it any more. The brown stain had marred most of it. I think a child had simply rubbed some red mud over the wall and the poster during one of those rainy days. 

I look across at the little kibanda on the other side. It is owned by Micere. She sells all sorts of vegetables and fruits as well. The sad thing though, her business never seemed to grow. Year after year, it remains the same. Same size, same type of vegetables, same everything. Only she seems to grow older. I sense a level of comfort and satisfaction about her. Perhaps she is content with the way things were. Perhaps, growth is not on her list of “wants” in life. Perhaps she is satisfied with feeding and schooling her children. She is a widow this Micere. Her husband died many years ago and she had not bothered to remarry. Come to think about it, I have never seen her with a man. I think she really is content with the way her life is. Something to admire I suppose.

My thoughts wonder back to my own situation. I look at the dirty cup on the floor before me. Its yellow or at least it used to be. With time, it has turned somewhat cream with lots of dirty stains on it. Well, I have had it for years. I don’t mind the way it looks. Neither to do the passers by or my donors as I see them.  I have been here for years. I look down at where my feet should be. I smile. I could have never done that at the beginning. It was too painful, too much to bear. After 15 years, I can afford a smile. It is not a smile of happiness. It is a smile of survival, of having beaten the odds. It is a smile of triumph even.

My thoughts are interrupted by someone walking towards me. I look up. It is the local priest. He never passes me by without saying hello or dropping a coin. Usually, it’s a 20 shilling coin. I expect him to give more. He is a priest after all. But always, it the 20 shillings. It’s like a ritual. I appreciate it though. At least he is a regular donor. He greets me and chats for a little while about this and that. Soon he is off on his way again. To see a parishioner or whatever else priests do during the week. I adjust my position slightly. It gets so tiring and cold due to the hard cement floor. I have a little worn pillow with me. I had found it there one morning. Like a gift for me left in the night. I thank whomever had left it. It helps a lot. I look out again. The shopping centre can be pretty quiet. Not much happening today. At least not much out of the norm.

 My thoughts are interrupted by footsteps to my left. I turn slightly, although I already know who is coming. It must be 10 o’clock. She did this every day.  Mariah that is. I smile in anticipation. I recognize her footsteps because she always drags her feet in a slow, sluggish way. It was her style I suppose. She greets me as she puts down her daily gift. A hot cup of tea. On some days, it comes with a mandazi. I love those days and today is certainly one of them. She leaves immediately. No time for any chattering. She had no one else to help her at the little food kiosk she owned. Some days I hope she stays and talks a little but she never does. I suppose I don’t offer much encouragement either. Typically, this meal she serves me was one of two meals of the day for me. I cannot afford lunch. So when the tea comes with a mandazi, I am usually very pleased, very pleased indeed. I sip my tea slowly as I look around me. I wonder what today would bring. Perhaps it will be just another boring day. I pray that is not.

- Herispeak