WORLDS APART

5:30 AM.

The dusty ancient alarm clock on the stool beside the bed rumbles to life rudely awakening the sleepy figure on the rickety bed depriving the bed bugs their meal for the night.

A scrawny hand with jagged nails shoots from under the stinking torn blanket and silences the raucous alarm that has woken up a handful of neighbors already. The palm bearer mumbles a few unprintable words and curses the sun for rising up too early amidst yawns and a heavily grumbling belly.

You see, in this part of town, one alarm clock is sufficient to announce the death of night and birth of daylight to an entire neighborhood.

He kicks the overused blanket away Jackie Chan style and sits up in bed, scratching his itchy back. The bugs had had quite a feast on him. One languid bug that had overfed falls prey of his weirdly long fingers, and he crushes it with no remorse at all. None is expected anyway.

“Naona tumezoeana sasa” he mutters looking at the spot of blood, his blood, on the finger he used to crush the bug aided by the dim rays of light seeping through his dilapidated tin roof.

After a few stretches and yawns, he raises from the wobbly bed that sighs in relief. It is pretty clear that it has had its fair share of carrying his weight over the nigh, and it is about time he got a replacement.

But that is none of his priorities.

As he takes his second and last step towards the lamp table, he lets out a loud fart.

The stale beans he ate yesterday at Mama Aoko’s Hotel had decided to make foes in the depth of his belly, and the battle for supremacy ensuing there is now evident.

He needs to relieve himself before he soils his pajamas.

Well, they are not really pajamas but if you were in his shoes, a pair of torn trousers cut at the knees to mimic a short coupled up with a highly patched up high school shirt would pass for PJs as well.

In one swift motion, he sweeps the matchbox off the lamp table and lights up the lamp.

“I need to get a new glass for this lamp.” He makes a mental note. “The cello tape on this one is slowly giving way”

Another round of “applause” from his mid-chamber snaps him out of his short-lived thoughts and he rushes to the corner of his shanty to respond to that call we all can’t afford to ignore.

Relieved of the natural baggage, he heads over to his jerrycan and fetches water to clean up his face. He is so used to the foul ‘morning after’ pungent smell that it no longer bothers him.

The main pipe supplying his area with water is broken so water has been scarce around here for quite some time and today is one of those days he cannot afford to take a shower. He is not going to waste his water. Not his fault though.

By the time he is done freshening up, his nearly beat up Casio wrist time keeper shows 6:07 AM and he knows it’s about time he set out for work.

He got that watch from an old friend of his who owed him some money but never managed to refund hence handing over his ‘expensive’ watch as collateral.

Hurriedly, he walks out of his shack carrying the polythene bag bearing the aftermath of his squat at the corner earlier on and walks away after locking up his shack with utmost care.

Not that there’s anything precious that would probably get stolen, but the fear of finding one of those street mongrels in his ‘house’ does not augur well with him.

A few meters into the early morning breeze and like a discus pro, he hurls the polythene bag into the air without breaking his pace as if nothing just happened. Where it lands is none of his problem. He has no time to waste or else Memsahib will be angry at him for reporting to work late.

Nyaga is his name.

*********TO BE CONTINUED*********