There is a knock on the door. It sounded slugged. You know, not like, ‘Knock Knock Knock!’ But more like, ‘Knock!……… Knock!…….. Kno….. Knock!’ Like the way you would knock when you’re sleep walking. It started off like that. But the null responses that followed after every knock just triggered louder and more vigorous knocks. They now didn’t sound like sleepy knocks but angry knocks.
The kind of knock that has a foundation of incitement that gives it reason to believe that the one who is supposed to open the goddamn door is actually not doing so intentionally. Maybe as a punishment? A punishment for beating the wife who happens to be the mother of the souls inside the house. And these souls are no longer happy souls but soar and bruised souls because the beating led to the exit of their mother to wherever the road led her.
But it’s not only the beating, the knocker on the door might be thinking.
He might be thinking that the souls that are not opening the bloody door are doing so to show him that his wife might have put up with his shit. That she might have been so kind to disrupt her sweet sleep that had her in wonderland having a cup of tea and scones with Alice – just so that she may open the door for this ignoramus son of a gun knocking the door like a mad man in the wee hours of the night. But unlike his already exited wife, they (the souls in the house) would not tolerate his crap! That they have had enough of him already. And life can still be life without him. That they are sick and tired of his negligence of fatherly duties. He thinks they might be saying, “Oh yes you can go ahead and be a negligent sack of balls, but don’t you dare bring your negligence anywhere past that doorstep.” The doorstep hat he is almost pissing on.
Be sure he does feel like taking a long piss. But his anger, that has now built to majestic levels because of his intoxicated patience makes him feel like he is also going to beat up those souls in the house that are not opening the door – like he beat their mother and this time, he would piss on their faces too. His mouth, that was now even too dangerous for alcoblow – kept blubbering abominable words about what he was going to do to those souls. According to him, they think they are grown and in fact women enough to think that they did not need him, their own father – anymore.
He made harsh statements about how ungrateful they must be treating their old man like that. After he has paid fees for them, brought food to the table, ensure they have clothes on their bodies and given them the same shelter they have ganged up to lock him out of. “You should even thank me for not giving you up for marriage already! I am good father, am I not?”
Moments later, his bladder couldn’t take it anymore and he dropped what he was holding quickly and reach out or rather reached in for his transformer. He sprayed acid over the flowers planted by the doorstep like a nursery kid. The holding of the transformer inspired words of vanity like how the stupendous artefact he was holding is a multitasking artefact. It helps him take a leak like he was doing at the time and it is also responsible for the existence of the very souls that have allegedly locked him out of his own house.
Vanity shed further, saying that the mother who had left them was foolish to leave her own children behind. He wouldn’t mind if he left him because anyway, she already did but he did mind a lot because she left her own flesh and blood with no one to cook for them. “See?” He said while looking at what he had dropped on the ground before he attended to his biological need. “This is shopping for food that was to be your supper. Where is she to cook for you now? Ona sasa mtalala njaa ju mama yenu hayuko kupika!”
He shook his transformer after the spray ended and said, “This what I am holding now, mama yenu hatapata ingine kama hii huko mahali ameenda. Ask her, she even said it herself that she loves my property. It gets the job done well! Na kama hatarudi ju ya nyinyi wenye mmenifungia nje, she will come back! Because of this!” He zipped up his pants and resumed his knocking affair.
The devil who is responsible for intoxicating his gut, corrupting his manly senses and sucking dry his fatherly responsibilities from wherever sucking can be done best – got hold of him one last time. He was tired of knocking and banging. Knocking and banging didn’t seem to do the job. The devil incited him to show them who the man of the house was. This time he was going to kick the door down. He had sworn that if he manages to kick the door open, he better not find those arrogant souls, as he called them. He said he would do to them what no father should do to his daughters.
I guess there is only one way to find out what that can be mjango. Let him kick the door down.
The voices in his head sounded like spectators in a WWE Wrestling match that egged him on in chants and roars of his name. He drew back like a bull preparing to charge. He breathed out smoke, for his nose had become the chimney of the furnace in his gut that was raging with fire and brimstone. His eyes were the new tomatoes that night. He must have counted one to three under his breath because he respited three times before he charged.
The last spring jump saw him throw a fly kick that had the sole of his right foot land flat faced on the surface of the metallic door. That unleashed a massive thud that must have woken up the neighborhood; for those who had not already been woken up by his drunk uttering.
“Watoto mnafungua ama hamfungui!”
He drew back once more and in a count of three, he charged again.
This time, the spring jump backfired since no hydraulic fluid was released in his system after his brain noted the sound of the clutching and moving of door locks.
Finally someone was opening the door.
He was breathing heavily, while eager to confront his first born daughter, Wangari. In his thoughts, she was the only one who would think of shutting the door in a manner that anyone even with the key cannot fully open the door from outside. Again, he thought, with her being the eldest, she is the one who would rebel such that she would not open the door for him.
Slowly, the door was unlocked. He had an arsenal of words ready to unleash upon the culprit in his mind. It was open halfway and someone peeped only with her head out.
She looked elderly. That wasn’t Wangari and definitely wasn’t Nyambu either.
Now the brimming fire in his gut was watered down. The lethal arsenal of words was swallowed and perhaps exploded in the lake of booze in his stomach. He felt his balls shrink. He felt embarrassed because even the devil that had incited him so immensely had left the scene for him to ‘Pambana na hali yake.’ The alcohol in his brain titrated itself with gallons of sanity and hence produced a sober solution. He stood like a class one boy ready to reprimanded by the headteacher for being a naughty boy.
He wasn’t sure whether to speak first because she, whoever she was, wasn’t saying a thing. But her facial expression said a hell lot of things that was nothing less than a censure. He wasn’t sure what she was waiting for. Perhaps permission to go in?
His tongue was dry.
She finally spoke, “James! Are you serious? Are you really serious James! Is this how you can behave at your house in the midst of your own children? Seriously!”
To be continued mjango…