My duvet is ruined. I mean, a duvet I bought for a song in Kasarani hunters where they sold everything on the streets – from ugly burned chapatis, mandazi, fish to all species of cereals, suitcases, clothes, witchcraft paraphernalia, and drugs.
I didn’t see the last two; I’m a Christian, saved and immersed in many waters, struggling and failing terribly at praying and fasting and waiting for angel Gabby to do his thing with the trumpets. But I’m pretty sure someone was selling those on that stretch between the first street and tenth street. Hunters is not an estate; it’s a market where people never leave.
One of my greatest hopes is that there will be grapes in heaven; my love for grapes is on an illegal bar by now! Haki, if there are no grapes in heaven, I’ll have to see Noah aside and tell him we start a kitchen garden just outside Elijah’s mansion. Elijah is our best bet; we’ll need to appease him so that he doesn’t go all Ahab on us. We need the rain – if it rains there.
As much as the heavenly grapes are a cosmic tourist attraction for me, I don’t want to see them soon. I’m just fine with waiting for the Naivas offers for me to hoard grapes. I love heaven, I want to be there someday, but that day is not today. And when I woke up this morning, I almost felt like it was, which was not a very comforting thought, especially because I was to burn my way there.
I have a 6KG gas cooker popularly known as Meko. It’s my go-to cooker when my 13KG tank gets depleted either in the middle of the night, but most importantly, when it hisses its last breath at a time when I only have Ksh. 2, 713 in my bank account. In those times, what’s the point of filling a gas tank with 1,950 /= and then cook air burgers on it until the month meets the money? Most people opt for a Jiko at this time, but lighting a jiko is an extreme sport for which I don’t have energy. (Note to my international readers, a jiko is a charcoal burner )
The gas hissed its goodbyes yesterday, and I have been using the meko. I know the burner is roasted because closing it after using it is more complex than pulling the Ever Given out of the Suez Canal. It has been acting up, but my gas plug is bringing my gas this morning. I can push it one more time. I light it, and the whole thing bursts into flames.
I don’t scream. I jump backwards and drop the matchbox.
First thought – my babies!
I bellow instructions, “Get out, NOW!”
They are in tees and knickers, but who cares. Being naked and alive is way better than dead and well-dressed. They scuffle out like tiny crabs.
The gas tank is heating up and burning like Moses’s bush.
Second thought: This thing will burst and kill me!
I think about what to do, and an awful thought comes to my mind – I remember the story with Ruth Matete’s husband. If this thing is going to blow up, I’ll not be here to witness it. I turn the power off at the main switch, close the kitchen door, and leave. I don’t carry anything. My most important ‘things’ are outside. I close the door behind me and walk in slow motion like I’m the terminator, leaving a ferocious gas burner incinerating itself in my kitchen. I half-hoped to hear the building explode.
I call the family’s designated fire-fighter in the family, who comes all the way from work, throws my beloved Kasarani Hunters’ duvet on the fire, and then removes the troublesome burner.
The duvet is ruined. Should I be angry about my duvet?