There he was, walking towards me, looking more alive than I felt at that moment.
I involuntarily slowed down, my mouth agape, and stared at him, convinced that I was dreaming.
Over the weekend, I saw someone I was pretty sure was dead. Not only dead, but dead and buried because I had attended his funeral a few years ago. I am the kind of person that tends to walk fast, giving the impression that I am on the way to attend to an emergency, so I’ve been told. When several people pointed out this peculiar habit, I tried to walk slower, but try as I might, I couldn’t sustain it, so I gave up, after all, I wasn’t hurting anyone. But I was telling you about the man whose funeral I attended a couple of years ago.
There he was, walking towards me, looking more alive than I felt at that moment. I involuntarily slowed down, my mouth agape, and stared at him, convinced that I was dreaming, and that come morning, I would wake up and be relieved that it had been a nightmare. I realised that it was no dream when the person walking behind me bumped into me, and in the typical short-tempered Nairobian way, the person I almost tripped barked, Nini mbaya na wewe?, before shoving me aside and walking away. But I was too shocked to react because I was still staring at the dead man walking.
