CHAPTER TWO - A Cocktail of Double Life

          I went asleep last night

                     Tired from the fight

         I’ve been fighting for tomorrow

         All my life

         Yeah I woke up this morning

         Feeling brand new

         ‘Cause the dream that I have been dreaming

          Has finally come true

                                        -Will.i.am

It was possible that Kamaria was experiencing real fatigue in its raw form for the first time in her life. That, or she was about to go down with a disease unknown to her. Her worst hangover, or her longest gym workout, had nothing on what she was feeling right after walking for five kilometers from R&R, and scaling the stairs to her second floor one bedroom Ruaka flat. If she had not been so high on adrenaline, she was sure she would have called for a cab.

 She kicked off her shoes even before shutting the door, leaning on it and causing it to shut with an unnecessary bang. She dropped her second-hand  trench coat next to the shoes and although what she really wanted to do was crawl, she limped to the floor next to the sofa. She lay flat on the soft, thick beige carpet, shut her eyes and stretched her body in an attempt to give her muscles some relief. It was an impossible task to pull her foot to touch her chest. On her fittest moments, this move was easily done without premeditation. Now, it felt like an attempt to break her bones. ‘I need to get my fit back’. She muttered to herself.

Pulling herself up, she sat cross-legged, thankful that this move was still possible.  She massaged her feet and summoned her brain for a conversation, to ask it if it still thought what it was proposing as a solution to her problems was a viable idea.

She was queasy from all the different emotions. She was happy – happy that Malik had given her a job. Happy with herself for attempting to find purpose. But there was the spanner in the works; having to become a completely different person. To play poor. Change identity, change names. Change way of thinking. Learn to take orders. Technically, become a fraud.

Her new name was Serah. Malik had looked at her quizzically when she had given it as the name she wanted on her staff badge. “My grandmother’s name is Serah,” that much was true. “I am named after her and I like the name. Also, Kamaria is a rare name, everybody will keep pressing to know where it originated from. I personally have never bothered to find out its origin, or meaning…” that was her story, and she was determined to stick with it. Malik had shrugged but had let his eyes linger longer than she thought necessary, as if to communicate to her that he didn’t believe her but he was too time pressed to waste time on a simple name.

She also thought it possible she was worrying about nothing. The guilty are a sensitive lot.

Half an hour later, she pulled herself up to the reach for the remote control at the far end of the seat, turned on the fifty-two inch flat screen television screwed on her wall. She wondered what Malik would say about the grudgingly expensive gadget, or the surround sound system. The two items would not be the only ones that would shock Malik if he ever stumbled into her house. For starters, it was a one bedroom house in a part of Ruaka renown for high rent. If anyone ever asked her how she could afford such a house on her kind of salary, she would tell them she was house-sitting for an aunt who lived abroad. 

When she had decided to use what her best friend Shani called 'round the bend' method to kick-start her low on battery zest for life, accommodation had been her biggest headache. If she were to assume full character of her new identity, she would have had to sacrifice comfort of space and probably share toilets and bathrooms. The neighborhood would be noisy and have nosy neighbors who did not make effort to be nosy as everybody’s business was within eye and earshot.  “If you dare live in such squalor, I swear I will have you arrested for a crime I shall think of as I call the cops.” Shani had threatened."And do not imagine I cannot do that..." She had added, for good measure.

Kamaria knew she was unlikely to put herself through such living conditions. Clean toilets and privacy were paramount to her,  not even her quest for elusive happiness was going to make her compromise. .

The only sharing she had ever done in her life was during school’s camping trips.  She had not hated them, neither had she liked them. The camps would go for a couple of days, by the end of those two days she would be craving for long, hot showers or baths. Telling stories in the dark and sitting round open camp fires and roasting meat on the same fires and smelling of wood smoke was fun, for two days. After that, clean sheets and electricity would start beckoning. 

She had settled on a house worth several months’ waitress salary. She had bought all her furniture, brand new, from a showroom. Her clothes, bags and shoes had been left in Kileleshwa, replaced by 'old-new' clothes. The only luxury items she had carried were a bottle of perfume and sunscreen. 
Shani, who was convinced her friend had been bewitched and needed spiritual intervention, had accompanied her to Toi Market to buy second hand clothes. "I am only coming with you because I would not be able to live with myself if something happened to you there," Shani had said grudgingly. As Kamaria had rummaged through the clothes and tried this and that shoe, this and that top, Shani, hiding behind huge sunglasses and arms folded on her ample bust, had stood well behind her, disapproving frown on her face, like one who wanted the world to know she had nothing to do with the girl buying old clothes. “I can’t believe you are doing this.” Kamaria had lost count of the number of times her friend had muttered.

But she loved her new accommodation, as small as it was. She already thought of it as a sanctuary, a place she could lay herself bare, literally and spiritually. A place she could take daily stock of her life. A place she could forget her wealth that often felt like her curse. That thought often made her feel guilty and ungrateful – that she was choosing temporary poverty to look for happiness, well aware that people out there spent sleepless nights, used unscrupulous means, trying to look for the same wealth she was temporarily forfeiting in pursuit of happiness.

Life, she had worked out, was full of paradoxes. Also, that thing called complete happiness was unachievable. It was a mirage,  everybody knew it was a mirage, the same everybody was  willing to keep searching for it.  Or perhaps, she had philosophically thought during one morose moment, people were afraid of admitting they had found happiness, afraid that it would mean their work on earth was done, ready to exit to the after-this-life.

She then figured there was no need to feel guilty for blaming her wealth for her unhappiness. She was only human, and wasn't the curse of humans craving what they thought they did not have?, She was quick to tell whatever powers that be she was not craving poverty, what she was craving for was a life that was not made sterile easy by her money. She was desperate for people to love her, even hate her, not for her money, but for her character. Even SHE did not know what her character was; no clue whether or not she was a likeable person. People tended to like her the moment they knew how rich she was.

In Ruaka, working as a waitress, her rich secret would be as safe as it could be. She would guard it by not getting close enough to anyone.  Her rich friends would not be welcome to Ruaka, not that they would have been enthusiastic to visit. She did not have to tell Shani she was not invited; Shani had long declared she would be visiting no such place. Shani was too boisterous, too memorable and too famous. Kamaria did not want to risk having to explain knowing somebody like that, a socialite whose face, ample bust, huge behind and a small waist line stuck in between were familiar to everyone with access to social media.

For a week, just a week after moving into her new house, Kamaria had been using public transport. She did not want her neighbours to identify her as the waitress who owned a big car. Her cars were safe at the parking lot of her luxurious offices in Westlands. For now, she was Serah, a struggling waitress.

Her two biggest culture shocks were the number of people in Ruaka hassling and jostling, and riding in a matatu. People, she could deal with, just, but matatus scared her. For someone who was used to leaving point A to wherever, whenever she wanted by driving or taking a taxi, adjusting to the ways of public transport was a test on her patience. One walked too long to find the matatu, one stood too long waiting for the matatu, one waited too long for the matatu to get to the destination because they stopped every five minutes for not less than five minutes, one shared a seat with too many people who exuded different natural and synthetic perfumes, one held their breath too long waiting to smash into other cars, or knock people down. Like many private car drivers, she knew only too well how menacing matatu drivers could be. When she could, she kept out of their way, or gave way. Being inside one was a whole different story; she could not take a detour, she was stuck with them. Being in one left her feeling like one running late for an appointment with death.  
***

After half an hour of watching TV, her loudly rumbling tummy jolted her out of her thoughts.  Standing up with the speed of an old woman with joint problems, she dragged herself to the kitchen, opened one side of the double door fridge taller than she was, and she was not short.

When she had left the house earlier to attend the interview, her fridge had been empty, safe for a full bottle of water and a half bottle of Amarula liqueur. Looking at the fridge now, she knew Fumo, her driver, had been around to deliver the packed meals and collect dirty laundry. Keeping the little house clean, she had decided, would be up to her. She did not want anyone nosing around. She opened several containers, frowning at each and every one of them. The different dishes were all appetizing, she had no doubt they were all delicious, but none of the dishes was good for her weight, but then again, she had not updated Mariam, her housekeeper/cook, on her decision to lose weight.

Mariam, she thought with a smile. She could not speak for Mariam, but Kamaria considered her a friend. She was her daily reality check, and her link to a different reality. A reality that had people working too hard for too little. A reality that had people living worse than Kamaria’s entitled self could have ever imagined.A reality that had people judge each other not by the bank balance, but by character.

Their friendship was however anything but democratic. Mariam listened and hardly disagreed with her. Kamaria often had to probe her for opinions. Once, when Kamaria had asked why she never fully participated in their discussions, Mariam had said, "You are my boss." "So?" "Madam, where I come from, workers, especially domestic workers, do not hold discussions with their bosses. We take instructions." 
That answer had frustrated Kamaria, but she had accepted it reluctantly. "Well, okay. But let that be the last time you call me madam. You should call me by my name. Also, when I ask for your opinion, you must give it to me, honestly..." 

Kamaria may have considered Mariam a friend, but she had no illusions about them hanging out together, unless shopping was considered hanging out.Their bonding sessions took place in the kitchen. Kamaria was Mariam's cookery student. ‘The best way to make ugali is to always let the water boil, add some butter or margarine in the boiling water, add a little unga at a time, let it boil, mix it well with the mwiko. Never let it get hard – that’s bad ugali. The minute it starts whistling, turn it over, reduce the heat and cover it. Turn it every three minutes or so. Cook for not less than fifteen minutes. If your ugali does not produce a nice bottom and side layer, you have not done it right.’ The layer was her favorite part of ugali. ‘Many people think making chapatis is the hardest thing. It may be time consuming, but if you know what you are doing, it is easy. Make the dough with hot water, use a mwiko to mix it, when it cools down, use your hands to mix it properly. Cover the dough and cover it for an hour or so before rolling…’ Those, and many others, were Mariam’s instructions on cooking.

Her housekeeper was only five feet tall with a motherly look and demeanor. When she had revealed her age, which turned out to be only three years more than Kamaria’s, she had gasped in shock. "I thought you were forty something..." Kamaria had said tactlessly. “When you are always worried about your next meal, or when your children are likely to be kicked out of school because you have school fees arrears, when you are worried if your children will be the next victims of rape because a rape to a minor happens too often, you tend to age very fast.” Mariam had explained.

That was how Kamaria had taken over paying school fees for Mariam’s twin girls; that was how she had moved them to what she considered a safer neighborhood, to a two bedroom house, and that was how she had doubled Mariam’s salary.

Their talks were not always gloom about Mariam’s life; she got to hear funny ghetto stories about philandering neighbours, thieving dogs, loud drunks who could not keep their mouths shut on who was sleeping with who, amazing humanity on how neighours would come together to assist one of their own. 

Now, as Kamaria, in Ruaka, was having a hard time choosing the meal that seemed to contain less calories, Mariam was in the Kileleshwa kitchen, alone, working later than necessary, hoping her boss would turn up. She was talking to herself, sometimes answering herself. She was dying to know why her boss no longer slept at home, why she sent for her laundry which never had any of her fancy clothes.

Mariam had asked Fumo if he knew what Kamaria was up to. With a shrug, he had said, ‘it’s none of my business. I do what I am told. You should too.’ That was that. What Mariam did not know was Fumo was as confused as she was. The two subordinate staff working closest to her had a million questions.   

She finally settled on a food container that had fries and beef, instantly regretting the choice, but the other meals seemed as sinful. She shrugged, deciding that weight loss journey would have to wait until the food in the fridge was finished. She would ask Mariam to start preparing healthy meals. Mariam would adjust, most likely with a giggle. She was used to her boss yo-yoing eating habits and body weight. As the food warmed up in the microwave, she poured herself half a glass of Amarula and threw in some ice cubes. 
She sat on the same spot, on the floor, and had TV dinner. ‘This TV dinner business will have to go too. I read somewhere that they make you fat.’

Clearing every bit of the chips on the plate, she pushed it aside and picked her drink, stretching herself. She knew what would follow was falling asleep, on the floor, with the TV on, and the cold air of three AM would wake her up. It happened a lot with her.

It was on Thursday. She would start work on the following Monday. The thought was scary, but exciting. She was scared because she was delving into totally unfamiliar grounds. The same reasons excited her, but her determination neutralized everything that could have made her change her mind. ‘I owe myself this. There is nothing to lose, and everything to gain.’

She was not, for now, the rich girl who had inherited Sasi Developers & Estate Agents, a private company success story, a company she had zero interest in running because, she thought, things seemed to be working, no need to interfere with success.

She was not, for now, one of the youngest millionaires in Kenya. She was not, for now, a privileged orphan. She was not Kamaria.

For now, until further notice, she was Serah, the waitress.

Usually, when her adrenaline levels were normal, she would be asleep in minutes after clearing her plate. Not tonight. Half an hour of consciously looking for sleep, even adding more Amarula into her glass, she gave up, switched off the TV and picked her guitar that stood next to the television. She did not consider herself musical, but she had discovered that playing the guitar helped her escape often morbid realities of her life. 

She strummed the guitar chords, her mind running through the musical database in her head. After a minute or so, she closed her eyes and started playing Bob Marley’s Redemption Song.   



Story by: Ciku Kimani-Mwaniki
My guinea pigs: Nyambura Michuki, Ceh Gichimu,  Shiku Carole
My nip and tuck dude: Anthony Luvinzu

Tune in Next week, same time, same place, for chapter three as Kamaria navigates unfamiliar grounds - share away please