Sins of the Father
The pelting rain diluted his steady stream of tears. The crowd dispersed after the casket was lowered. He was left standing there alone. His were a concoction of emotions. He was devastated after the loss of his Father, a man he’d idolized his whole life, the one who had taught him how to ride a bike, how to make a woman smile and most importantly, how to be a man. His admiration was threatened by the news that had emerged soon after his father’s passing. An unknown woman had showed up at their home, alleging to be his wife. He’d always found such situations hilarious! Kenyan funerals were littered with such occurrences but to have it at your doorstep was to rub salt in an already festering wound. it wasn’t funny at all. The proof was in plenty. Joint bank account statements, holiday photos, most painfully, some items of clothing that the deceased’s wife had bought him on many of his birthdays. ‘The times he was away at a company retreat in Nyali must have been spent with her,’ Mason thought to himself. His sister took it hardest of all, the perfect picture of her hero, tainted. He was human after all. His mother, sort of always knew. At a certain age that intrinsic female intuition became as good as a forensic report. But she loved the man he was, a husband, a provider, a monument to his kin. His shortcomings were of little consequence to her. He was the star-crossed love of her life. Mason stood there in the rain, wishing it would wash away the smut, and the leave that loving memory, that he was desperately trying to hold on to. As the last of the cars exited the cemetery, Mason willed himself to walk away from his father’s grave. He didn’t want to accompany the family back home. He wanted, he needed to be by himself and gather his already wandering thoughts. He walked to his car and got in. The one place he thought of heading to first was Mo’s, a small lounge in the Business District. A double shot of a 12 year old Macallan would do him good. He also remembered that it was Saturday, Jazz night. Leonard and his band, did a wonderful rendition of “Over the Rainbow”. Eager to balm his injured soul with drink and song, Mason turned on the ignition. The vintage Mercedes 190 series roared to life, his tail lights disappearing into the now torrential rain. He was understandably a million miles away in thought as he entered the lounge, because he didn’t see Kamau, the bouncer nod at the bartender. He sat at the counter. The music from Leonard’s Sax wafted through the dimly-lit ambience of Mo’s lounge. He was jolted from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to find the tall figure of the lounge’s proprietor, Mo stretching out his hand to greet him. He shook his hand. “I was saddened to learn of your father’s demise Mason. I lost my father two years ago, so I know how you feel. Pole sana. ” “Thank you Mo” Mo motioned the bartender over. “Kasee, tonight Mason’s drinks are on the house, sawa!? ” ” Sawa boss”, Kasee replied, at once reaching for the top shelf where all the premium stuff sat. Mason nodded in gratitude at Mo. Grief had a twisted way of bringing the best out of people, as Mo had never exchanged two words with Mason, but had empathized with him as though they were inseparable from the same womb. Mason sipped his whiskey, the oak notes caressing his taste buds as the warmth trickled down his throat. The evening crowd wasn’t a large one. Jazz had a distinct audience, the unassuming patron who came for the art, not the noise. The real cool kids. He stared into space, memories of his father reeling in his mind like one of those old silent Hollywood movies. For every tear that teetered at the edge of his eyelids, he took another swig. In his peripheral, he saw the next bar stool move, but he couldn’t be bothered tonight. “Johhny Walker Gold label, neat” Mason turned to look at the person who had ordered the drink. He’d never heard a lady order such a sophisticated whiskey. Most dames were busy chugging Guarana like there were keys to a Range Vogue at the bottom of the can. The once over he usually gave girls, wouldn’t fly here. She wasn’t one to have a gander at once. The thing that caught you off guard was her eyes. Large, almond shaped eyes, her irises like large brown marbles floating in milk. The pouty lips looked like they were always begging for a kiss, Angelina Jolie would be green with envy at these. Her biker jacket was open, her breasts peaking out of a low cut T-shirt. Even though she was seated, you could make out that her derriere was ample enough to bring tears to a donkey’s eyes. Her hips were thick, raring to rip through the seams of her denim pants. For a fleeting second, his sly dog instincts took over. The growing bulge in his pants reminded him that even in times like these, the comfort of pussy was a welcome distraction. “Gold Label huh? The only gold most women know, they wear around their necks,” Mason spoke whilst staring into space. She looked at him and smiled. “I’m not surprised you said that. You look like the kind of man who thinks he knows women.” Mason chuckled. Feisty girl! He now shifted in his seat to have a clear look at this sassy lady, who he now put squarely in his cross hairs. “My name is Mason”, he stated, offering her his hand. She looked him dead in the eye for what seemed an eternity, then calmly shook his hand. “My name is Sawyer” And so it begun.