She fell, and now her face looks like a broken heart. I did not mean to, but she slipped through my fingers and took a plunge face first. Thankfully she did not die, but she has become a vegetable. She won’t say anything, not even a purr. A blue blink is all that consoles me that she has yet to give up her ghost.

Her name is Soni, my S4. Ebony beauty. Slim because big bums have become too mainstream.  That is how she glides into my pockets and takes up half the space. Jealous Soni, so typical. Women!

I got Soni from my boy Ogenga in campus. It was one of those times in campus when my position as Jakom had aligned the stars and deepened my wallet. You see, when you hold a title as lofty as Chairperson of the Kenya Law Students Society, expectations abound. That I am supposed to smile even at people I do not like, otherwise everyone will label me as that campus politician prick who sold out his people, even before his ass warmed the KLSS Chairman seat. I am also supposed to be in monkey suits. Even though most of the time I felt like a penguin standing in front of the mirror.

Ogenga is this shifty fellow, my first roommate in campus, even though he moved out to another room because exile and late night chudex manenos made him sleep on pins and needles. That, plus his Geisha soap was fast depleting. We later became mates, and he, my go-to guy for all my phone, tablet and computer solutions.

Ogenga peddles phones, and does not pay taxes, which also makes him my hero. But I hate him because he is an iPhone fanatic and he shoves it down everyone’s throat like it is a religion, and he, the Lord of all creation.

“No bwana! We cannot allow an entire Jakom to embarrass the entire legal fraternity with this thing.” The thing he was talking about was my Alcatel Onetouch that made Karua cringe every time because I had paid 25k for it. But because I was young and stupid, and also because he had used the word ‘fraternity’, I decided to buy an iPhone. I mean, why not? That is how I got an iPhone 5 for 35k after selling to Mukundi the Alcatel for 20k.

I hated the iPhone immediately. To be fair, it did make students oooh and aaaah, and second year girls started paying attention when I asked Siri random bullshit in their presence. iPhone exude class, I agree, but I was jaded after one week. It did not have cool stuff, and I also didn’t think I could keep up the changing operating systems. The fact that iPhone 5S was in the pipeline meant Ogenga would be back in my room using words like ‘entire legal fraternity’ to remind me that I am the Jakom with a shit phone. That I should be more flippant about outdated gadgets, because for us Luo men, there will be no need for a post mortem when we die. We already know that ujaluo ndio itatuua.

So after one week, I had Ogenga trade it in for a Samsung S4. I did not care that it was second hand. All I cared about was her, and I named her Soni- just like my comp. My life’s companion. It did not bother me that she had been through some other guy’s hands, into another fella’s pockets, warmed another man’s thighs or kept another man’s company.  Truth is, it is easier to get a clean toilet in the men’s bathroom in Parklands Campus past 10am, than it is to find purity anywhere.

Soni and I have been together six solid months. And now she is in a coma. I cannot afford to take her to hospital because Kenyan doctors do not give a flying pig about patients without insurance. I know folks at Samsung Care will tell me that Soni is more than one year old, and so they cannot fix her for free. I have to cough up 17k.

My hands feel like they have RIP tattooed on them because they let her fall, and now she is dying. I have tried my first aid skills on her. Removed the battery, put it back on, put her on charger, tapped her ass – all to see if she will wake up, or at least be offended and say something. Anything. But nothing. It is like giving piriton to an aneurysm patient, and then hoping that the bug will recede.

We were at the Storymoja Hay Festival 2014 when the tragedy occurred last Saturday morning. Since then, nothing seems to happen right. Even Indian youngsters are disrespectful. Like this one who was moderating an open mic session at the Amphitheatre. He would not let me perform, but he called his three girl friends to the stage three times. And then later when my turn came around, he called yet another mhindi to the stage and then ended the session. This was after he came up to me, sat down by my side, choked me with his pungent cologne and assured me that I was to get the mic after his girls.

He looked like one of those chaps living in 1st Avenue Parklands, who drives a yellow Subaru fitted with booming speakers in Ngara. Those who used to wake us up in campus with their disregard of bumps and speed limits. I wanted to tell him, that deep down I am Indian at heart because I went to M.M Shah Primary School, then remind him that even though I am a goon, I did not take part in demolishing the Sikh statue in Kisumu. I wanted curse his lineage dating back to his great grandfather who escaped the man eaters of Tsavo while building the railway. I wanted shave his bushy curly hair with a piece of broken glass, feed it to the marabou storks at Nyayo stadium, and then come back to write a bleeding review of his session for the Storymoja website (which they wouldn’t post anyway).

I didn’t get to do any of that. I thought about Soni and what she would have wanted me to do. I walked away.

I still carry Soni around, hoping that she will wake up. I hope that if she ever does, she will understand that it was an accident. I do not fight girls. At least not physically. I have never been so angry at a girl that I decided to raise a hand instead of a pen. I did not abuse her. Did I abuse you, Soni? Did I not appreciate you enough that now you are giving me a taste of what it feels like to live without you?

Life has not been the same without Soni. I walk around with her sister, Jaber – the Samsung tab 3, but she is too big, too heavy. She is not Soni, she needs to hit the gym. But she tries to come close to what Soni is, or was. In anger and hurt, I walked into that chips and chicken place nest to iClub with Jaber. All I really wanted was a Coke and that lady behind the counter was watching Afro Cinema on TV. She served me without looking me in the eye- not knowing that I am a needy customer who wants to be looked at when being served. So after I sat down with my Coke, I used Jaber’s smart remote and switched off both TVs. Then walked out like a 007 agent on a mission to teach counter ladies a lesson on courtesy.

I am now using a mulika mwizi. It is still Samsung, but I have had to relearn how to press number 7 four times to find the letter s when texting. I haven’t named this phone. Because in doing so I would be accepting that Soni has gone to be with the Lord- that she is in a better place. Also when this phone vibrates in my pocket it feels as if some mhindi open mic host is drilling my thigh.

I miss my Soni, more than this tired post has dared to explain. You can stop by where she lies and bring fruits and say sorry. However the best you could do for me and Soni at this trying moment of our lives is to vote for my blog in the OLX Social Media Awards. That will assuage the grief of my loss.

If anyone asks what happened, tell them that she fell, and now my heart looks like her broken face.

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