Author: David Mbotela

Wangari can sleep. She sleeps like a felled tree. Makes flesh of every expression that describes bottomless sleepers. Her head lies on your chest in such an elegant repose. Your right cheek is pressed above her hairs. Awake, you stare at the ceiling directly above. Inhaling the floating scent of lemon or was it bergamot oil, springing from her body. You try, playfully, to match her sluggish breathing with yours. Succeeding at first, and then losing concentration in between breaths. You are craving something sweet. Pancakes- soft and fluffy ones with a tang of grated lime skin. It’s been months…

At the age of six, I was learning to use the words uncle and aunty loosely. They didn’t necessarily have to mean a blood relative, but rather someone who spent their time a lot around your parents. In this case, it was someone who was around my old man during weekends. He told a lot of stories and my parents would in-turn laugh about. The day we got acquainted, this ankal had a subtle grey, burnt wood smell of cigarettes and beer about him. And when he said, “You’re David. Like David Beckham-you know him?” I said no. “Manchester United-(Sir)…

(In my previous life, I travelled the world.)

Tomorrow, I will wake up and do this again…be her friend.