I am still at the office at the Ol Kalou IDP camp. I am tired, and wired. When I finally look up from a sheaf of reports on the grotesque 2007/2008 post-election violence I feel drained; and certainly not because I am tired.
Well, I am tired of all the work I do, but what I am actually tired of is the weird and horrible things that people do: murdering each other in cold blood, sadism, blood-letting and all of gruesome and heinous acts.
For once, or for the umpteenth time, I can’t imagine why. Neither could anybody else. The world has proved that and admitted as much. That’s why it keeps on happening, (world over, not just in Africa).
My boss appears at my desk around six o’clock calling it a day. He is another workaholic who never admits the fact, but he looks tired.There’s a simple fact about dedication to work – adrenaline keeps pumping even late in the night.
When he leans over my desk I smell his cologne that I am not sure I like.
“I’m knocking it off,” he says. “I have compiled all the necessary files that need your attention. With the rate we’re going at, this would be over soon. The money would start flowing in soon.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask my boss. I had known all along it would come to this, but I had nothing to substantiate my un-uttered claims.
My boss swallows hard, rubs his nose and then wrinkles it some. “The donors keep pumping in money. We distribute it to schools (or the needy students). Not many of them benefit though. Most of it finds way to the Cayman Islands, or the Bank of Scotland, Folami.”
“It’s something that can be stopped, so will the thieves.”
“That’s for another day, Folami. Anyway, I have to run. I don’t want to keep my date waiting.”
“Of course you don’t. Absolutely…” I do not add the nasty comment that comes to my mind because I know why he has said that. To taunt me. My boss has been pestering me to go out with him to no avail.
When he leaves the makeshift office he doesn’t look back.
Ten minutes after he leaves, my satellite phone (that no one knows of) vibrates. All what I can make of the caller ID is SECURED CALL. I hit the connect button.
“You crack the code?” I ask the voice from the other end.
“I didn’t crack a goddamn thing,” the feminine voice says. “Seems like there’s a little problem.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Seems like something is missing, like kind of a key.”
“Look for it, and find it. I want to solve this case once and for all. I want to know who killed my parents so freaking bad.”
“I am on it, believe me. I am working on it.”
“You better do it fast,” I told the person on the other end. “I’m holding you to it.”
“I will, trust me. I’m holding myself to it.”
I listen to a little more of some ‘off the record’ banter and then the call is ended.
I take a deep sigh of relief as I return the phone to its resting place. Soon, mama, soon! I will get them, I tell the ghost of mom that has lingered since Friday 13th April, 1990.
It’s exactly 6:38 p.m. and I feel I too should knock it off.
My reticule never lacks my holy trinity of beauty – mirror, lip balm and makeup kit. I freshen up some and leave.
I too have a date.
My latest acquisition, and the first car I have ever owned, a Vitz, sits cool and crisp in the stopgap parking lot.
Nakuru here I come, I mutter to myself as I unlock the car doors, rock the night, rave to grave.
Copyright ©Elove Poetry, 2012. All Rights Reserved.