Door goes on unanswered for a couple of minutes.
They have mastered enough courage to knock at the door of the prodigal son who knows no bounds. But it seems they’ve found a relief because they know that the prodigal son’s mother is around. But that won’t stop them from accusing him of smoking ndukulu. They say ndukulu is bhangi and that it has a bad smell and it affects the neighbour and their kids. How did they know if it smells bad if they’re not the one using it? The prodigal son won’t move places nor shift houses. If they’re uncomfortable they can move to the countryside.
They are always mad whenever he speeds up at some insane speeds at ungodly hours especially within the range of 0200hrs – 0300hrs. They say the noises from his exhaust pipes from his car bursts and unsettles the nights like some bombs bursting in some alshabizo camps being assaulted by KDF soldiers in Kismayu – Somalia. He doesn’t mind if they burst burst like bombs bombs in a corner. They only speak ill of him whenever he’s not around. He’s the bad child. The one child they would secretly want to have but they can’t admit it publicly. He’s a gifted child. Gifted in many ways. The type of gifts that he’d know all the holes where the stolen apples end up in the market. He’s been a victim of it a couple of times. He had to become accustomed to the dark ways.
They found a reason to crucify him. But for what reason?
Was it because his apartment resembled the life in Amsterdam? Was it because he told young men to dress well and put where their trousers would hide their butt cracks? Or was it cause certain lasses within the blocks were told to pull their miniskirts down if there was no point of dressing into something short and keep pulling their damn skirts down?
He doesn’t know either.
His reasons would make him seem feel like he’s talking shit. He believes in God. At least that’s what he thinks. He doesn’t believe that Christ descended to earth for people to believe that God is money. He says that God is bigger than all the Barclay’s accounts combined.
“Why don’t your neighbour’s like you?” I asked him.
“I feel they’re poor to me cause they worship money.” He says.
“They say I make their women go green with envy.” He continues.
“When was it considered a crime to offer a lass from your hood a ride to town without expecting a return?” He asked.
I never had an answer to that question.
He says he’s received a lot of bashing most of the time. He’s okay with it. He thinks of joining a motor-sports club as time goes by. He doesn’t look like the type he can race but he’s a speed freak. I can tell that from how he revs and shifts his gears. Good luck on replacing the clutch brother.
His car has carried a lot of women. From foreigners, locals and strangers.
“Have you ever had sex in your car?” I asked. It’s the type of questions I’d ask when I’m curious.
He says no. He has never bonked a lady in his car. At least not his car. He says bonking a lady who isn’t your wife in your car brings chira. I had to laugh out on that. He says it brings bad luck and that your car would bring complications. I don’t know how true is that or if it’s superstitions.
He says this year was a bit different for him. It began on a wrong footing. He began on a ratchet mode. He stopped racing with people and peers of his age simply because most didn’t know when to put the handbrake down signalling the end of a race. He lives a simple life. He as a nice lass that makes him feel comfortable in many ways. He says many ladies wait for him but he doesn’t wait for them because he’s always on the move like a certified rasta man.
They’d call him merciless when it comes to matter of the heart. It’s none of his concern.
“Which car do you drive?” I asked.
“You’d really want to know?” He asked.
I drive a Nismo. That was the name it was christened by my hommies. They say the car belches out too much smoke from its exhaust like the driver when he’s smoking his lungs out. A funny way to describe his car. A queer way. Well it’s a Nissan Note. They’d say that it resembles Elijah’s chariot. Wait. It’s an Impul. Everything about it feels so wrong. It’s not the type that wouldn’t go unnoticed. With smoked tail lights and a rally spec staged two engine it was quite a sight to behold under the hood.
There’s nothing to write home about the body kit.
He wants to pull everything down and give it the service and upgrades it deserves. He knows where he can get his doze of car madness. He has a clique of friends that they speak in the same language.
“Would you sell it?” I asked him.
“Would you change spots with your mother?” He asked back.
They’re two things he won’t trade places in the world. His mother and his Nismo.
As for now he’d still burst the neighbors eardrums with the bomb bombs earsplitting noises from his straight piped exhaust Nismo.
They’d have to call NEMA to rectify that.