Paul lay on his mattress like a broken log after a storm. His head throbbed with the stubborn persistence of a village drum. His mouth was dry, his tongue heavy, and his stomach felt like it was cooking something,possibly cement porridge.
Slowly, as if afraid to disturb the spirits, Paul lifted a hand and touched his forehead.
Thump!
He winced.
"Aiii!" he grunted, fingers running over a swelling the size of a ripe mango. "Who knocked me last night? Was it a fight? Was it love? Or did I fall into a ditch again?"
He reached for his mirror,well not a real mirror, but a piece of one, stolen from the washroom last semester and balanced on his plastic basin. Holding it up, he stared at his reflection. One eye slightly red. Lips dry. Hair confused. A bump like Mt. Kenya trying to erupt from his forehead.
He groaned.
Just then, a new enemy attacked,the smell.
His nose twitched. His face folded like a bedsheet.
"Eh! What is that? Is something dead here?"
He sniffed again and looked around suspiciously. Then he looked down.
Silence.
Paul stood still.
There, at the base of his blanket, was a brown patch. A suspicious one. A guilty one. A patch that told a shameful story without saying a word.
He didn't want to believe it, but the smell told the truth.
He had soiled himself in the night.
"Aki mungu wangu," he whispered. "I've become a child again."
He tried to stand but as he did, he noticed the blanket clung to his behind. It stuck like an embarrassed cousin refusing to let go in public.
He took a step.
The blanket followed.
Another step.
Still there.
Paul reached behind him and peeled the blanket off with a sound like wet tape being ripped from skin.
Chrrrrrrrp.
He coughed, then stumbled toward the sink, dragging the poor blanket like a defeated warrior dragging a broken shield. He reached the pile of dirty clothes already blessed with socks from 2023 and two shirts soaked in what might have been soup and tossed the blanket on top.
He stared at the pile.
It stared back.
They understood each other.
He leaned on the sink, shook his head, and whispered to himself like a pastor in crisis, "Paul Kimani… You are a walking parable. Today you have shamed your ancestors."
Outside, a bird chirped sweetly, unaware that inside, a young man had just wrestled with dignity and lost.
He sighed deeply and shuffled across the room, still scratching the back of his neck like it owed him answers. He dropped to his knees beside his metal bed, which squeaked like a gossiping mama as it shifted under his weight.
Beneath the bed, hidden like a cursed treasure, lay his suitcase.
It was black once. Maybe. But now it looked like a sad mixture of rust and dust. The handle dangled by a thread like it had given up long ago.
"If I ever wash you," Paul muttered, dragging it out with both hands, "you'd probably be handsome enough to run for MCA."
He popped it open. The zip screamed in protest, as if it had secrets to protect.
Inside was chaos.
First, a tangled phone charger. Then a single shoe,not part of a pair, just one. Then a flashlight that hadn't worked since first year. Then he blinked,a faded lacy panty.
Paul recoiled like he'd found a snake.
"Ala! What the..? Eeh, which spirit is this now?"
He picked it with two fingers like it was radioactive, then tossed it behind him.
"Some things,even I can't explain. God knows."
He dug deeper. Old receipts, a stolen campus ID (not his), an empty wallet, wrappers, keys to a door that probably no longer existed.
Then, with the joy of an archaeologist unearthing a lost civilization, he whispered:
"There you are."
He lifted the crumpled packet of cigarettes like it was holy. Tapped it gently, pulled one out, then reached for the half-drunk bottle of cheap vodka near the sink.
Standing up, he kicked the suitcase back under the bed with his heel. It slid back with a clunk like a prisoner returning to its cell.
He crossed to the opposite bed,his roommate's. A neat, well-made bed with a folded blanket and a rosary on the pillow. Paul ignored all that. He plopped onto it like he paid rent there.
He lit the cigarette, took a long drag, and puffed a thick cloud up toward the ceiling.
"Out, demons, out," he muttered, watching the smoke rise. "We fumigating early today."
Then, he unscrewed the vodka bottle, tilted it, and took a swig.
The alcohol hit him like a slap from a grandmother. His face twisted. Eyes watered. His entire soul clenched in betrayal.
"Wuuui!" he wheezed. "This thing is brewed in hell's kitchen!"
He shivered like a goat in the rain, then tossed the bottle onto his mattress. It rolled off and landed on the floor with a thud, defeated.
Paul slumped back, arms spread, eyes drifting upwards.
There, on the ceiling, two cockroaches were doing the tango. They chased each other in slow, lazy circles, their tiny legs tickling the paint.
Paul smiled.
"Look at you two. Still chasing love in this wicked world."
He raised the cigarette to his lips.
"I name thee...Kevin and Brenda."
The roaches paused. He chuckled.
"Brenda, stop playing with Kevin's heart. He left his family in the sink for you."
He blew another puff in their direction.
"Now elope before the fumigation starts."
The roaches scurried apart like embarrassed lovers. Paul laughed.
Just as he was preparing to name the cockroach babies of Kevin and Brenda, something caught his eye.
At the far edge of his bed—almost tucked beneath the frame,sat an old, shapeless bag.
He squinted.
"Haki ya nani…" he muttered, blinking at it like it had just materialized. "Kwani niko na roommate?"
All along, through the hangover, the stink, the philosophical roach love story—l,he hadn't noticed. Not the second mattress. Not the rosary. Not even the neat pair of slippers tucked under the bed like a disciplined soldier's boots.
His brain, still marinated in cheap liquor, hadn't put two and two together.
But now,he moved with a new surge of energy, as if his intestines had rebooted.
He lunged for the bag and yanked it closer. It was old, stained with dust, and the zip looked like it had retired during Kibaki's term. No time for pleasantries,Paul forced it wide open with a grunt.
The first thing he pulled out was a big plastic bottle. It looked promising.
He popped the lid and sniffed.
"Eeeeeeeeh!" He jerked his head back, nearly falling.
The pungent smell of fermented porridge slapped him like village gossip.
He stared at the bottle in betrayal. "Nani anakunywa hii kitu?"(who drinks this thing)
He had hoped,prayed even,that it was marwa, the legendary brown porridge-like brew that doubled up as chakula kinywaji (food and drink). But this... this was just sadness in a bottle.
Disgusted, he tossed it into a corner. The bottle landed with a tired wobble.
Next, a bunch of bananas. Slightly overripe, but edible. Paul's stomach took charge.
He grabbed one, peeled it in a second, took a mighty bite, chewed thoughtfully, then flung the other half behind him.
It hit the wall with a soft, sad thwap, slid down slowly like it was mourning its wasted life.
He snorted. "Next time be sweeter, bana."
Digging further, he unearthed more village relics,socks knitted like they were meant for snow, a plastic spoon with 'St. Joseph Primary School' faintly engraved, and a handkerchief with Jesus is Lord stitched at the corner.
"Waaah, huyu jamaa ametoka shags."(this guy comes from the village)
Then, hidden under a vest that looked like it had seen colonialism, he found it,an envelope.
His instincts sharpened. He opened it slowly, like unsealing sacred scrolls.
Inside: documents.
He scanned the first page.
> Meru National Polytechnic
Admission Letter
Name: Kelvin Muriuki
Course: Bachelor of Science in Civil Engineering
Campus: Main Campus
Student No: MNP/CE/2025/0194
From: Giaki Village, Meru County
Paul whistled.
"Engineer wa shags… hii ni mbogi ya masufferers."
(Engineer from the village… this is team hardship.)
He folded the paper and was about to put it back when something small and old-fashioned caught his eye.
Tucked deep inside the envelope,like a bonus from the ancestors,was a 200-shilling note, folded like it had secrets.
Paul unfolded it gently, held it up to the light like a banker inspecting counterfeit, then kissed it.
"Mpango ya leo imejipa!"
(Today's plans have aligned themselves nicely!)
He stood triumphantly.
"Hapo Ni vikombe mbili kubwa za keg, Hii dunia itajua mimi ni nani!"
(Those are two Big cups of keg, The world shall know me!)
Just as he was about to dance a victory jig with the blessed 200 bob, he heard it.
A touch on the door.
His spine straightened.
His eyes widened.
He dove onto his bed like a man escaping judgment. The envelope flew one way, his thoughts another. He snatched the blanket from the pile of his dirty clothes and pretended to be deep in sleep,snoring like a dying goat.
Too late, he realized half his legs were still outside the blanket, one sock off, the other halfway dangling like a confused flag. The half-eaten banana lay like evidence beside him, and his body still smelled like shame, sweat, and disappointment.
The door creaked open.
Paul squeezed his eyes shut tighter, shifting uncomfortably. His fake snores changed rhythm,now sounding like a rusty tractor reversing downhill.
Two boys entered, their laughter bouncing off the hostel walls.
"Waaaaah! Huko kwa canteen mazee…" Jim was saying, mid-laugh, until the smell hit.
Pause.
Brian, who was behind him, froze.
"Jesus wept," Brian whispered, pulling his collar over his nose. "Kwani kuna mtu alikufa hapa?"
Jim sniffed once, then grimaced. "Ama ni panya imeoana na socks?"
Paul couldn't take it.
He sat up with the fury of a wrongly accused prophet, eyes red from faking sleep, hair shooting in all directions like electricity had passed through it.
"Are you two mad? You want to give someone a heart attack with your slow-motion entry? I thought it was Kelvin."
Jim and Brian ignored the outburst and continued sniffing the air like detectives at a crime scene.
"Bro, be honest," Jim said, turning slowly to Paul, "Did something crawl out of hell and die under your bed?"
Paul looked around, pretending not to smell anything. "Ah, you people are now saints? You think you smell like roses just because you bathed this morning?"
Brian stepped back, shaking his head. "This room needs prayers, Dettol, and a spiritual bath."
Jim opened the window, still holding his nose like a pastor warding off demons.
"Kimani, you're our boy," he said. "But you need to stop living like a neglected goat. It's getting scary now."
Paul shrugged, waving them toward the opposite bed. "Stop pretending like you're clean just because you wear socks in bed. Sit down, angels. I have something to help you forget your judgmental tendencies."
The two glanced at each other, then sat very slowlyon the bed across.
They looked like patients waiting for injections.
Brian sat on the edge, barely placing his weight, while Jim perched like a bird unsure if the branch would hold.
Paul reached under his own blanket (the one now permanently attached to mysterious substances) and pulled out the bottle.
He handed it over like a sacrificial offering.
They hesitated.
But the temptation was greater than the smell.
Jim took a sip, coughed, then nodded.
"Bitterness of life but it works."
Brian followed, wincing so hard his eyes almost disappeared. "This thing has legs. It's walking down my spine."
Paul smirked, proud. "Now you're talking."
Brian narrowed his eyes. "Paul, just be honest,you're sulking because you made a deal and left us out."
Jim shot up like a spring, fists on his waist. "Exactly! This is not the first time, Brian. We've been sharing our hustle, our struggles, even our mama mboga tabs with this man—but when it's his turn, he zips his lips tighter than a pastor's offering bag!"
Paul raised both hands like a preacher calming a shouting congregation. "Eeeeh, wacheni panic bana! Sit down—please! I can explain. It's not what you think."
Brian scoffed. "Wewe kila saa ni,si what you think! What is it this time, Paul? Another story of how you were abducted by aliens at Meru Town bus stage?"
"Just give me two minutes," Paul pleaded, stepping over a sock that looked old enough to vote. "Just two."
The two sat reluctantly. Brian crossed his arms. Jim sucked his teeth.
Paul took a deep breath. "So, yesterday after class, I passed by Makutano. I wasn't even planning anything… But guess who I bumped into?"
Brian muttered, "Your conscience?"
Paul ignored him. "It was Mugambi! You remember Mugambi, the one from Githongo who used to sell those boiled eggs with pilipili that could wake the dead?"
Jim raised an eyebrow. "That Mugambi?"
Paul nodded. "That one. So Mugambi tells me he's in town briefly, and he wants to 'taste Meru nightlife.' Who am I to deny a brother such a dream?"
Brian rolled his eyes. "Classic Kimani setup."
Paul leaned forward, eyes animated. "So we hit this joint at Makutano… dim lights, loud music, and those disco lights that make people look like angels when they're actually demons…"
[Flashback Scene – Paul's Memory]
The club smelled like cheap perfume and expensive problems. Paul and Mugambi squeezed into a corner table, each holding a warm beer that had clearly seen better days.
"Mugambi, this place is lit," Paul shouted over the music.
Mugambi grinned. "Bro, Nairobi has nothing on Makutano! Hii ndio life!"
They laughed, shoulders bumping like old times.
Then Mugambi's eyes locked onto a girl scrolling her phone at the far end of the counter.
"Msee, angalia hiyo iPhone!" Mugambi whispered.
Paul's stomach tightened. "Hapana bro. We just came to vibe."
Mugambi grinned. "Wewe ni soft. Just distract her for ten seconds. Kitu ndogo tu."
Paul sighed, then looked away.
Within moments, chaos.
Shouting.
A girl screaming "My phone!"
Mugambi bolted like a track star, disappearing into the darkness.
Paul, stunned, stood in place pretending to sip his beer.
But two bulky guys in leather jackets pointed at him.
"That's his friend!"
[Back to Hostel]
Paul looked at Jim and Brian seriously now. "Those two guys followed me to campus, bro. I don't even know how. Maybe someone from the pub knows me, maybe they saw me board a mat,I don't know!"
Jim and Brian burst into laughter like goats let loose in a maize farm.
Paul looked at them, puzzled. "Mna-cheka aje kama watu wanajua siri yenye mimi sijui?"
["Why are you laughing like people who know a secret that I don't?"]
Jim wiped a tear from his eye, catching his breath. "Bro… do you even remember what you did last night?"
Brian leaned back, wheezing. "Heh! Man, you fought the air, the ground, and finally the clothesline pole. All in one night!"
Paul squinted. "Clothesline pole? What are you guys saying?"
Jim held his stomach. "Let's just say... you were in a boxing match. But the opponents were imaginary!"
Brian added, "And you lost to gravity! Even people in the balconies were shouting lines like it was Churchill Show!"
Paul's eyes widened. "Aaaaai, guys. Stop joking."
Jim mimicked Paul's drunk slur. "'Si mnishike tuone nani atakaa chini!'"
["Come fight me if you dare, let's see who'll stay down!"]
Then he added, "Then you punched the air—like it had insulted your ancestors."
Brian jumped in, holding an invisible mic. "Then boom! You tripped on a stone like you were doing salsa with Satan. Then you smashed into a clothesline post!"
They both fell into another fit of laughter.
Paul stared, mouth slightly open. "Wait, wait… That was me?? The guy shouting 'Mimi ni champe'?"
["I'm the champion?"]
Jim nearly choked. "YES! That was you, Mr. Champe. Bro, you even told the guys who beat you up, 'Mnajua mimi ni nani?'"
["Do you know who I am?"]
Then you got kicked in the ribs like a football at a village school match!"
Paul gasped. "I can't believe it… And people saw me?"
Brian snorted. "Saw? Bro, the whole campus was watching live! From third floor to ground floor. Even Kelvin was there, confused and traumatized."
Paul covered his face with both hands. "Eiiish. I told people to come fight me so I could teach them a lesson?"
Jim patted his back. "You said, 'Ninge… ningewavunja vibaya sana!'"
["I would have broken them badly!"]
Then you walked into a pole and collapsed like a phone dying on 2% in town."
Brian nodded seriously. "Honestly bro, if they were giving awards for dramatic knockouts, you'd win by unanimous decision. The Oscar for 'Best Fight Scene Against Stationary Objects.'"
Paul groaned, shaking his head slowly. "I was just trying to vibe with Mugambi and forget my stress…"
Jim laughed. "Well, you forgot alright! Even forgot how to walk!"
Brian leaned in. "We almost left you there, by the way. But Kelvin,your new roomie, yeah?—he's the one who made sure you got back. Room 205."
Paul blinked. "Wait… Kelvin? My roommate saw all that?"
Jim and Brian nodded, grinning like cats who'd just watched a mouse embarrass itself.
Paul buried his head into his blanket. "No wonder he's been looking at me like I'm a toddler holding a grenade."
Brian leaned back smugly. "Now you understand why we're laughing? You're a legend, bro. You gave the whole school a show they'll never forget."
Jim raised an imaginary glass. "To Champe wa Makutano! The undefeated, undisputed, completely disoriented champion of drunk street fighting!"
They clinked their invisible glasses and burst into fresh peals of laughter, while Paul groaned again and muttered, "Nimeharibu jina yangu kabisa…"
["I've completely ruined my reputation…"]
The laughter was still echoing in the room when the door creaked open.
Kelvin stepped in first, his backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. Behind him, Lilly walked in, holding a takeaway paper bag and glancing around like she'd just entered a lion's den.
The room went still.
Paul sat up slightly. Brian and Jim froze, mid-chuckle, like kids caught with their hands in a cookie jar.
Lilly's eyes locked with Brian's. Then Jim's. A flash of recognition sparked across her face followed almost instantly by that old fire.
"Oh," she said coldly, her voice slicing through the air like a ruler across knuckles. "So this is where the clowns hang out now?"
Brian stood up awkwardly. "Lilly, relax"
"I am relaxed," she snapped, setting the bag on Kelvin's desk. "I just didn't expect to find comedians rehearsing here."
Kelvin looked confused, shifting his weight. "Uhh... everything okay?"
Jim, trying to lighten the moment, laughed nervously. "Come on, Lilly. That pantie thing? That was just campus fun."
Lilly raised an eyebrow. "Campus fun? So now you throw women's underwear like confetti and call it fun?"
Paul glanced at Kelvin. "Eeh, bro... what pantie are we talking about now?"
Kelvin didn't answer. His eyes were glued to Lilly, who had folded her arms tight across her chest. The tension in the room was thick enough to slice.
Brian tried again. "Lilly, we didn't mean anything. You know we were just messing"
But Lilly was already turning. "Don't worry. You'll get your laughs somewhere else."
She gave Kelvin a soft look. "I'll wait outside."
She walked out, stiff and graceful. The silence she left behind was even louder than her exit.
Brian winced. "Wuuui. She hasn't changed at all."
Jim nudged him. "You started it, bro. You and your flying lingerie stunts."
They exchanged guilty looks, then Brian muttered, "Let's go talk to her before she burns our names in prayer."
As they followed her out, Paul turned to Kelvin and raised an eyebrow.
"Bro," he said, "that lady is fire."