The Dream Chasers by Claudette Oduor Page A

reluctant sign of peace.
    The sermon was about Lazarus the poor man who begged outside the rich man’s house. Lazarus languished. Languished and languished. “Languish” was a beautiful word. It should never be used to describe suffering.
    After Mass, Muchai went off to meet his girlfriend Nyaera, and I returned home.
    Mama and I ate rice and kidney beans cooked in coconut milk. We sat in the kitchen, listening to the drip of water in the sink. The tap was constantly leaking into the drain. A drop of water hung from its spout. It jumped down, cracking its head against the basin. Another drop peeked through the mouth, looking for the first one. It forgot to hold tight, lost its balance, and fell like the first drop. A search party of droplets came out, but each one disintegrated like the others.
    â€œYou should fix that thing, Mama,” I said.
    â€œGive me a job, Lulu, and I will make enough money to fix the entire plumbing.”
    Mama went to lie down. I sat on the steps at the back door, watching her geese pacing up and down the yard, patrolling the turkey and the chicken. The wind shook leaves off the mukinduri tree, littering the yard. I stood up and ran after the leaves scattered in the air. Muchai and I had chased leaves when we were younger. He had said that if we caught one, we could make a wish. I caught four and made one wish four times.
    Spreading a mat under the mukinduri , I took out a handheld radio and fell asleep listening to an analysis of Raila Odinga’s campaign techniques juxtaposed with incumbent President Mwai Kibaki’s. When I awoke, the shadows had crept in already. There was a blackout, and it was raining. I ate in the darkness—boiled rice with mchicha plucked from the garden. Mama said it was taboo to do this; one might swallow devils down with their food. We were out of candles; I had no choice but to eat in the gloom. Maybe if I swallowed demons down with my food, they would possess my stomach and leave my mind alone.
    The blackness at my house was heavy—the kind which held sticks and stones, and prodded at you from all directions, poking fun at your smallness. It made you nervous and wish for some light to measure your physical existence against, to remind you that you were alive and that you were you.
    There was a knock on the door. I pulled it open. Muchai stood on the veranda, in a place where the rain couldn’t stretch its arms to reach him. I stepped out into the dark, closed the door, and stood against it for a few seconds. I watched the mukinduri seize as the wind coursed through its branches, and the sky spat saliva all over the garden.
    â€œDo you remember the story of why Mr Hyena limps?” Muchai asked. “What was it?”
    â€œI do. Mr Hyena heard there was a party. He followed the directions and came across a fork in the road. He couldn’t decide which of the two paths to choose, so he widened his forelegs and hind legs, and walked both paths for as long as his body could allow. In the end, he ripped right through his middle.”
    â€œI feel like that hyena.”
    â€œIs there a party down the road?”
    â€œNo. Today, I asked Nyaera to marry me.”
    â€œYou went down on your knee and asked her?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t go down on my knee. I just asked her.”
    â€œYou said, ‘Nyaera will you marry me?’”
    â€œNo, I said, ‘Nyaera, maybe we should … you know … settle down.’”
    â€œWhat did she say?”
    â€œShe said, ‘Maybe we should.’” Muchai stared at me with his small slanted eyes, trying to read the expression on my face. “You think I’m making a mistake?” He tried to pry more words out of my eyes, but I looked away, refusing to let him.
    â€œHave you told your family?”
    â€œI came to you first.”
    â€œThey’ll be happy for you.”
    â€œAren’t you?”
    â€œYou aren’t even happy for