(Hakuna Matata – No Worries)


“Why were you posted here?” asked the kaffir boy, wearing shabby knickers and a torn vest, his ribs showing through the airy gaps.

“Research. I’m here for research. Been touring the whole world, have come to this part of the world for the first time. And I think there’s more to this place than poverty, hunger, and of course, wild life!” said Rav, taking out his leather gaiters and white gloves, which by now have become wet and dusty.

“Of course, there’s more to this place. We have the beautiful beaches, calypso drums, beautiful women, and a lively atmosphere”, answered the kaffir boy.

“And a lot many mosquitoes”, said Rav, itching his foot, yet smiling. “What’s your name young man?”

“Muriuki”

“Sorry, come again?”

“It’s Moh-ree-oh-key”, the kaffir boy was loud this time. He kept silent for a minute, and then added, “You know, a name is one’s identity and a window on his culture and self. The name links us with our past, our ancestors and is a part of our spirituality. It tells about your African descent or culture and is a way to make these cultural linkages.”

“The hopes of the parents, current events of importance and celestial events that may have attended the birth are all given consideration in naming the child. It is believed that the name chosen will exert an influence for better or for worse on the life of the child and on the family as well.” “My name is of a Kikuyu ethnic origin, and means – one who is reborn. The descent is East African, mainly Kenya. My parents say that I was born pre-mature and would have died, but I somehow survived. So came this name.”

“Whoa! That was a long description for your name, boy. Now if you please, can I sleep some winks. Been a long journey, and tiring too. The countryside doesn’t boast of good transportation and roads. Reminded me of my country, India”, Rav then waived his hands to bid that teenaged boy adieu and went for his afternoon siesta.

Rav, short for Ravinder, hails from India, but has lived most of his life in UK. So naturally he has acquired their accent and etiquettes and adapted to their culture.

It was early evening when Muriuki knocked Rav’s door. Rav opened the door to see Muriuki standing with a tray laden with cookies and tea. This was a sinful combination, as Rav was very much addicted to tea, and his head would throb for the lack of it.

“Sir, these cookies are very special, as they were presented to me by that bakery girl. She is very beautiful”, Muriuki’s eyes gleamed while he spoke.

“Ooh, so you have a girl? Great dude, started it quite early eh?” Rav patted on Muriuki’s shoulders.

“Ooh, no, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. She’s like an elder sister to me.”

“Okay. That’s good. So Muriuki, is there something around to explore? I want to walk a little after I drink my tea.”

“Well, get through it, I’ll come after half-an-hour.”

“Great”, Rav then shook hand with that boy.


Part 2

She was lazing around in her shop, shoo-ing flies coming to lay their eggs on the warm cookies. It was another of those breezy evenings when she wanted to go out, dance in the farm and sing out loud. This was the month when the farms looked at their glorious best. Harvesting had reaped its fruits. And the air was pregnant with the smell of those exotic fruits everywhere. She waited for her dad to come back after his afternoon siesta and take control of the bakery, so that she can go out and refresh her life.

“My sweetest Nyawela, oh, oh, Nyawela, I’m back my sweetheart” sang her dad, looking happy as always. She welcomed him with a peck on his cheek.

“Tonight’s a special night. We have people coming from other towns as well in our bar. Not to mention the nearby farm owners. See, so popular our Thursday Night Blues has become”

“That’s great. But please, I don’t want to dance on Muddy Waters and Buddy Guy. God, from where do you get these music. Why can’t Bob Marley make his way in our bar?”

“Sweetheart, this is an all American Café at night. In noon, you play whatever you want, as long it is a bakery. But at night, it ought to be American. That’s what draws the crowd. The ol’ American Charm. The charm of Blues.”


Part 3

The knee-high grass tickled her bare legs. Nyawela walked precariously through the fields, watching out for lizards. The sky was transforming into a dreamt dream. The mature colors of the sky gave way to the naïve colors brought along by the emerging clouds. She stood there, staring at the surreal horizon with her eyes narrowed down. The green of the field was complementing the crimson, azure and mauve of the skies. Few drops kissed her cheeks, bringing a curl on the edge of her lips, a seductive smile that was.

He was shooting the windmill, the rustic flavor of this village, the generous dollop of romance in the sky. Every corner he wanted to freeze in his camera. The drizzle only complemented the ambience.

There was a distant voice that he could hear. Someone crooning. As he started walking towards the voice, Muriuki bid him adieu, as he didn’t want to get drenched, because he predicted an overcast sky, and a heavy saunter of rain. A severe lashing. Rav didn’t care. He followed his heart, he followed the voice.

As he paced, the voice became sweeter. He could vaguely make out what that song was. As he neared, he heard it clearly, one of his Bob Marley favorites, “I wanna love you and treat you right; I wanna love you every day and every night; We’ll be together with a roof right over our heads; We’ll share the shelter of my single bed; We’ll share the same room, yeah! - for jah provide the bread. Is this love - is this love - is this love - Is this love that Im feelin? Is this love - is this love - is this love - Is this love that Im feelin? I wanna know - wanna know - wanna know now! I got to know - got to know - got to know now!”

He looked at the source of the beautiful voice. A tall girl with a wheatish complex, hair the color of wine from Burgundy, snobbish nose with thick lips, smoky eyes, pristine iris, long face and a beauty to behold. She curled her lips as she sang, lines drawing on her forehead as she closed her eyes and tried to sing with much more fervor. He gaped at her, smiling. How innocent can a person become, singing a song, getting drenched.

A thunder wasn’t the music Nyawela was looking for. Scared, she opened her eyes, only to find a stranger ogling at her, amused. She looked at him, then suddenly covered her bosom with her hands, as she was wearing a white top. Rav was also wearing a white shirt, so on seeing her do so, even he covered his chest, aping her. A smiled escaped through her lips, followed by a hesitant laugh. She smirked and ran towards the nearby barn, escaping from the rain that had suddenly showered the fields making oodles of puddles. Rav followed her, because there wasn’t any other place to hide, and no reason to leave her.

Thunderstorm kept her heart throbbing. But more than that, it was this stranger. A tall, fair stranger, with Venetian red hair, locks wet with anticipation, a drop running down his right temple, aquiline nose, shrill turquoise eyes, athletic build, innocent looks and a cute smile.

She caressed the brawny horse and tried to keep herself busy. He sat there on the mash of straw, looking outside, making her comfortable.

“It’s gonna rain for long it seems”, he tried to invoke a conversation.

“Sorry?” she confirmed if he was speaking to her or mumbling.

“I said we’re stuck here.”

“Well, not really”, she said while looking at the entrance, where her dad was nearing, with 2 umbrellas in his hand.

“Oooh my Nyawela, my baby, my sweeeeeetheart, daddy dearest missed his sweetheart”, her dad hugged her and kissed her forehead repeatedly.

He then looked at the guy, and chuckled while saying, “This gentleman looks like your long lost brother.” Rav was amused to hear that when her Dad cleared, “Ooh, sorry, actually you both are wearing white, resemble each other, so I just cracked a joke.” Rav smirked. He then shook hands and said, “I’m Rav” looking at Nyawela. “’I’m Waldo”, said her dad. She came forward and Waldo introduced her, “She is Pumbaa”. She frowned, and Mambo laughed, and added, “Sorry, she’s Nyawela.” Rav looked at her and asked, “So what does Pumbaa and Nyawela mean?”

She smiled and said, “Pumbaa means carefree, and Nyawela means on a journey.”

“So what are you doing at our Kraal…I mean village”, asked Waldo.

“Some research work.”

“Good. Well, come to my tavern at 8. There’s Thursday Night Blues. It’s a gala night.”


Part 4

He dashed his favorite fragrance and headed for Waldo’s tavern. It was a starry affair. The tavern emitted lights like a UFO, and music blared to the loudest. A wooden board hung outside said, “Welcome to The Tuscan Tuxedo.”

As he entered the tavern, he was bedazzled. It was a perfect Jazz n Blues night. The décor was subtle, and very American. Musical instruments were hung everywhere, jostling with posters of famous singers of yore. Andropausal Men and menopausal women looked all decked up with formal attire and panache in their etiquettes. Rav made himself comfortable on a footstool, waiting to see Nyawela.

It was a jolly good evening, with everyone having a ball. One portly gentleman held a stout woman and sang with Muddy Waters, “I’m your hoochie-coochie man.” Everyone was cheering, and amidst this cacophony, an angel emerged. With a black top and a red flowery full-length skirt, hair tucked by several pins, velvet olive slippers with black flowers, woody bracelet, shimmering ear rings, lustrous lip gloss, and an aura of a diva, she looked the best woman out here. His gaze was stuck.

As she was coming up to him, Waldo grabbed her hands and started dancing with her. She laughed and said, “Pole pole (take it easy)”. She then swayed and frisked like a fish. But kept looking at him. He looked at the other side and smiled. She looked at his side-face, the tuck of his dimples, and smiled.

Finally, as the crescendo increased of Muddy Water’s crooning, Nyawela came up to him and gave him her hand. He kissed her palm, stood up, and came closer. She kept her hands on his shoulders, as he kept his on her waist. And they started swaying softly. As they were looking into each other’s eyes, she said, “Let me make this magical.” She then guided him outside, into the fields. There was a wagon resting idle, with no ox to drag it. She jumped on the cart, and helped him climb. Now they were standing under the moonlight, overlooking the silvery fields. Stars threw a billion wishes with each twinkling. From the distance they could hear the music. It was cold out here. She brought him closer, with their breaths warming each other. As they started swaying, even moon blushed.

He was feeling her warm body, and she was feeling his warm embrace. Nothing could be apt than the Frank Sinatra song that played at The Tuscan Tuxedo –

Strangers in the night exchanging glances
Wondering in the night
What were the chances, we’d be sharing love
Before the night was through.

Something in your eyes was so inviting,
Something in you smile was so exciting,
Something in my heart,
Told me I must have you.

Strangers in the night, two lonely people
We were strangers in the night
Up to the moment
When we said our first hello.
Little did we know
Love was just a glance away,
A warm embracing dance away and -

Ever since that night we’ve been together.
Lovers at first sight, in love forever.
It turned out so right,
For strangers in the night.”

He then whispered in her ears, “What if your dad catches us?” She looked at him and chuckled, “Hakuna Matata.”

He then whispered, “I may not be able to resist you now.” She grinned and said, “Hakuna Matata.”

He embraced her tight and said, “Alas, this dance, this moment, wouldn’t last forever.” She smirked and said, “Hakuna Matata.”

Then with a lump in his throat, he said, “I’m leaving tomorrow.” She stopped swaying, looked at his face, then tucked her face on his chest, started swaying again and said, “Hakuna Matata.”