Out of the darkness comes a surprise

Diary,

Last Friday, I flew back into the country following a medical trip to South Africa, only to be stranded inside Jomo Kenyatta International Airport following the unfathomable countrywide power blackout.

As I sat in the dark VIP lounge, wondering how on Earth a simple power failure can bring an international airport to its knees, a well-dressed lady approached and took the seat next to me.

“Can you believe this?” she said, crossing her legs. (I catch a silhouette of a sumptuous thigh). “Heads should roll for this.”

I shook my head. “Not in this country. Everything would have to be on fire, literally, before anyone takes responsibility.”

She laughed beautifully. “In some countries, government officials take moral responsibility and resign after national disasters.”

“In this country, someone gets a raise.”

She laughed again, even more exquisitely this time, and offered her hand. “I’m Misha.”

I shook her hand. “Tom.”

“Where had you hopped to, Tom?”

“I’d gone to see a patient in South Africa.”

“You’re a doctor?” She acts surprised. “You could’ve come in handy on my trip.”

“Why, did you fall ill?”

“No. My new husband fell dead.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t be. The old burger was 92.”

I squint at her face, illuminated by the faint glow of the runway lights. I could’ve bet my last cent she wasn’t a day over 30.

“Twenty-seven,” she said, reading my mind perfectly.

“My bad,” I said, averting my eyes. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No biggie. The old coot resembled a mottled raisin covered in hairy warts, but the couple hundred mil in his bank account made him more handsome than Idris Elba. He should’ve have gone a tad easy on those Viagra pills, though. He chewed them in handfuls. Ha ha! Like githeri.”

I swallowed. Hard. “Did you say two hundred million shillings?”

“Only in liquid cash. His entire portfolio has more zeros than the eggs in his chicken farm.”

“Another multi-millionaire farmer?”

“He chartered two weekly cargo flights to supply half of the supermarkets in Dubai. That’s where we met.”

“Damn you, mother!” I shook my fist playfully in the air. “You kept insisting I had to go to school to be loaded.”

“I can already imagine your bedside manner.” Misha laughed some more, a sound I had begun to love, but was now dreading to my core. (I didn’t have to ask what the poor dead fella had seen in Misha from Dubai).

“Your patients must adore you, Tom. Tell you what, mind having a drink with me in the next couple days or so? I have a feeling soon I will need any friendly face I can get.”

“How so?”

“Gitonga has 14 kids, but he left everything to me.”