He had a great butt, dark and chiseled as hell. I secretly called him Jason. Jason is such a solid name. Sounds like a guy who brings you to orgasm then whispers “good girl”, like he didn’t do all the work. The kind of guy that has an angled face and speaks just a little french. He calls beef with pasta “beef stroganoff” that day he cooks for you. A man that leans his elbow on his knee and leans in towards your face when he gets seriously passionate, especially about Wilbur Smith’s books, A A Gill or Josiah Wasonga’s pudding. The kind of man that jogs when it’s dark and it drizzles. Jason means ‘healer’, which is pertinent because without him I’m ailing.

8:05 pm: He was stolen from me yesterday evening at Thika Road Mall (TRM) parking lot.

Jason was my laptop.

Until yesterday evening, that grey-black HP 620 went everywhere I went. I bought it somewhere at Jamia mall for 42K, after Wezesha Initiative subsidized the cost by 10K. I was in campus back then, a February after Valentine’s Day when I realized that my boyfriend was not enough. He had brought flowers and a card embedded with three words “Happy Valentines Love”.

To hell with succinct.

I wanted more words. Something that could gift me with pages that expressed words of grandeur and cherubs.  I wanted more. A laptop. To write about Mau in a new artsy way. To dress her up, give her life then squeeze it out of her. Just then I discovered Biko and self-doubt rose within me in such copious amounts it leaked in every sleazy word I typed. In an upscale jazzy bar at Kempinski, my words would be donned in a calico dress and clear whore heels uncertain while Biko’s words swanked around in that Don Draper rakishness. I envied him and then befriended him.

My Jason, faithful as a heartbeat was patient. His keys yielded easy to my touch and accorded me practice. When my sentences took hours to construct (and they still do), he didn’t affront me with crudity. His cursor blinked tolerantly until I succumbed to words or to sleep. I slept with my stroganoff Jason by my side almost always. He got me my first job, on a Skype call with my boss in San Francisco. He has since then paid my rent, paid for my travels and accompanied me to Durban, Watamu, Istanbul, Diani, Paris and Loiyangalani. He has literally fed me and my siblings.

Yester night after house hunting, we strutted from the Java at TRM towards my jalopy with two friends in tow, stopping to validate the chip coin. My car was parked next to the floodlights at the end near the entrance, directly opposite two security cameras in a clear line of view from the many guards at the entrance and another that surveyed the row I was parked. Nearing the car, I noticed that the driver’s door slightly bulged outward like it was overweight or something. I keep my jalopy in a strict diet of unleaded petrol. It wouldn’t get fat. My heart was slowly lowering to the pit of my stomach as I peered inside. My wallet lay open atop of my laptop handbag on the backseat, wanton, in no manner of a cultured wallet. I moved back and touched my obviously empty bag and God knows I heard Andrea Bocelli’s “Time to say Goodbye” play somewhere.

And so, morose and heart in pain, I called the security guards. All claimed to know nothing. The Supervisor instructed me to wait for them to compile the security footage before allowing me to go check it myself.

10 minutes later, ballpark, The Security manager and I walked to the security room TRM. He had this cheery look that made it look like he was about to laugh. The whole time. It made me want to dig into his balls with my knee.

So I watched on the screen as a well dressed scumbag waited for us to leave the car park as he stood against another car across from us. White shirt and devilish soul goes to my car shortly after we leave and with his right hand and tool of trade breaks the lock on the driver’s side. A guard then stands behind my car for a about 30 seconds, all the while the thief is behind him rummaging through my jalopy. He steps out and walks to the guard and shakes his hand. The guard walks away and his scoundrel partner walks towards jalopy with a paper bag.

I gasp. This wretched human carried my Jason in a paperbag?

The brass neck!

The camera then breaks and we see him walking towards the entrance where he stops for a whole minute long, maybe to show his cajones to all the cameras and guards for their marveling prowess at their job. Then paper bag still draped on his shoulder, the lowlife walks to the exit and disappears.

Thika Road Mall security manager then tells me that the most they can do is be sorry, more vigilant in the future, hopefully carry more investigations especially since none of their cameras can produce good enough images to track anyone let alone a laptop.

It’s a con people. All of it; the security cameras, the many guards and the fact that Thika Road Mall does not inform its users that we park at our own risk. The best they will do is the graces of walking you through the shadows of what might happen to your belongings, children or even lovers or livelihoods, god forbid. If their can’t contain these, how safe are we in there? It the small things, no?

Blame is not being shifted from me to another but an unspoken understanding is that the onus of security of all things within their premises will be guaranteed, especially when you park that close to the cameras, floodlights and the security at the entrance.

I’m wondering where the two miscreants are. Maybe somewhere laughing at the whole security detail at TRM. Maybe already back in for another day of hard labour at your cars. Touching your beloved stuff callously and stealing all the while cordially handshaking guards who I cannot say work in collusion with these thugs or not. I hope they start peeing their pants in their sleep. I hope that their manhood shrivels and falls off. So they don’t sire seeds of their undeserving loins. I hope leprosy returns specifically to them.

I was parted with my Jason rather unwillingly. I already miss him now that I am typing at this cyber café near my house. The keys are hard, unyielding and have been touched by far too many hands to confer me any lasting thrill. I had clicked ‘sleep’ the last time I was with my lappie. By now, it must have figured out something is off. The three Mozilla tabs open were for research on these two word documents I was writing; one on some documentaries in Turkana County and the other a blog post I meant to write yester night. The bastards don’t care that I survive by that lappie’s keys. That by its cursor, new winds of opportunity blew towards me. This girl from Kutus, discovered and grew attuned to a world beyond thuggery and the mediocre by that lappie they put in a paper bag.

You want to know what irked me most, after about an hour and a half of these entirely futile investigations, the security manager looked at me and told me to go pay for the extra time spent parked at TRM’s premises.

Atta boy thika road mall. ATTA BOY.

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