The entire house stank. An acrid smell permeated the air, a stench of ammonia and excrement from the overflowing sewage outside the window, mixed with the smell of too many unwashed bodies co-existing in a space meant to be inhabited by one, at most two people. Stale deodorant. Sweat coated with dust and dirt. Down the narrow unlit corridor lay the makeshift kitchen, the door was left ajar to let in some fresh air. Instead, every time Marianne inhaled, she caught a whiff of vegetables that were no longer so fresh, and fruits that were in different stages between overripe and rotten. As she lay down on the thin mattress in her corner of the room, enveloped by all these smells, that to her signified the depths to which she had sunk, she was mildly surprised by the wave of gratitude that filled her heart.
The people with whom she shared the tiny house were old friends who’d taken pity on Marianne and her husband George when they moved to the city. All they brought along were wild dreams and a few thousand shillings – hardly enough to start a new life, but they were young, hopeful, and more importantly, homeless. George and Marianne were not legally married, a matter that George’s father had repeatedly brought up for the three years they had been together. In fact, right up to the day he threw them out of his home. So here they were, counted among the urban statistics, when all they had been reckoning with was a neat mud hut at the edge of the sugarcane farm, filled with the pitter patter of a reasonable number of happy little feet and the smell of maize meal slowly baking in the hearth.
Tucked away on the edge of Kibera, which had the notorious label of being one of Africa’s largest slums, Marianne and her housemates had a lovely view of life as it ought to be. Every morning, as they filed out of their humble abode, one after another, and yet another, they caught a glimpse of the inhabitants of the new housing estate in Lang’ata Estate, which lay across the river. This was a class of people, who always seemed to get up on the right side of the bed. A class of people, who with the cobwebs of sleep still making them groggy, shuffled around their well lit homes in night wear that was much more elegant than the Sunday-bests that Marianne and her house mates wore to weddings. Yes, this was how life ought to be. It was the inspiring standard that got her up every morning.
This morning was different. After Marianne had hurriedly splashed some cold water on her face, she took a long time to observe the goings on across the stone wall. She followed the school bus with her eyes, observed the children as they ran out, accompanied by their nannies. She watched as the men and women got into their cars and took off to their white collar jobs. She took it all in. She savored it. She stored it in her mind to retrieve later. Today was the last day in this place they’d learnt to call home. They were leaving. All of them. To a house without a view. She recalled the landlord’s visit last week, “Am sorry, you heard the news. I have to sell and move before this upgrading project the government keeps talking about comes. It’s either that or I lose my investment.” And just like that, Marianne’s source of drive and motivation was taken away. “Please give us some more time. Include us in your deal with the new buyer,” George had protested feebly, but to no avail.
George had been employed as an Office Assistant in a busy office. Marianne was lucky to get a cleaning job now and then. They had slaved for every shilling they could find, they saved every shilling. “Welcome home. I made you something nice for dinner,” Marianne had imagined herself saying, as she opened a shiny wooden door and let George in to a massive, tastefully furnished living room. She would touch him with no inhibitions, sit across him at breakfast and brush off the crumbs of toast from his cheek, just like the couple on ground floor did. When she got pregnant, an ambulance with AAR plastered all over it would come and drive her away to hospital, and she would come back with a baby bundled up in blue or pink – like all the mothers across the river did – while George struggled with the weight of all the beautiful presents she had received.
And this morning, her early morning trips to wonderland would end. They were moving upwards, to Kisumu Ndogo. They would finally have a room to themselves. The door opened to the wall of the next house, which opened to the wall of another one. A house without a view. Marianne hoped her memories would last for a long time. “Marianne, stop daydreaming and come help me to tie up these things. We have to move them to the new house before I go to work,” George called out, breaking her
