“Nyokabi,” Kimathi said. “I am a tad worried about something.”
“Your prudish behavior?”
“No,” he explained. “It’s the utter absurdness of trying, unfavorably so, to cross reference my dreams with reality.”
“How so?” she queried.
“Well,” he said. “My dreams happen to be rather square-toed. My reality on the other hand is a whole different haystack; a mixture of foregone conclusions, salability even.”
Nyokabi blinked rapidly, eyes going back to her fast moving crotchet knitting together a tidy, multicolored set of booties for her son.
“While my dreams are spurts of brilliance and elegance, my real life is one heck of ordinariness and unbelievable mundaness.”
“Fecklessness?” Nyokabi observed.
“I become an aristocratic Prince in my dreams, ruling over all planets. I am loved and respected and adored by all. Young kids want to become me, old men wish I was their son.”
“And reality?” she grunted.
“I wake up to the harsh reality that aristocracy in a dumpsite is as uncommon and unbecoming as a wild hog with wings.”
The polythene roofing, splendid in a dozen shades of dirt, despair and germs fluttered furiously as a whirlwind in its spiraled lunacy strode across the dumpsite.
“There goes the devil,” announced Nyokabi, squinting, trying to count his strides.
“Am famished,” Kimathi said.
“You, sir, are such a paradox,” she said. “Famished and yet you are almost drowning in a sea of food?”
He muttered something to himself and went back to sleep with the extravagantly demonstrative birl-wind as the soundtrack to his dreams.