The Great Escape

I dove into that kabati like my life depended on it—because it probably did.

The wardrobe was one of those ancient wooden ones with sliding doors that hadn't been oiled since the colonial era. As I squeezed myself between her mother's heavy kangas and her father's old suits, I made a mental note: never date a rich girl again. Rich meant landlines. Rich meant parents who came back early. Rich meant wardrobes that smelled like expensive perfume and regret.

From inside my new prison, I could hear everything.

The front door opened.

"Mwende! Mwende! Tuko!"

My girlfriend's voice was impressively calm. "Mum! Dad! Mnarudi mapema?"

"Watu wa ushago hawakuwa. Tuliamua kurudi nyumbani."

Footsteps. Multiple pairs. The unmistakable sound of someone entering the living room.

Then the house help—that traitor, that blackmailer, that foot-caressing agent of chaos—said the words that made my soul leave my body again:

"Nyinyi mmeona ile simu ya jamii pale chini?"

Kumbe huyu anataka kunimaliza kabisa.

"Simu gani?" my girlfriend's mother asked.

"Niletee ikae hapa."

I heard footsteps approaching the bedroom. The wardrobe doors rattled as someone bumped against them.

"Simu iko wapi?"

More footsteps. More...