I met my best friends through Jesus. (yes, life is full of little ironies.)

I met Wangu in class 8. On Sundays, their boarding school used to come to my church. I only went to church because my house was so full yet so infuriatingly quiet on Sunday mornings and that bothered me. Wangu’s classmates talked a lot and I didn’t understand why most of the girls ogled this particular boy with greasy hair and a subtle slouch. (puberty was running late for me). We didn’t talk, ever. I was busy trying not to nerd out anyway. And that’s when I first ‘met’  Wangu Munge.

Mwendwa – on the other hand – was the coordinator of my Bible study group in high school. I spent most of my Sunday nights under some bulky tree listening to her talk about Christ while lying on my best friend, Truphie. To be honest, most times, Truphie had to come to my room and drag me out. Consequently, I’d spent half the time thinking about going back to bed or how I could take a matatu home with the 20 in my pencil pouch.  And that’s how I ‘met’ Mwendwa Kimathi.

With these two, it’s about the little rituals like waking up after drinking all night, getting into robes and making scrambled eggs or cinnamon toast. Or going to clubs just to get their barbecue wings and fries. And driving till USIU to have shawarmas and pilipili maembe. Or the worn-out thought that Java’s Chocolate Fudge cake or Artcaffe’s Tricolad will flush away the sadness. It doesn’t but it sure does come close, trust us. (Wangu’s cupcakes get an honorable mention – they really come through when we’re broke).

I’ve slept outside a police station with Wangu listening to Hozier and Oh Wonder, cried my eyes out in another on Mwesh’s laps. Talked about love and family in yet another one with both of them on a hot afternoon with the windows down. Sat on a boat with Wangu in another trying not to cry. I’ve slept and woken up to have mental breakdowns at 4 am and they’ve been there for me. Telling me basic things that I know already but can’t seem to think about in those particular episodes: breath, stretch, count sheep. Grounding me, always. These two idiots drove me to my 1st therapy session and stayed through the whole thing. I didn’t want to go, I had stalled for like 7 weeks, no hyperbole. That push was everything.

I still insist that going to Wangu’s house is enough therapy. Watching the sunset from her window. Seeing her paintings. Reading her Alex Elle book. Running my fingers through her makeup. Trying and failing to put on lipstick in front of her dressing table. It’s the cupid’s bow that I never get right. The fact that Mwesh doesn’t live close by sucks. But she still shows up. She calls and sends the most sanative texts that I end up starring for future reference as to why I am the baddest bitch and I can hack whatever. You know what her secret weapon is, though? Her hugs. Damn, her hugs.

And the music! Downing KC while listening to Eric Wainaina on swings at the Arbor and then Reading that beautiful prose at the side of the Tusker can like it was an anthem (that’s a beautiful poem, fr). Mixing drugs at Diplo’s concert with Mwesh. Fan-girling over new waves and phases that each of us go through and drag the other two along with us : Rae Sremmund. BØRNS. Ibeyi. Soaking in all the mind-fucking magic that is Jack Rooster’s music in our lil freakum dresses. Lazying around ADD, more drugs, singing Lauryn Hill at the top of our voices.  Tipsy on wine and cocktails singing along to Sauti Sol. Documenting all my Twende Brayo moments to embarrass me later.

Also, one of my many favourite things about these two is how many varying topics we can talk about in a span of 7 minutes. Like how would you think humans built the pyramids? Or when we’re talking about how the Big Bang couldn’t have engineered all the beautiful and intricate systems in your body – that there has to be a God. And then global warming will come up just before we ramble about politics on someone’s balcony. It’s mostly very disorienting or invigorating for the unfortunate third wheel.

My girls always push me to the best version of myself and I love that. They’ll help me crystallize my ideas and tell me to write. They’ll push me to a good nigga when they see one. They’ll push me to read, keep that GPA up.


To be honest, I really don’t get much of anything. But I know love, because of these two. And I can tell you one thing, for a fact:

“We solemnly swear that we are up to no good.”

Signed,

Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief Makers.

 

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2 thoughts on “The One with the Marauders.

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