I drove into the apartment on a dark cold July evening. For the fifteenth time that day I wondered if the Julys of my childhood were as bleak. Concluding that the cold was exacerbated by the burden of economic turbulence that comes with adulthood, I stepped out of my vehicle and into our apartment parking lot. While taking out groceries, I realised that there was a small crowd gathered at the bottom of the apartment staircase. If you have just stepped onto Kenyan soil, there is a wave of change that is blowing through our country. It’s ill-advised therefore, to ignore small crowds – they may be the information service you need on very recent political happenings.

Deciding that I should interrogate this matter with urgency, I cautiously approached the gathered crowd. “She was bleeding profusely! This is what he always does,”  my neighbour says. He shook his head dramatically. This is not the first time I’d seen him regale other apartment occupants with a story. He shape-shifts. One minute he is a mild-mannered, khaki-wearing man on the stairs and then adopts a dramatic disposition that gives a storyline the performance it deserves. As a lover of the arts, I can appreciate that – especially on a dreadful July. For the breath of time I had lived near him, I couldn’t quite decide if I liked him. That’s rather rare for me – I hardly have grey areas, even about people.

I gathered that another neighbour of mine who goes between calmly asking the guards about their day to bellowing insults at his conspicuously petite wife had battered her to a near pulp. After he stormed out, she had painfully hobbled down the stairs and driven herself to the hospital. “How did she drive herself to the hospital? Was nobody able to offer her assistance?” I found that I had loudly articulated my thoughts. “I was there the whole time but you know you can’t interfere in another man’s marriage.” The storyteller retorted. I didn’t like him. It was decided.

In an act symbolic of self-awareness, I retreated to my car to gather my luggage and proceed into the mundanity of an adult evening. As I walked past them, I stole a final glimpse of the storyteller. Along with his khaki pants, he was wearing a light blue-shirt with some monk straps that looked like they’d accompanied him on his decade-long journey of telling staircase tales. In equal measure, his clothes must have divorced his iron box at the point of his conception. You can’t gossip and press your clothes, I concluded – you’ve got to choose.

At this juncture, you will be tempted to believe that I have something against gossip or deliverers of it. I don’t. In fact, I have accepted that they have their place in advancing an economy. Unless of course, I am their subject. In which case, how sacrilegious! I am however fascinated by people who conveniently fold their hands as injustice occurs but beguile us with all the details of the injustice after its occurrence. Like rats, they are a dime a dozen. They don’t always wear khakis either, sometimes they wear red bottoms. Other times they are catholic. Every now and then, they wear religious headwraps and beat drums on the street. In some cases, they drive  majestic vehicles, roll down their fancy windows for a closer look at injustice and pull up their windows – testing the vigour of their German engines. This, having decided, that they have nothing to do with the woes of mortal men.

Simply put, there is diversity in cowardice. It could be anybody. Because the life of a man, when the divine has favoured him can be quite lengthy, it’ll be almost impossible for one to continuously befall the side of bravery. It may be quite dangerous however to continuously opt for cowardice, spinelessness, complacency ; both in the fight for social equality as well as interpersonal fights. You become it. You embody it. You become reputable for it. You are then well known for standing for nothing or worse still, tearing apart those that dare to challenge the status-quo.

Perhaps one day when there are more than the meagre allocation of twenty-four hours, we will discuss the forms and machinery for cowardice. For today,  I am prompted to leave you with an Igbo saying, “It is from the house of a coward that we observe the remains of a brave man’s house.”