Chasing river, p.1
Chasing River, page 1
Chasing River
"
M.C Sakala
Copyright © [2023] by [M.C Sakala]
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by Zambian copyright law.
Contents
Prologue
1. Le Chat Curieux
2. Welcome To Saint Katherines
3. Prodigy
4. Pandora's Box
5. La tour De France
6. La Tour De France
7. Forbidden Fruit
8. Exposure
9. Connected
10. Heat In Winter
11. Little Truths
12. Dancing On Thin Ice
13. When We Were Younger
14. Academic Validation And Other Plagues
15. Collateral Damage
16. Halloween Highs
17. A Mutual Understanding
18. Red Handed
19. Home Is A Person
20. The Blue Train
21. Bad Blood
22. The Gemini Concept
23. We Are One
24. Things Fall Apart
25. Pandora's Box
26. Old Flames Die Hard
27. Death Is A Lover
28. Consume Me
29. The Thorns That Bind Us
30. Samesies & Other Phrases
31. The Beginning Of The End
32. A Betrayal Of The Heart
33. The Truth Will Set You Free
34. Chasing River
35. The Final Dream
36. Epilogue
A Letter From The Author
Acknowledgments
About Author
Prologue
IT HAD been years since I'd last visited my home back in Kenya.
Since I'd last felt the subtle warmth of the passionately fierce African sun against my skin. Since I'd frolicked amongst the tulips and ambrosia's on my auntie Zahra's vineyard and snuck a taste of the bittersweet wines without my parents knowing. Since I'd kissed the adorable wrinkled cheeks of my bibi (grandmother), thanking her for the perfect braids she'd knitted in my hair that summer afternoon so my curls didn't fall over my face.
I miss the sombre scent of the coffee papa would brew in the early mornings and the gossip from my many aunties about every little secret in town. I miss the laughter of my cousins as mama taught us how to make ugali; I remember that day, the cornmeal wasn't properly cooked, and it was inedible, but our entire family pretended as though it were the best thing they'd ever tasted.
Practice makes perfect, mama would always say, and I never forgot it.
I recall the nostalgic sounds of maize meal being sifted, our beaded sandals running up and down the corridors, the television in the living room’s scratchy signal, hushed folktales whispered by the crackling log fires, coffee beans being rolled along in barrels, the intoxicating scent encapsulating me.
These are the memories that define me, the stories that crafted my character.
Mama, papa, my little brother Jaadi and I left Nairobi for Jacksonville, Florida, when I was only ten years old. Papa got an incredible job offer there that paid much more than he was getting back home. We lived a comfortable life of church Sundays, long lazy June summers, and itchy private school uniforms in a world we couldn't quite wrap our heads around. It just didn’t quite fit. Like my mother’s carefully woven kitenge around my slim new American waist, like my hair through the heat of a straightener. But our parents made sure we never forgot our roots. And like the branches on a tree, we may grow in different directions as a people, but our roots remain as one.
My parents have always been firm with me. There were never any ifs or but’s, nor room for any childish opinions. They made sure I knew right from wrong at a very young age, and even as I grew up and went to high school, they always kept a keen eye on me. While everyone else was out on the town looking for the next high– be it drugs, alcohol or their new celebrity obsession, I was alone in my room studying for a test that was months away. I know what you're probably thinking, what a fucking prude, but I knew what I wanted and I was going to do everything in my power to make sure I got there.
The entirety of my adolescence I have been illusioned by an incessant need to escape. Actually, my dream has always been to escape, somewhere far away where no one knows my name, somewhere I can be a new person without worrying about the people who've known me before clinging to my past persona.
Jacksonville has never been for me. It's always been temporary. I never planned to live there forever– if I did, I swear I'd lose my mind. Trust me, I can see it on my tombstone:
ARMANI OYANA NNANDI. A SISTER, A DAUGHTER.
CAUSE OF DEATH: SUBURBAN SUFFOCATION.
Let's start with high school. For example, I went to Clearwater High, a private school for the children of the wealthy. Except for the fact that I was nothing of the sort, and I often felt like an imposter in my crested navy cardigan and pleated skirt. Therefore Clearwater high was my own personal brand of hell. All I did throughout high school was watch all the boys try to get with the girls and watch all the girls pretend to be friends with each other. Perhaps a part of me wanted to be pined over too, perhaps I wanted the girls to pretend to be friends with me too…but perhaps I'd die before I allowed myself to get sucked up by their pathetic high school charade.
My parents made sure I always had my eyes on the prize, my art.
I spent most of my time in the attic painting my dreams; it's always been my thing– to paint dreamlike settings. I've always believed that reality is rather dull and suffocating, and sometimes, I just need to escape. Art has always been my escape. Through my art, I convey all the words I wish I could say and everything all of a sudden becomes possible with a paintbrush in my hand.
I am a phenomenal artist. There's no point In denying it. Mama always told me to never let anything humble a woman. If you've got it– then you've got it, be proud of it. Don't let society make you feel like you can't be confident in your abilities just because they can't do what you can. I've been entering art competitions and exhibits since I was twelve, so much so that it's become a second nature to me. I quickly mastered the body language of the critics and what they often liked and disliked, It was the key to my success.
I've never had time to go to parties or go out with boys. My parents would never permit it anyways. They don't believe that it'd be suitable for their teenage daughter to do such 'inappropriate' and 'degrading' things. They'd have a heart attack if I ever did so. Don’t misunderstand me, my parents are good people, they're just really traditional.
I'd been working on one particular painting resembling a dream I'd had a few nights ago, one of a young girl frolicking in a field of ambrosias just like I did back home in Kenya. I'd entitled it 'Lost Girl' and entered it in the Carlisle exhibit in Orlando.
To my surprise, I won first place, and I won a scholarship to one of the most prestigious art academies in all of France; The Saint Katherine's academy of the arts.
That's where it all started– at Saint Katherine's, that was when I began to see colour in my black and white world. That's where everything changed; that's where I changed.
I was no longer Armani Nnandi, the good girl.
I was the girl entangled in the beautiful chaos that was River Kennedy.
The Godly boy with the angel eyes.
The boy whose haunted memories contorted like ravenous vines around his throat, the boy whose secrets were tearing him apart from the inside out.
Chapter 1
Le Chat Curieux
I GAZED out the aeroplane window and traced my fingers along the cool glass tracing patterns. It was 11 PM, and midnight enchanted Paris, unlike anything I'd ever seen before. The city was pure light, and I was fascinated by it. The plane began its descent. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I was on my own for the first time in my life. No parents, no rules and for the first time in forever, I could let my heart be my compass. I would be lying through my teeth if I said that I knew nothing about where I was going because Paris before had always been my blue moon– something that I longed for but never actually thought I’d be able to catch a glimpse of. For as long as I could possibly remember, Paris had been a film, be it Amelie or the dreamers. It had been delicacies, bœuf bourguignon, cabernet sauvignon and ratatouille– not the Disney film about the rat. It was posters of la tour Eiffel on my bedroom wall, dusty Edith Piaf records I'd danced to when I thought no one was watching.
Perhaps someone always was, watching and listening.
It wasn't easy to get my parents to send me halfway across the Atlantic for school. It took a lot of convincing and reminding them that I was an adult. Barely anyone back home approved of their discussion; my aunties and uncles thought my parents had run mad for allowing their only daughter to pursue the arts. They felt that I could be great as a doctor or a lawyer, but all I thought was that they should keep their opinions to themselves. My parents knew it was my dream, and they understood that—for the most part.
However, their decision didn’t come without significant consequences. That was the thing about my parents. It was that every gift came with strings attached. I often feel like a little marionette doll with them; I smiled when they smiled, only spoke when spoken to, and I could always feel my mother's influence in every choice I made. My father's judgment haunted me like my own wicked shadow.
They made me promise them three things before I got into the plane:
1. To focus only on my artwork and not let myself get distracted by pretty boys who spoke pretty words.
2. To call them every day before bed so they knew that I was safe.
3. To maintain my grades, and under no circumstances were they to slip.
They made it clear that if any of these rules were to be broken, it'd be back to Jacksonville for me. And I couldn't let that happen, I couldn't go back to Florida, and I'd do my best to follow those three simple rules. Once the plane landed and I exited the aircraft, the cool Parisian air caressed my face, the weather was chilly and different, but I loved it.
The Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport was massive, and went onward for what felt like miles. I made sure to grab a cup of coffee from one of the little cafés. Everything about the coffee tasted different— it was nothing like my usual caramel frappuccino that I picked up from Starbucks on my way home from school. It was an Americano, my usual, except that this cup was rich, creamy and flavorful. It tasted like new beginnings.
My parents didn't want me to have to use public transport during my stay here, so they had papa's friend Sal deliver a mustard yellow Renault Clio to me at the airport. Sal was a sweet 50-something-year-old man who greeted me alongside his youngest daughter Emile. She had flushed cheeks from the bitter cold and this subtle beauty about her.
"Bonjour Madame Armani!" She chirped, handing me the keys to my new car, which had the Kenyan flag attached to it.
"To remind you of home." She smiled, and it warmed my heart.
"Thank you so much, Emile. I'll keep it safe, okay?" I responded, humouring her.
"Pinkie promise?" She asked with a pouty lip, I let out a slight laugh.
"Pinkie, promise." I agreed, locking our pinkies together.
"Uncle Sal, thank you so much for helping me out." I smiled, bringing the old man in for a hug.
"No problem ma petite minette. I hope you enjoy your stay in the city of lights." Sal beamed, gesturing to the space around him. “Magical things tend to happen here when you’re not paying attention.”
“Yeah, sure.” I mused with slight sarcasm.
Once I dropped Sal and his daughter off at their small apartment on Montmartre (18th), which was a really nice neighbourhood with small colourful apartments just like Sal's lined up next to each other. I began to wonder who lived there, what their story was and what they looked like. Perhaps that was what it means to be an artist, to see beauty in absolutely everything around you. It was rather inconvenient, actually.
I drove around for a bit, the streets were almost bare, and it felt dreamlike. I'd waited for this moment for what seemed like the duration of my entire life; the moment I could escape, and now that I had, it felt so unreal. I drove by the River Seine. It was gorgeous and confident and stretched through the city in all its navy glory. As I drove downtown, I took notice of the oddest-looking bookstore I'd ever seen; it had pages ripped from books taped on the windows and a large wooden door with an engraving of the Eiffel Tower on it. LE CHAT CURIEUX (the curious cat) was its name, and it had a 24hrs sign perched outside.
There are moments in time when the universe tries its best to communicate with you— believe it or not. When something triggers your mind to do the most spontaneous and irrational things you could ever imagine, that was why that moment. On Saturday, September 2nd at 01:35 I made my first irresponsible decision. I parked my car on the street and made my way inside the quaint little bookstore.
I opened the door and the bell above it chimed signalling the keeper that someone had arrived. Books towered to the ceilings and were piled in every corner of the store, they had no particular order, which triggered me. I hated when things were out of control or disorganized. It set my mind off balance.
"Bonsoir mademoiselle, est-ce que je peux jvous aider?" Evening miss, how may I help you? A petite brunette girl with two red bows in her hair asked, looking up from her novel.
"Bonsoir, non merci je regarde juste ce que vous avez." Good evening, I'm fine. I just wanted to look around. I replied, and she scoffed, looking back at her novel.
"D'accord!" She chirped. "quelles idiotes américaines..." Stupid American girls, she mumbled to herself. I immediately felt like stars and white stripes were painted on my forehead.
I narrowed my eyes at her, clinging to my coat for dignity. If I ever got called an American again, I might've just had to start singing Ee Mungu Nguvu Yetu at the top of my lungs in Kenyan patriotism.
I wandered further into the store, running my fingers over the dusty novels that looked like they hadn't been read in years. The life of a book must be incredibly miserable. Whenever I saw a book with cracked spines, folded pages and writing in the margins, my heart filled with joy. Because only then did I know that that book was truly loved. I found a few first-edition classics on the top shelf, namely; Oliver Twist, Alice au pays des merveilles, and Les quatre filles du Docteur Marsch.
It amazed me— I'd never seen a first edition of little women before. Mama would read it to me every night before bed as a little girl, and the tales of Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy reappeared in my memory as I admired the velvety red cover of the novel. I read the price tag, €8,000 and I immediately put it down because I couldn't possibly afford it.
Just as I was about to pick out a copy of Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson I felt a tug on the book on the other side and figured it was stuck. I pulled harder but it wouldn't budge, I pulled even harder and took it out of its socket. But oh, what was that? Through the parting in the shelves, I was surprised to be met with a fierce pair of angel-like blue eyes on the other side.
They stared at me, and I stared back.
The pair of eyes blinked, and I took notice of a generous pair of eyelashes that shielded the icy blue. A shiver ran down my spine at how cold they appeared to be.
"Dead men don't bite." I quoted, remembering a line from Treasure Island.
The pair of eyes smiled ever so slightly, a hint of amusement contorting their nonchalant persona into something more deceitful— something that could've almost been mistaken for gentle, something so very sinister. I tilted my head to the side in scepticism, but they stalked away before I could even gather my thoughts. It took a moment for me to come out of that dreamlike trance. I shoved the book back on the shelf just as I heard the chime above the door ring again.
Whoever that was, was gone just as suddenly as they'd appeared.
"Did you see anyone leave just now?" I asked the cashier almost breathlessly.
"Oui." The lady smirked, not bothering to look up from her novel.
"What were they like?" I asked softly yet ever so curiously.
"Froid." She sighed flipping a page, "Vous allez acheter quelque chose?" She asked impatiently.
"Non, merci et— bonne nuit!" I muttered slightly disoriented, dropping five euros into her tip jar, despite the terrible service and bad attitude.
I went outside and rubbed my palms together to warm myself up. I looked up at the night sky as the description of the blue-eyed angel from the bookkeeper replayed in my mind; froid. cold.
Chapter 2
Welcome To Saint Katherines
"The blue paint that never washes off"
THE FIRST TIME I caught a glimpse of St Kathrine's, it reminded me of one of those fairytale castles you'd see in old Disney films; tall, grey and mighty. It had stone pathways circulating through gaps in the evergreen courtyard, stained glass windows like the kind you’d see at a church, making it difficult to see inside and there were vines creeping up the walls. I remember reading information on the school religiously and it said that this building was over 200 years old, and at that, a shiver ran down my spine. I felt like it was old enough for me to venerate it.
Many new students were arriving late at night just like me, and there was security everywhere, helping people settle in and find their rooms. I parked my car in the vast parking lot amongst a sea of far more expensive ones. Going to St Kathrine's, I knew that I would be surrounded by the children of the wealthy and privileged, but I never let it get to me because I had been blending in all my life.
