Crystal

Published in Qwani 04

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It’s 5 a.m., and a phone beeps as a manicured finger taps on its cracked screen. The device is set down slowly on a mahogany table, and Crystal breathes, slow and heavy. A sigh escapes her mouth, and the only other sound in the room is the low hum of her mini fridge, plugged into the wall socket across the velvet couch she sits on.

She squints slightly, staring at the ceiling which holds her energy-saving bulb. Her gaze moves slowly from the ceiling, down to her bare living room wall. A crack graces one of its corners, and if an earthquake were to hit Nairobi, the wall might cave in, she thinks to herself. If the tremors started while she was asleep and her one-bedroom apartment crumbled, would it hurt? Her chest rises and falls at the thought, eyes moving down to find her hands, limp on her lap. She lets out an exasperated sigh.

—

Friday nights in Westie mean getting back to Doni at either 3 a.m.—in a cab, seeing nothing, or in a Risen blasting music at 7 a.m. the next morning—sober, and in last night’s outfit, eyes stinging from the morning sun. Recently, Friday nights have been a blur for Crystal. She’s been seeing someone for the last three months, and Friday nights have been theirs.

Amir is warm yet removed in the same measure. She doesn’t quite understand why being with him feels as electric as it does. He’s unpredictable, and this fiddles with her impulsivity. She suspects he’s aware of the effect he has on her. Strangely, she revels in the hit that comes with being consciously toyed with; reacting to his antics. They’re tigers and the city is their arena as they pace around each other, holding eye contact and waiting for the other to break as they both prepare to pounce. It’s all about control. Power. A slow dance she’s well aware of as she sits with him on Friday nights under dim restaurant lights, speaking about nonsensical things over overpriced food, running a manicured nail on his clothed bicep, and listening to his breath catch ever so slightly in his throat. She enjoys the game. Sometimes it’s the brush of her fingers slowly on his nape as he breathes, eyes closed. Other times, it’s a light touch on his knee, rubbing circles as he drones on about something she doesn’t care enough about, yet enjoys the look in his eyes as he speaks.

There’s something about noticing raw passion in someone’s eyes. Amir has a certain look that draws her in whenever he speaks about something he’s passionate about. She entertains the thought of being at the receiving end of such passion, and it stirs her—how it would feel if he were to ever actually fall for her. Such drive. Such fervor. The weight the thought holds makes her heart race. She wishes to feel as passionate as that again about something. It’s been a long time since she was passionate about anything at all. Momentary hits have been her forte for as long as she can remember.

Passion, on the other hand, is fascinating; a nearly sentient creature. A blind drive towards something, even certain death. This reminds her of a show she loved watching with soldiers on horses who charged into certain death, urged by their captain, “My soldiers scream out. My soldiers rage.” Wars are sparked by fanatical passion. An unequivocal belief that one group of people is more important than the other. Crystal remembers the gunshots she’d heard in her neighbourhood in Doni during 2007. Whispers about people who were slaughtered in their homes weeks after the election results were announced. How she went on her knees, praying to a god she wasn’t sure she believed in now. She was six years old then. Her deskmate, Melly, never came back to school, and the teachers said that her family had been attacked. She always wondered why this god she prayed to never protected the innocent, yet seemed to send his whole army of angels to protect exorbitantly rich gangsters.

—

It is 8:45 p.m. and Crystal is in a restaurant in Westie, Kilimani to be precise. She is seated by a wide window that offers a striking view of Ring Road Kilimani, and cars snake down the road, headlights forming a beautiful pattern that looks like a string of pearls in motion, with her glasses off. The well-lit establishment is flocked by nouveau riche youngsters blowing hookah smoke into the air, and she was supposed to have met up with Amir for dinner at 8 p.m., but her phone hasn’t rang. The familiar pang of disappointment is steadily digging into her chest, and it’s a little hard to breathe as she sits still in the restaurant chair, staring ahead. The bright restaurant lights make it feel like she is within a panopticon—shamefully bare, having been stood up. She wonders if it shows on her face as she stares down at the city lights through the wide glass window.

It’s not the first time that Amir has done this, and she can feel her chest burn slightly. He will probably send her money later that night, apologizing for an emergency he’s encountered. The ‘emergency’ probably has an identical purse to the one she’s placed on the cluttered restaurant table; maybe in a different colour, she thinks. Perhaps the emergency is curvier than her or not, more reserved or bubblier, she’ll never know for sure. This is Nairobi, and for her own sanity, she doesn’t want to know. She knows Amir doesn’t love her. She isn’t sure if she even genuinely likes him in the first place, yet here she is, developing a headache from the shisha in the air, waiting for a man that she’s almost entirely sure won't show up.

Forty-five minutes later, her finger taps the black ‘Confirm Ride’ button on her screen and she slowly gets up, picking up her purse and wrapping her coat around her shoulders. Sure she has everything with her, she leaves a KSh. 100 note on the table for the waitress who had come to check on her several times. Her kitten heels click as she struts through the lively restaurant, and a man seated with his arm wrapped around a young woman winks at Crystal as she walks past their table. She hates this city and its men. They were almost similar in most cities she’s been to, but the debauchery of Nairobi resides in its own circle of hell. Back in university, while studying sociology, she’d wanted to write a paper on the decadence of the city, tying it to the unprecedented rise in assault cases, but her idea was quickly shot down by her supervisor. He claimed that she would be writing on a non-issue, and years later, she wished she had gone for it despite being scared of the pushback. There’s obviously a huge problem in this city, and it’s tied to its normalized level of decadence. Intersectionality and whatnot.

Her hate for the city, its patterns, and its men is not from a point of saintly judgment but rather one of experience. It’s how they are circling hawks, how they speak, how they treat women like props. Perhaps it’s the men she’s been with. She isn’t sure. She likes Amir and his words because he is gentler with them, even though essentially, he’s doing the same thing. She recognizes her hypocrisy and hates that she plays along simply to feel wanted. Who doesn’t want a bit of reprieve in another’s arms?

—

The Uber driver has been mumbling for the last five minutes, and she assumed he had been on the phone, but it didn’t sound like he was having any solid conversation. For a moment, she thought that maybe he was on TikTok live, and she strained to listen. A little curious seeing the device he held near his lap didn’t have a glowing screen.

“Kafka-one. Over.”

Her mouth opens slightly in realization, and she slowly shakes her head, raising a single brow at his brazenness. State surveillance is interesting to think about. Power always has its unwanted fingers everywhere. Big brother is watching you, she thinks. The man will probably land some weed-bearing kids in a cold cell over the weekend, by the end of the night.

The car slows to a stop in front of Havana, where music is blasting and bodies are moving in and out of the lit-up bar.

“Send money?” She asks the stoic man.

“Mhm. Zero, seven, two, five…” he drones on.

“Umepata?”

“Yes, received. Good night, mrembo.”

The door unlocks, and she steps out into the cold night outside Fortis Tower. Music blasts from Havana behind her, and the night is alive with tens of people. Not so far from her, a small crowd is gathered at Mollys as usual. The buzz of conversation hangs comfortably in the air, and she checks her phone.

9:50 p.m.

There is an unmistakable smell of liquor in the air mixed with the smell of smokie pasua, which wafts towards her nose as she starts to head towards Fortis Tower. She instinctively turns back to the stand, and as the vendor sizes her up, she reads his unspoken question as she wolfs down two smokies. After paying, she turns back gracefully, making her way into the Fortis compound.

She brushes past a man with a buzzcut who has just locked the doors of a car parked right next to the entrance. Her shoes click on the marble floor as she walks into the building, past the casino on the bottom floor, and towards the elevator. Every time she’s in the building, she has the urge to go to the casino. Plain curiosity. She had said she ‘would soon’, more times than she could count. Today was no exception; the silent expression is on her mind as the elevator doors almost close, only to be interrupted by the swipe of an arm, prompting them back open.

The man with a buzz cut quickly slides through the doors and situates himself beside her, clicking on at least six buttons. She can see their reflection on the metallic doors and notices that his ears are pierced.

“Hi,” he says suddenly, his heavy voice causing her to briefly glance at him. He has a well-trimmed beard and looks older than she is by some years. The first two buttons of his black shirt are open, and a silver chain around the dark skin of his neck glints under the elevator lights.

“Hello,” she nods slightly, looking back towards the doors as they swing open. He doesn’t walk out, and they stay open for a moment and close as they move to the next floor. This happens again, and she glances at him.

“Why all the stops?” She asks.

“Nothing in particular, ” he smiles slightly. She would be terrified if not for the fact that she knows there are CCTV cameras inside the elevators here. She is relatively safe.

“What’s your name?” He asks.

“Crystal,” she says, after a beat of contemplation.

“You’re looking quite lovely tonight, Miss. Crystal.”

“I know,” she says, with a slight smirk, and from the corner of her eye, she notes his posture change slightly as his eyes bore into her temple.

“Interesting,” he mutters more to himself, and she turns her head to face him, holding his gaze and saying nothing. The doors open and close again. The air in the elevator is a housefly’s wings—thin, flimsy, easily crumpled. He breathes through his mouth that’s slightly ajar.

There is something about eye contact. Steady eye contact. How it manually speeds your heart up. Slow. Pulsing. A resurrection from stillness into a building frenzy. Marble pupils locked on one’s own and a chest, visibly rising and falling. Curious. Questioning. Unsure.

The stranger holds her gaze, and they battle silently. Her eyes sting slightly and she blinks, breaking the spell as she slides her gaze towards the elevator screen with 11 as it cranks open, letting in a blast of music.

He doesn’t move first, and she takes slow steps out of the elevator doors, her heels clicking away as she leaves the heady scent of his cologne behind.

“Habari mrembo, welcome back!” The female security guard smiles at her.

“Hi Linda,” she greets, and she smiles back, handing over her coat and the small purse that contains her phone inside. She’s been there enough times to know that Linda would dutifully watch her purse for a crisp KSh. 200 note at the end of the night. Crystal is there to be swallowed by the dance floor, and that will be impossible if she’s thinking of wandering hands.

The music at Brew Bistro gets louder at around 10 p.m., and she’s just in time to hit the dance floor. Ordering two shots of Tequila, she hands the bartender some cash. The shots come with some salt and a lime on the side. The music gets louder as she licks the salt and throws her head back, downing the first shot with a scrunched expression and a slight shake of her head. She hates the taste of liquor. As she sucks the lime and places it back on the small white saucer, she feels eyes on her, and surely, she catches the stranger’s persistent gaze on her. He’s standing at the bar as well, not far from her, elbows on the counter as he speaks to one of the bartenders. His posture is similar to Amir’s, and this irritates her slightly. The heat slowly begins to spread in her chest as she picks the second shot glass, repeating the ritual and re-capturing his gaze once she wipes the corner of her mouth with her index finger. A knowing smile spreads on her face as she turns towards the dance floor, hearing the opening notes to The Business by Tiesto.

A buzz starts in her system, waiting to rise to a burn, searing her chest. Crystal loves the danger that comes with burns and things she shouldn’t be doing. She steps under the strobe lights and throws her head back, her locs brushing her shoulders as her arms go up at the sides of her head, and she sways her hips. The black dress she’s in hugs her, and she knows how good she looks as she moves.

Crystal loves dancing.

The last time she was on Molly, she danced for hours at Alchemist with strangers she’d just met that night.

The only two other places she frequents besides Brew Bistro are Alchemist, Koda, and The Mist, specifically because of their dance floors. She doesn’t like clubs that have no dance floors and have ordered seating. She’s been to one of those on Thika Road, which was full of seats, and the only free spaces to move about were paths. It was stifling. She loves watching the DJ spin the decks in front of her, moving her body to the rhythm, brushing her hands on her skin, and running her fingers through her locs.

Something else Crystal loves about dancefloors is how bodies move around her. It’s primal. Holding gazes over the music with strangers and moving around each other as the music carries the lot of you. Waves of current pulling you close enough to touch. Steady eye contact and smiles as you finally touch, dancing against each other.

There’s art in locking eyes with strangers on the dance floor and kissing them under multicolored lights.

—

It’s 3 a.m. and Crystal is sprawled on a brown leather couch, kitten heels on the floor next to a small coffee table on which her coat and purse are. Her legs dangle from one of the arms of the comfortable couch, and Sam, the guy with a buzzcut, is seated on the other end of the same couch. His right elbow is set on the other armrest, and his fingers hold up a cigarette, which he smokes into the air as Crystal’s chest rises and falls. His left palm is under her chin, rubbing circles along her jaw as she stares into the ceiling. She loves the smell of cigarette smoke when she is tipsy. The pair hasn’t spoken a word for around twenty minutes and are both staring at the swirling smoke.

“Okay,” Sam starts, “You’re here at 3 a.m., you downed shots you visibly hated, and your skin is probably crawling from the feeling of being touched by a stranger.”

“Mhmm?” Crystal probes him to continue.

“Why are you doing this? You wanted your heart to race. You understand, very well, that it’s futile, this chase… yet you still walk into it,” he pauses, taking a drag, and the smoke swirls as he blows it out.

“I didn’t know I signed up for a therapy session,” she says, giggling as she holds his gaze and tipsily bats her eyelashes at him.

“You sweet girl, you know exactly what I’m talking about. The sighting, the dance, the chase, the pretense, the sudden lurch in your chest. Yes. The feeling. That feeling. Electric. A live wire in water that makes you never want to come down,” his eyes move wildly for a minute and he grinds his jaw, staring down at her.

“Nobody ever does,” she whispers lightly, “do you?”

"Of course not. Nobody ever wants to come down from such a high sweetheart,” he runs a finger across her lips. Her lipstick is almost entirely off.

“You come down anyway. Everyone does, and again, you chase it in people when not under the influence. You don’t want to feel replaceable; nobody in this world does. You want to be chosen. You want someone to walk up to you and say, Crystal, you are everything I want, I will never let you go, I won’t abandon you, I won’t leave you out cold, I won’t hurt you, sweet, sweet Crystal," he whispers slowly, and she thinks of Amir’s passion. Her breath catches, but she ignores it.

“Mhmm?” She coos instead, leaning her face against his palm and looking up at him. She takes her legs off the arm of the couch and sits up next to him, her heart racing as she looks directly at him, his eyes roaming over her.

“You know this is dangerous, right?” He whispers, low.

“It’s 3 a.m. and you followed me here. You don’t know me, and I don’t really know you as well. I could be anyone, Crystal. I could kill you right here, right now, and nobody would know it. Do you know that I can get away with it?”

His eyes don’t move from her lips as her blown-out pupils stare at his own lips. There is slight humor in his eyes as his hand slowly slides up her back and rests at her nape. The air is heavy.

He’s intrigued.

“You get off of this, don’t you?” he breathes as she lies back, head supported by his arm as she still holds his gaze.

“You sweet thing. Such a pretty thing. I can tell that you like this. How did you end up this way? Is this the only way you can feel something?” He questions, pointing to her collar bone and running his finger along it into the dip where he feels her pulse dancing on his fingertip.

“This is dangerous, Crystal. Yet you love it. You love hits, don’t you? You revel in them. Something to get you primed and ready to go. Onto the next hit, and the next, and the next, mhm?”

She moves to sit upright again, staring up at him, her pupils widening.

“It just never ends, my dear. Ever. Believe me. I once knew someone just like you. We were 23 together, running from cops, jumping fences, all that Hollywood shit.”

He chuckles, eyes far off as he slowly stands up and walks towards the window. She lets out a sigh.

“Our very own Hollywood in Mihango. We thought we were Bonnie and Clyde, stupid kids. She got shot on the 5th of December, 15 years ago. I jumped into a river; it’s a miracle I survived. I don’t know where they buried her.”

“You’re way too young for this…lifestyle. How old are you?”

“Twenty-six,” she lies through her teeth. She’s two years shy of it.

“Too young,” he whispers as he sits back down next to her, his heavy hand in her hair. His phone rings, and she briefly sees the letters CJNG on its screen. Most times, in true Nairobi fashion, she consciously looks away from phone screens whenever she’s with someone. For her own sanity.

Her eyes find a small bowl with blue crystals inside it, and she remembers Sam asking her earlier if she’d wanted some Crystals because of her name. She giggled and declined.

“Hello,” he says into the phone, and she shuts her eyes as he rubs her scalp gently. She leans into his neck, and his arm snakes around her. His cologne is overpowering, and she feels slightly dizzy as she lays her temple on his chest, which reverberates as he speaks. It’s soothing. Crystal loves being in strong arms. It feels safe. Most times, being held in this way feels transactional. Amir only holds her for a few minutes before things escalate. Sam hasn't indicated any intention to do that, and she’s a little antsy. They’d been together for the last hour at his place, talking. She expected Sam to escalate things anytime, as his warmth encompassed her as he held her. She was sure of what was coming next.

“The locals… I see,” he goes on as the other voice shouts from the other end, and she swears she hears the words 'police' and ‘Namanga' in the barrage of words the voice throws, but she can’t be too sure. Sam, on the other hand, is calm as he wraps one of her locs around his finger.

“I understand.”

The voice on the other end goes on fast, and she doesn't catch the thread. His cologne wafts towards her as she feels a burn start in her chest and shudders as he wraps his palm around her nape, tightening his hold slightly.

“Okay, 8 a.m. Understood.”

The phone clicks and he slowly places it down beside Crystal, holding her gaze.

“You’re a very beautiful girl,” he whispers, his palm still in contact with her nape.

She looks at him expectantly, and he returns the look, taking a deep breath. She shuts her eyes and is puzzled when he stands up, leaving her on the couch.

“The unfortunate thing is that I have to leave in 30 minutes, work calls,” he says as he rummages through his closet. He gets into the bathroom and locks the door. Crystal takes this chance to peek into an envelope with some documents that had piqued her interest since they’d arrived. On one of the white papers, she sees what looks like chemical formulas and some phrases she doesn’t quite understand. On another, what looks like a floor plan next to the words Namanga and chicken coup. She hears the water run and quickly places the envelope where it had been, and lies back on the couch.

Her eyes are fixed on the ceiling just as the bathroom door unlocks. She wants to feel him but isn’t sure how to ask. She has thirty minutes until he leaves, and as he walks up to her, she pulls her dress a little higher on her thighs. He sits down next to her and stares at her as she moves to widen her legs.

“You don’t have to, it’s okay really,” he says, placing a hand on her knee.

“But I want to,” she whispers, a slight pang in her chest.

“I don’t think you want to, pretty girl,” he says slowly, wrapping his arms around her as she breathes into him shakily.

“I’ll take you out for coffee when I’m back, okay?”

“Okay,” she mumbles as he pulls away from the hug. The look in his eyes is unmistakably one of pity, and the pang in her chest deepens.

He finishes packing up and hands her some notes as they walk out of the room, her coat around her shoulders.

“Take an Uber and let me know when you get home, okay?”

“Okay.”

She takes her phone out of the bag and unlocks it for him to put his number in. An M-Pesa notification from two hours prior is at the very top, and she quickly swipes it away, handing it to him. He keys his number in and double-checks it, then, after a tight hug and a kiss on her cheek, she is in her Uber on Thika Road, headed to Doni.

As she sits, she remembers the Uber driver from earlier, who was a cop. It’s been about eight hours since then, yet it feels like aeons ago.

Thirty minutes later, she stumbles into her apartment, leaving her coat and heels on the floor. She is entirely sober as she sits on her velvet couch, slightly eager to tell Sam she’s gotten home.

She dials the number and it beeps once and cuts off. She checks her airtime balance and dials again, her breath in her throat. A pang starts in her chest.

“The person you have called is not reachable. We will notify you when the mobile subscriber is back. If you wish to leave a voice message, then please do so after the - ”

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Photo by Maor Attias