MARKED

His name was Mark, as if he'd been marked by fate, to have things never quite go his way.

His father had left him and his mum at a young age to be with another family, leaving him a mark of rejection, of feeling he was not good enough. His mum, who was too self-absorbed to even care about her kids wants, lived a bitter life. She had reasons to be, at least that’s what she told herself. She was mad at the world and herself for always choosing men who left her heart in pieces. And just when she thought she had finally found the one, he up and left, leaving her with their precious son, whom she loved dearly, though it was hard for her to show it. How could she, when she had never known what it felt like to be loved herself?

So, Mark learned from an early age to take care of himself. Any job was good enough for him as long as it paid some bills, as long as it kept him out of trouble. But all was not black and white; he went hungry sometimes, many times. He struggled with the bills, house rent, electricity, and still had the obligation of taking care of her mum. He wondered why he worked so hard, while the odds were against him. Was it to prove his dad wrong, or to take care of a woman who was supposed to be his mother, yet he felt more like a caregiver? But he did it anyway, with determination in his heart, hustle after hustle, hoping things would be better someday. 

In the midst of his day-to-day activities, he met with a man whom he had done some odd jobs for. The man knew Mark was a hardworking man, and he knew he had completed his form four, so basic mathematics wouldn’t be a problem. He was looking for an employee who would work in one of the many M-Pesa agent shops he was opening. Mark loved his work, at least for the next six months. The pay was steady, enough to meet his needs without draining his spirit. Soon though, he discovered this was not for him, he was used to freedom, his odd jobs gave him just enough to sustain him without restriction, he could be able to hang out with the boys on a random Tuesday and chew on khat, giving out stories that could only be told during this ritualistic moment, along the beach as the blazing sun threatened sunburn while the breeze gave false comfort.

As he sat idly waiting for customers, in the same chair he'd used for months, it suddenly felt uncomfortable- for the first time. He shifted and adjusted, trying to find the perfect position, but after a while, he gave up. You know how a little discomfort enables your mind to go on a spiral. It’s like life was presenting itself in a different form. He felt like every little dream was crumbling in front of him; his high hopes had turned to mere distress. He knew life wouldn’t be easy, but nobody told him it would be this difficult. Each step he took was a learning curve, shaped by his experiences. But how much can one learn before life finally gives something in return, before the lessons stop taking and start giving back?

He had believed that dreams, ideas, hard work, and a touch of intelligence were enough to carry him wherever he wanted to be. But he quickly discovered that the world demanded more. It demanded money and connections. He had judged too soon. He remembered what he had planned right after high school: to become a musician, one of the biggest artists in Kenya. There would be no wasting time in college; besides, his mother couldn’t afford it. Music was going to be his way out, his path to purpose and success. But reality has its way of testing conviction.

He believed in dreams being valid. He was going to work towards his dreams despite the challenges. He knew what it felt like to sleep on a cold floor, to walk on the streets with an empty stomach, while everything reminded you how life wasn’t fair. He had read somewhere about the three people in the world: ‘The ones who never tried, the ones who gave up, and the ones who never gave up.’ He was going to be the latter; it was all about consistency, sweat, and sacrifice, discipline, and patience.

If there was a strength he had, it was making

money, but his weakness was his friends. He was good at getting money, but also too good at giving it out. His friends knew this well- somehow, every time he had some, they seemed to know too. He knew they were using him, but he yearned for affection and acceptance, and they gave it to him at a price.

He was always doing favors for his friends, and after one of his night shifts, one of his friends asked him to deliver a bag of illegal drugs to a certain location. He was going to pay him, and yes, a little more cash wouldn’t hurt; it was just a simple job. It wasn’t as if it was cocaine; marijuana was almost an accepted drug in the area, though it was illegal, no one could call the cops on you, or so he thought. He had taken a couple of them a few times, but he quickly realized it wasn’t his drug of choice. Something about it made him too anxious, not a feeling you quite go for when you want to feel good.

Alcohol, on the other hand, reminded him of his mother, how it had drained her of the very essence of living. So, he just stuck with miraa, and it gave him the feeling he was looking for.

On that Friday, with not much thought, he took the bag from his friend and went to an area under the baobab tree, ‘I could stay here forever,’ he thought. The baobab tree was huge, but somehow it seemed to give life to the other trees that surrounded it. In their own right, they flourished. ‘If I were to die, I would have loved to be buried here.’ It’s interesting how thoughts work when you are in the quiet all alone, when no one is watching or whispering to your ears.

He was too preoccupied to notice two people approaching him, and before he could even think to recollect his thoughts, he had someone say,” Unafanya nini hapa?” [What are you doing here?] That wasn’t a friendly tone, he thought. Without panicking, he turned to see who was speaking to him, and before he could even resist, they had taken his bag and were now rifling through it. Instincts told him whatever this was, it would be difficult to talk his way out, which he had done so many times. When you are raised in the streets, you have to know its language, but this time it just felt different.

“Nyinyi ndio mnauzia watoto madawa za kulevya ?” was a question that needed no answer. After what he heard, he knew he was done. He knew exactly who they were, and they were not there to collect the drugs or some street boys who just wanted to mess with him. Things had happened so fast, and before he knew it, he was in handcuffs. They were on a mission to capture him. His first thought was, they betrayed me, no they couldn’t, it was impossible, they liked him, at least if not love him, but the scenario of the friend who sent him to do this job, kept running in his mind, “Keep time,” the friend had kept insisting, “and what was that excuse he gave of not doing the job himself? ‘Now it didn’t make sense, but he had not put much thought into it.

All he had been thinking was to deliver the drugs and then get back home and sleep. It might have been a setup, but he would never really know. Somewhere in his heart, he knew his friends would never come to visit him in prison or in a jail cell. He was facing a 15-year sentence, and one thing was for sure: his battles had just begun, and there were no spotters or battle mates. It was his alone.

' I just want to sleep,’ was all that echoed in his mind. He had nothing left in him- no strength, no fight, just the weight of weariness, which at some point in our lives, we are left to face. And I wonder, have you faced such weariness that you feel the world has marked you? Let's talk in the comment section.