By Haron Wachira
They returned home on the evening flight from Mombasa, and, after enduring nearly two hours of the infamous snarl-ups on Nairobi’s roads, at last got to their new house in Kileleshwa. It was Terry’s first entry into the house. Jim had rented it just before the wedding, and they had flown down to Mombasa straight from the event. The moment she stepped inside, Terry was captivated by the ambiance: the tasteful decor, the array of new furniture, and the sleek kitchen. While she entertained the idea of a thorough exploration of their one-bedroom abode, her attention was wholly absorbed by the wedding gifts that had been brought ahead of them into their new home.
A lot of the gifts were obvious, despite their wrappings or boxes: a fridge; a gas cooker. Others were pretty easy to guess: a cutlery set; a blender; a toaster; and a coffee maker. But she started with the most intriguing gift from the lot: a small, very elegant white box draped with a red ribbon that had been cut and then re-tied. She had seen her mother peep into the box during the wedding reception and had not gotten the chance to ask why.
When Terry unwrapped the gift and saw three items nestled inside it, her attention was immediately drawn to one — the dry flowers. Her husband, seeing the surprise written on her face and the “eitch” sound she uttered, peered over her shoulder curiously. He saw the money.
“Wow,” Jim exclaimed, “that’s quite a pile!”
It was indeed a lot of money. All in new notes. With bank tape tied around each bundle of 1,000 shillings. Terry picked up the bundle, passed it to Jim over her shoulder, and returned her eyes to the dry flowers.
Three gifts: An expensive wall clock; a pile of money; and the dry flowers. The latter, no doubt, had to be the reason for her mom’s curiosity.
“A hundred thousand!” Jim exclaimed. “Who is it from?” He reached down into the box as he spoke and picked up the wedding congratulations card. She unfolded it, glanced over the contents, and then lowered the card in front of Terry, blocking her view of the flowers she had been admiring. She read from what appeared like a woman’s handwriting: “Congratulations!❤️ Timothy & Grace Mwenda.” And below the names, in different handwriting: “(friends of your Mom from the past)”.
Terry abruptly recalled the encounter she had with the man at her mother’s shop, the memory resurfacing with a new twist.
“Who are these?” Jim asked, pointing to the signatures on the card.
“Friends of my parents,” she said mechanically, her thoughts on the flowers.
“Close friends?” he asked.
“From the past,” she said. Jim had, in the meantime, reached down for the clock and was admiring it as she spoke.
You look like your mom when she was a girl, he had said to her, and she had disliked him. Why can’t I stand on my credentials? She had reasoned inwardly, not voicing her thoughts. Perhaps he had seen the sneer on her lips because he added apologetically: “Friend of your mom from the past.” In her resentment, she hadn’t given much thought to the brief encounter with Tim.
***
Terry resumed work the following morning, and was not the least happy about it. She hadn’t had enough time with her brand-new husband, but her job as a Monitoring and Evaluation Officer in an NGO involved lots of unavoidable in-country travel. She missed Jim terribly, and spoke to him on the phone every evening, a period in the day that, despite Tharaka’s hot weather, found her feeling cold at night, missing the physical warmth and strength of his body.
After two long weeks, she finally got to go back home. Tired, yes, but nonetheless looking forward to a reunion with her beloved Jim. He met her at the entrance of their home, a warm welcome accompanied by a long embrace. As they hugged, still standing at the threshold of their home, her eyes caught something different and new on their living room wall. The clock hung magnificently on the wall, but that’s not what brightened and brought life to the entire room. That’s not what had caught her attention: it was the framed flowers. Jim had fixed the exquisite clock and the framed dry flowers, next to each other. She stood transfixed, her eyes riveted. She couldn’t look away.
Almost mechanically, she poured herself a glass of cold water from the dispenser in their living room, the dry patch in her throat urging her forward, and – unknowingly – lowered herself on a stool in front of the sofa set, her attention still rapt on the set on the wall.
“How do you like it?” Jim asked, noting her interest. He gently nudged her up from the stool, sat her down on a sofa seat, and nestled next to her.
“How did you know how to frame the flowers?” she asked without answering his question.
“I called your mom,” he said. “She came over and showed me how to. ‘Silica gel stuff.’”
“I grew up seeing them,” Terry said. “Never thought to ask.”
The following morning, Jim walked over to the florist’s and came back with four different types of flowers: carnation; hibiscus; bougainvillea; and one she could not figure out. A plumeria, he explained.
“I am going to dry them,” he said. “Then preserve them and frame them.”
“A new hobby, huh?” She asked, amused.
“Courtesy of your mom and her friend from the past!” he said with a slight chuckle.
“Mom also taught you how to dry flowers?” Terry asked.
“No, she told me to ask Tim.”
“And…?”
“What do you mean ‘and?’” he asked, but continued when Terry remained silent, not expounding on her question. “She gave me Tim’s number, so I gave him a call and he told me to use a heavy book.”
“That’s all?” she asked, surprised and intrigued at the same time.
“That’s all,” Jim confirmed, excited.
“Wow,” she said.
“Fascinating, isn’t it,” Jim affirmed, “how simple tricks can produce such magical results?”
“Indeed!”
She’d made up her mind. Her mind was firmly set on digging into the past of her mom and Tim… in which some kind of team effort resulted in the production of dry, preserved, and framed dry flowers. Did they work together somewhere? She imagined a production line, Tim in the drying section; her mom in the preservation department… But how come, in all the years of her growing up, her mom had never talked about the enterprise? And where had Tim been all these years, from, as he had time-stamped the past “when she was a girl?”
What do you think will happen if Terry follows this trail of breadcrumbs, and will G. be willing to tell her the truth? Leave your theories down below. Who knows? You might actually be right!
What do you think will happen if Terry follows this trail of breadcrumbs, and will G. be willing to tell her the truth? Leave your theories down below. Who knows? You might actually be right!
Next installment coming out soon!
If you didn’t catch the Installment before this one, click here to read: Mystery of the Dry Flowers
Disclaimer: All characters, locations, and events depicted in this book are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales, is purely coincidental. This work is created for entertainment purposes only and does not intend to portray real individuals, organizations, or occurrences.
Haron Wachira 