The BMW was stolen and gone forever

 You might call it gossip. I can handle that. Even if I gossip the gospel you will still talk. People like to talk. They are always talking anyway. As a good person I am going to talk about a friend. Well, let me say gossip. A positive gossip. He is one of my best friends. His name is Byron. A native of Guatemala. He is easy and calm. I met him some four years ago. Vic had organized a trip to Sapelo Island. A small island East Coast of Georgia. The Island is accessible only by aircraft or by boat. It is only seven miles (11 Kms) from the mainland. We had to drive from Tennessee. It is almost eleven hours drive. We were getting late. You have to be at the port by 5 Pm lest you miss the only boat. 

Vic was slow on the wheel. Well, let me admit that he is a keen driver. Well, after lunch in some restaurant near Atlanta, Georgia, I had to take the wheel. And I never wanted to miss the boat. Vic drives a Ford SUV. A Good very good car. It’s soft and easy. And it accelerates well. It was my first time to drive an SUV. And now I am driving against time. If I kept the speed limit we miss the boat by 20 minutes. I have to kind be to the gas. I have to gas up. 

We are cruising at a good speed. I won’t mention the speed. I don’t wonna incriminate myself in writing. Yes, that is me. I am carefully careless. I know you getting confused. Me too, I don’t know what I am saying. But my driving impressed Byron. 

“You doing good “blaza” (brother), he praised. It was so fascinating to see how I passed the power lines and trees… you know what I mean? In few hours may be four or more we were at the Port. Five minutes late. The boat was there. Just lucky. That is what we were. 

“Blaza, we made it. Bravo,” Byron exclaimed with his contagious laughter. He is gazing on this boat. Well, it is not like a cruise ship, but I guess it can accommodate 100 people and pets. Now we are on water. The boat is calm and slow. The breeze is perfect. I am taking selfies to confuse my enemies even more. Wow, what a phenomenal sunset from the Atlantic. 

In less than twenty five minutes we are there. That is fast. I thought. It was the longest I have been in a boat. Wait, I am lying. I had been to a speed boat in Lake Norris, Maynardville Tennessee. We spent all day at the lake. It was so fun until we went to a cliff. The host family wanted us to have the utmost fun. They wanted us to jump and dive professionally in the lake. My friend, and colleague, Ken, gave it a trial. He was successful. I saw him grab the rope firmly tied to a tree branch, made several steps backward to create some momentum and ran forward and releasing the rope and tactfully dived into the water like dolphin. 

It is my turn. I love water for sure. Yes, I love drinking water from a glass. But asking me to dive from a cliff into the lake is another story…. Not even a swimming pool … am I crazy? “do it, do it, do it, do it” they pressured me. And guess what? The demon of pleasing others possessed me. I grabbed the rope. Made several steps backward until the rope was tight, ran forward at a very high speed, released the rope and got confused immediately. Instead of diving with my arms firmly pressing in front of my head, I lay flat in the air. Before I could even think, I landed on the water with my chest and tummy causing a blast. For ten seconds I was dead. It felt like I landed on concrete. I was literally shedding tears. No one noticed my tears because of too much water in my face. I could feel the tears because unlike the water, they were warm and salty. My stomach too was full, I must have swallowed two litters. I am never getting thirsty again. Yes, me and the Samaritan woman (Jn 4:4-26)

Oops, back to this Island. Beautiful island it is. With hundreds of wild cows. I am not talking of buffaloes here. The island is also swampy. It harbors the allegators. I dislike reptiles. We were using golf carts to move around the Island. Vic had rented a house. A big house to accommodate five. Byron is great cook. Should I call him a chef? Wherever. I know cooking is his passion. He works in a Mexican Restaurant. He likes it. Customer like him. Or are they clients. I went to school but was never taught the difference between a client and a customer. May be I know, I simply don’t want to think. I hate thinking. Like for example what is the difference between a hen and a chicken? 

Yes, Byron calls me a black chicken. I don’t remember the etymology of this nickname. I called him a brown chicken. He mimics my deep British accent, or even my original kikuyu accent and he seems to like it all. Accents are a beauty. I love accents. We are infinitely unique. We can never be same. The world would be so boring if we all looked the same and spoke the same. One woman recently told me that I should learn how to speak English. This is so mean. I forgave her immediately. Maybe I did not. If I can listen to your accent please learn to listen to mine and for others too. People should and must learn to accommodate the diversity. Byron is one of them good people. People willing to learn the culture of others and get immersed into it. His charism is to bring joy to those around him. 

An year ago, or should I say a year ago. This English yawa. Yes, some 12 months ago Byron and I decided to grab some breakfast at waffle House in Springdale, Ohio. The total bill was $35. He gives the server $100 dollar bill and tells her to keep the change. That was her tip. 

“Blaza that is too much for a tip,” the kikuyu in me complained. The most touching was his response to me. This time he called me by name. The same way God called me three time before I ran to Eli.

“Samuel, I work in a restaurant. I know how it feels when someone gives me a good tip. I decided to grace her morning today.” He pleaded. 

I was quiet. Probably counting the number of tuskers $65 would have afforded. It is okay. He is kind. Some times he plays reggae music in his BMW and literary dances. And he always says life is good blaza. He has that joy that flows from his heart and soul and glitters all over his face. 

He lives and works in some city in Kentucky. I have a colleague studying in some university there. His name is Kim. Kim is hosting me for the weekend. I suggest we make some enough dinner and invite Byron. That was a good idea. And so we made some Ugali, chicken, and vegetables. We had to make it taste real Kenyan. We expect Byron to arrive anytime from 10 pm after they close the restaurant. He is bringing some beer too. I love beer. I stop drinking everyday. And I start drinking everyday. We expect a fiesta. I am starving. So is Kim. It’s almost 11. He is not picking the calls. Neither is he calling back. Now he is off. Sad. 

Frustrated, Kim and I decide to have our late dinner as we patiently wait for him. At Midnight, I go to sleep. Sad and disillusioned. At 1 am, I receive a call. It is a new number. 

“Hey Blaza, It’s Byron.”… Oh what happened? I was expecting you for dinner. Is everything okay. He was sobbing. Byron is not a guy who would sob easily. His car was stolen. Let me put it clearly: his BMW was stolen. But how? He was off work by 10 pm. He drove to a nearby gas station to grab some beer for us. He left his car engine on, his phone and his wallet. He got into a gas station. Bought some beer in a box. Walks outside and his babe is gone. No trace of it. No phone. Shocked. He starts to look for his car in his pockets. His only wealth is the box of beer. Terror. Anxiety. Anguish. He sits on the box of beer wondering what to do next. After 15 minutes his colleagues find him there. They call the police. Cameras unreliable. Not trace.