Introverted Mutinda part 1

 It is one of those typical mundane Monday evenings. I take a seat, and the clock reads three minutes past seven in the P.M. Before me, a plate of rice, coconut fish stew, sweet corn, and peas washed down by a cup of hot cocoa. There is commotion in the master's my mom is busy getting ready for her up tenth yoga class. Yes, she practices yoga, I have been asked this a couple of times; Bikram yoga to be precise not the exclusive-only in Westlands but the more welcoming and benign one at Lavington mall. She urges me to join her.

" Nigel, I was reading some articles yesterday and they explained that Yoga has been proven to elevate your mood and improve your mental health, it is also...." 

"No thank you," I say almost forthwith," I hate the heat and I am not one to be guilt-tripped".

This is not my story, neither is it my  mom's; this is Mutinda's a man as mysterious as they get, he is not your typical cognitive miser. As I enjoy my assortment of a meal, I gracefully fetch my school's yearbook to break the monotony of my self-imposed fine dining. I open the first page and without delay, I begin to read the well-thought-out partying shorts of my benign classmates.

The elevated quotes, the prose, the ink; all these still fresh... hungry for a thought-provoked individual to carefully code them out and curate their deeper meanings. I wonder if these individuals who wrote these elevated quotes actually follow suit or perhaps is it just an attempt to showcase their panache in the 'intellectual' realm of cramming self-help quotes to use them on people's years' book? 

That, they can answer for themselves. Nevertheless, these are just my nefarious observations. I turn to the next page. Mutinda's prose is still ripe and fresh almost commanding other prose on the page. His handwriting is rather unique. I like how he dawns majesty on his letter 'q' and 'g' they are written in such a fanciful manner one has to admit.

His words are striking, they take precedence over other words on the same page. When his words speak, other words listen.

"Thank you Nigel for inspiring me to broaden my avenues of knowledge."

Only Mutinda uses such an elevated form of writing he also juxtaposes words like veracity or lackluster in casual signing-offs.

I made acquaintance with him almost nine years ago. We met in church during our first holy communion. I still have the photo from the ancient days of urban bites, juice cola, and orange-infested tongues and fingers. We did not speak much, however, we were friends. He was the type of person who would only speak only when he was spoken to. I did not mind this, it always gave me the room to talk and talk without frivolous 'hello' 'hi' 'how are you doing' 'bye' sometimes a thumbs up, and yet another simple and ominous silence as we pass each other in the looming vestibules of our campus grounds. It is as though we do not have history wreaking beneath our essence. We are in each other's shadows, he is like my guardian angel, and I his.

Mutinda, the boy on the green grass; has nothing on his asphalt black eyes. He rarely wears a smile, however, when he does, he effortlessly lights the entire room. He does not do it conventionally, but his smile is definitely one of a kind. His smell is unique too, just like a cozy house on a winter day. He almost looks like his brother, though he is much shorter and lighter, nevertheless, their essence and auras are more less carbon copies.

The human mind I must admit has its own unfathomable intricacies. The differences between the extroverted and introverted are insurmountable.