The Stranger with a Spanner

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    I roll up the window of my car as the old, disheveled man approaches. He is covered in soot from head to toe. His nails are overgrown and dirty. The knots in his hair are probably a century old. Even from a distance, the scent of gunk and grime on his clothes is pungent.  It’s getting dark as ominous clouds gather above us. The weather in this season has become more unpredictable than a chameleon. According to Google, chameleons change their colors to regulate their temperatures, not to blend into the background. I wonder whether this man is blending into his environment or regulating it. My car stalled as I was heading out of Central Business District towards home. I managed to get it off the road and park it in this cul de sac. The closest petrol station is two kilometers from here. There is little human traffic. My palms are sweating profusely as I hold on to the steering wheel. I want to scream but something stops me; I cannot tell whether it is fear or foresight. Last week, a mother lost her two sons over a case of mistaken identity. Their identity may have been mistaken but the grief over the death is inerasable. The memory of their grief stricken, overwhelmed mother keeps my tongue glued to the upper palate.                                       

     I secure the lock for umpteenth time. I want to call my mechanic but I can’t find my phone. I curse under my breath as the old man steadily approaches my car. He knocks on my window in a staccato, just like the man with a black hood would do in the movies. My intestines churn with apprehension. Only three other people are walking by hurriedly. Eventually, I find my phone in the glove compartment. Attempts to call for help are met by an unresponsive phone.  The battery is half full. My second-hand American-branded- Chinese-assembled phone goes into unresponsive mode whenever the battery is half full. I do not look up for fear of being hypnotized or having some strange gas blown into my face. He persists as paralyzing fear renders my body dead-stiff. 

      He walks away eventually as I heave a sigh of relief. My relief is temporary because my car is still stationary.  I am stuck in this isolated part of the Central Business District as pregnant clouds threaten to break their waters. A light bulb moment strikes and I decide to hail a motorbike from a web platform that will take me to the nearest petrol station. Attempts to use my phone bear no fruit. I decide to lock my car and walk till I figure out my next move. As soon I leave my car, I see the old man again. This time around, he has a car jack, a spanner, and an assortment of other tools. It occurs to me that my doors might jam if I lock the car. A quick scan around reveals that I can only run towards the old man to get out of this alley. I can feel some warm liquid trickling down my legs. My eyes are getting moist. With each step he takes, the looming threat of my demise becomes real. He stops in front of my bonnet and drops his tools on the ground.

       “Hello, may I help you get your car moving?” he asks in a crisp baritone. 

       He speaks like someone who attended a renowned group of private schools. The darkness is encroaching fast. The skies are dull and grey. The chances of being drenched from head to toe by the time I get to a petrol station are above seventy percent. Images of women strangled by men in overcoats in horror movies flash through my mind. I have never watched a horror movie to the end but this scene gets me thinking of the first two minutes of the trailers I have watched. I want to decline but common sense insists that I give it a try lest I spend the night out here. He asks me to open the bonnet. As I open it, I tack a spanner under the sleeves of my coat. I have never hit anyone on the head but if the movies are right, one major strike should do the trick. The old man takes a look around my bonnet. He checks my battery terminals and all the other wires that pop out of them. I have been meaning to understand how the wires work but my brain freezes despite my best efforts. He pauses then lights up. He dusts them then picks up a spanner and tightens each of the terminals.

     “Go and ignite it. Let’s see whether it will start.” 

      I want to respond but words seem to have evaporated in the wave of fear sweeping over me. I am hesitant at first. He seems genuine but in this city, snake oil dealers and other charlatans look and sound holier than the Pope. I turn on the ignition key and the engine roars to life. I am relieved but hyper-vigilant. He picks up his tools and starts walking away as soon as the engine finds its rhythm. I run after him and ask him to wait. I have five hundred shillings folded in my palms. Ordinarily, I would not have parted with more than two hundred shillings. Money has been more fleeting than mist in this city but I am overwhelmed with gratitude. He declines and walks away, his overcoat swishing and swashing as he disappears into the alley. A flash of forked lightning and a clap of thunder overlap each other as soft showers hit the roof of my car. I chuckle as I drive off; relieved, shocked and grateful. 

Author Corazon Achieng is a Kenyan who writes and dances at the intersection of science and art. She is a reader who writes poems, essays, fiction, and nonfiction. She loves coffee, art galleries, plays, and jazz.