Pavements yawn when no one’s looking. Yep. They like to stretch when ink spills across the sky and someone remembers to sprinkle twinkling lights on the blue-blackness. That’s usually around the same time when trees like to play tricks. Leaves scoop up rays of light and drizzle bits of it on their branches to make spectacularly spooky shadow puppets on the ground.

The smallest breath of wind shakes off the driest, crunchiest leaves on the heads of lovers stealing a tender moment underneath the trees or the battered looking office-types heading home to catch the latest news bulletins. Sometimes, just for kicks, the leaves cruise on the gentle evening gales and slip past rolled down car windows: road trip!

Street lights always roll their bulbs in exasperation at the drunks who hiccup and merrily sing past them. They often fantasize about ‘accidentally’ dropping a live wire, or three, on the buggers who piss on their necks. Grrrr. The same goes for the muggers with a penchant for the black-eye poles on deserted streets. They cast the posts in such bad light.

And the Road? Well, she’s obsessed with self-improvement– a graceless queen lusting after the nubile princess of yore. Always with the cement face masks and tar treatments, she’s even considering Chinese remedies to enhance her features! It’s hard to blame her though; in her day she was slim, slick and made cars purr with pleasure. Now she makes them pant (trust me, not in a good way.)

You’ll die of laughter at the stories the bins rattle off at day’s end. Lawd! You should hear the one about the guy who absentmindedly threw a bank note with his trash. The said bin mischievously wiggled the note close to where it had a stubborn itch and enjoyed a thorough rubdown.

And if you’re looking for wisdom, or just juicy gossip, ask the telephone lines. Don’t believe a word the electricity lines say, they’re always in the dark about stuff. But the telephone lines, now those boys are efficient. They employ a vast network of avian and terrestrial sentries to gather the goings on in the important offices across the city.

Good thing too, they always warn the Street on impending demonstrations (news of which the Road always sighs to the longest) or facelifts (she then promptly perks up.)

For the most part, the Street co-habits peacefully with the humans who make it their home. When it rains, the trees try their best to stitch their branches together and those who can, regularly stoop down and drop fruits on the sleeping forms at their feet. And I hear the telephone lines always have a word with the wind if he gets a little carried away. Apparently he’s always prepping for the day he’ll be called up for hurricane duty. SMH.

Anyway, can’t talk now must fly back to Nyayo Stadium, I hear the ladies finally caught the peeping Tom. Must be Tony that guy puts the ‘stalk’ in Marabou.

©wanjeri gakuru