Clutching onto my satchel and purse at the airport, I don't fritter any second exploring airport or savoring the fresh tranquil aura. I instead scan for my chauffeur, Mike, my eye hunt for him doesn't take much of my time. I spot him without much and stroll to him in haste, the ailment of my father being the only thing echoing my mind.
"Hi, Mike!" I greet him, and he turns to me.
"Hi, ma'am. Welcome back." A broad smile is portrayed on his lips as he extends the .
"Thank you, Mike," I respond as he opens the door for me and wanders off to settle satchel in the boot.
Ooh, I missed my baby Lamborghini. Life at home, huh? I hope everything welcomes with a luminous expression.
"To your house, ma'am?" Mike implores as he ignites the engine.
"No. To my father's. And please hurry!" I respond.
As we hit the road towards home with Christopher Martin's Let her Go Jazz playing the stereo, the anticipation of the condition I will find my father in and the desire to him again are creeping in really bad. The anxiety is killing me as we steer through very familiar boulevards of the great Nairobi city. Today, I am not even prying at beauty. I am homesick. I am thinking of the situation that is awaiting me at home.
Gladly, the drive did not take this long. The roads are almost clear this morning, as I . No traffic at all. It was a fast drive, with the car gliding smoothly along the streets as if eager to deliver me to my destination. With each passing mile, the fades into the background, replaced by the quiet hum of the engine and the beat of my heart.
Entering through the gate, we park in the parking lot of the castle, and I leap out immediately.
The castle looks dull, with its once vibrant facade now shrouded in a veil of gloom.
The servants move about with a sense of dismay and concern etched into their , their usual bustling energy replaced by a palpable heaviness that hangs in the like a thick fog. The aura stinks of stinging fear and dread, as if the very walls are mourning some unspeakable tragedy. In this bleak atmosphere, the "okay" seems like a foreign concept, a distant memory lost in the depths of . Nothing seems okay. Nothing feels okay.
"Greeting, my child!" I turn away from scrutinizing the castle to the forlorn face of Aisha, her eyes reflecting the same sorrow that permeates the air. Despite her at a cheerful greeting, there is a heaviness in her voice that mirrors the somber of the castle.
"Hello, Nanny Aisha," I reply, my own voice tinged with sadness as I take in the sight me. It is clear that something is amiss, something that goes beyond the usual of running a household.
The environment here feels more tragic than I speculated. It says it all. Something has happened that has numbed everything. Not even the mood that ensued that when I left this place equals this of today. This cuts deep.
"Welcome, my child. And thank you for coming,” she pulls me for a welcoming hug.
“Your father will not approve of my decision to call you, but he will have to forgive . You did well to honor my plea," she explains after hugging me.
"Does he know I am coming?" I query, my voice filled with apprehension.
"No. I haven't told him or anyone else. I am honestly afraid of what he will do to me he learns that I told you about him,” Nanny Aisha retorts, her words heavy with and fear.
"Okay. What's his condition, nanny? How long has his ailment lasted?" I curiously , my feet still rooted in the same spot as I absorb the gravity of the situation.
I want to understand the situation before budging in on him. There's a sense of gnawing at me, but I know that rushing in blindly could do more harm than . So, I listen intently as Nanny Aisha fills me in on the details, her voice with emotion as she recounts the events that led to this moment.
"I wont lie to you, my child,” she starts, “His condition is critical, and it all started you disappeared. He kind of changed from that night of the party. He became and so temperamental compared to the boss we all knew, and the situation getting worse and worse." She is trembling as she explains, but she is avoiding question I am dying to know the answer to.
"What is the diagnosis, nanny?" I go straight to the point, my voice steady despite the sense of unease gnawing at my insides.
She breathes out a heavy sigh, her shoulders sagging with the weight of the burden carries. Her response sends a shiver down my spine, filling me with a sense of that threatens to consume me whole.
"I better let the doctor explain it to you, my child. But you need to be strong, my ," she replies, her words laced with a hint of caution that sends a chill down my .
Is that a trigger warning to a deadly discovery? I should be strong? The implications her words hit me like a ton of bricks, filling me with a sense of foreboding that me reeling. Why can’t she just tell me?
I am like a dead zombie as I stroll behind her as she leads me to the foyer of the —my home. It is not time to feel at home, though. Not when I don't know about father's factual situation. Not when I haven't seen him. Not when I am not that he will be fine.