It was usually the smell that got your attention. Hard to describe if you did not know a thing or two about prisons and brothels and bakeries and posho mills and metal workshops. It stuck around your nose, on your skin. In your mind. Like home. Or a bad debt.

And Sons was closed that day. It was always open. Ever since I can remember, the twin doors never met. I was told that they did only when the customers came in. He told me that I was one day going to be ready for when the doors closed, with us inside. He also told me that it was going to be the day he would tell me why he named his shop ‘And Sons’. And Mister M never lied. That day, we had a customer. I took note of this.

‘You can take your mask off,’ he sighed heartily to the figure at the door. ‘This is a safe space.’

The doors silently shut behind the small man. He stepped forward into the soft sunlight peeping through the clear windows. From the corner in which I sat, I could very clearly see him. He was short and in a pair of SAVCO jeans. Tucked beneath a thick leather belt with extra holes in its stripe was a neatly pressed shirt with tiny polka dots on the cotton. Black tie, loose at the knot. He had a folded blue sweater in his right hand, tightly clenched. A modest hankie in his left, drenched. Thick and clean brown boots. He was sweating.

He stepped on forward. The floorboards creaked. I sat up straight, just as he had taught me. I watched as the man’s reflection gleaned off the polished plates and saucers and silver cups. His shadow darkened the sparkling coffee pots and trophies lined along the shelves. His gait was stout enough to see his shiny head at the top of my personal collection of first editions. The counter was the right height for him. He stopped.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked with a cracked and sour voice through the mask. I was starkly reminded of nails on glass.

‘Please,’ answered Mister M, his hands feverishly wiping the tiny silver cups with the red and white cloth.

He took it off slowly with the hankie, as though remorseful. When the last strap was off his right ear, he hastily tore the mask off and stuffed it in his back pocket. I could hear him breathing. I swear his heartbeat drummed across the floor to the nook of my corner. With paper and pencil in hand, I watched, hoping to learn.

Mister M smiled and placed his tools down. A faint smile. A clinking of the pot. The kindling of a flame. The straightening of a back. Connection.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ asked Mister M. The man nodded, faintly, eyes scanning his environment. He did not see me. He could not.

In the silence, I know he wondered what most did before his time. What kind of shop it was. Where it was. Why they found themselves wandering indoors to a place they never could remember thinking about. He coughed and mopped his brow. The room was getting cooler.

‘My wife. I- I-,’

‘No rush,’ Mister M convinced. ‘Take your time.’

My employer was always great with his words. Always great. The coffee pot hissed. Ready. He poured it into two cups. The man sat in the wooden stool, aware of hospitality. I always liked the steam from the cups. It danced.

They both sipped. His eyes popped, then, just as abruptly, they calmed, like those of a drowsing child. He found a place for his hankie in his lap and his sweater across his shoulder, and both hands got busy holding the coffee cup. The silverware glistened and reflected his pimpled face. I took note of this.

‘What brings you to my shop?’ my employer asked.

‘Strange place you have here Mister…’

‘M. You can always call me Mister M. Or M, if you’d like.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘A while.’

‘Funny,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ve lived here all my life and not once have I seen your shop.’

My employer sipped some more of his coffee, set it down and then rolled up his thick white sleeves. The embossed half-coat on his broad chest spoke of many years in an older service. I always thought he worked as a hotelier. He had no watch on his wrist. Just the fob he chose to hide from my view. He was smoothly shaven. No trace of hair on his person. No scent. Deep brown and black hues within his eyes. Always, always, a bow tie. Stranger still, even for me.

‘Let’s just say not many people come here…’

‘Musyoka. I am Johnson Musyoka,’ the man coughed. His voice was getting clearer, like the spitting of a log on fire.

‘Musyoka,’ he smiled. The cloth was in his thick hands once more, another one of his items in need of a quick clean. ‘Thing is, you found me. Maybe there is something we can do about your current situation?’

Musyoka did not choke on the drink. He spat it.

‘How do you know!’

‘I don’t, believe me. I just assumed you had one. No one who finds my shop rests easy.’

Mister M was calm. He always was.

Musyoka straightened his neck and loosened his tie a little bit more. His sleeved elbow rested on the wooden counter. Dropping his arm lazily, his fingers tapped against the stool bars. He drummed against the wood. His eyes hovered between two spots over and over, until his pupils looked like an unsure bee’s flying pattern.

‘Is that why you have that on the wall?’ asked Musyoka, trembling.

Mister M and I turned our heads. There was a framed photo. Old. Faded. Black and white and cracked through the middle. A tree. A car. A man and a woman. The man was short. In the same jeans. Same shirt. Same tie. His hands were wrapped around her from the front. She was splendidly beautiful.

‘How did you get that?’ he asked.

Mister M replied, ‘It was always there, Johnson. Maybe that’s why you found me.’

‘To tell you my problem? Will you solve it?’ asked the customer, shaken.

‘I can try,’ said Mister M.

‘Ha! Try,’ he mumbled. ‘Do you have more coffee?’

‘Always.’

The man poured more black into the cups and settled the steaming pot down. Johnson remembered his hankie and used it against his cheek. The room was quite cool. I took note of this.

‘It is our anniversary.’

‘Congratulations,’ replied Mister M. He put the tip of the cloth through a tall misty glass and started rubbing around it from the inside out. Gently.

‘Thank you. I was on my way from the office. We had plans. There is this bistro. It is close to the water. They have the biscuits she likes. I had it all worked out, you see. We would have some cake and tea and biscuits. Then I would get a horse from the park, pay the owner, and ride with her on it. There was a picnic to be had in the evening, where I would recite my vows to her and keep my end of the promise.’ He started to sob. Mister M waited. So did I.

He wiped his nose and eyes and sipped and swallowed. ‘I did not find her at the hospital. Asking around, they told me her shift had ended the night before. The night before. I had not seen her for two days straight. The first thought that crossed my mind, of course, was another man.’

‘Of course.’

‘So I combed through her letters. I checked for any trace of another in the house. There was nothing. Until — ,’ he choked. Mister M pulled the pot up and added more hot liquid into Musyoka’s cup.

‘Until there was something,’ added my employer.

‘Until there was something,’ reiterated the broken shell. ‘There was a photograph. She was younger. So was he. Scrawled on the back, in cursive, was an invitation.’

‘To what?’ asked my employer, intrigue in his voice.

‘To where, is the question, M. There was a short poem there, and I took my time trying to decipher it.’

‘Did you?’

‘No,’ the short Johnson replied. ‘I have been trying for two days now. It has cost me my sanity, you see. I don’t know what to come of it.’

‘I take it that the photograph is with you as we speak?’

Musyoka lifted his weak arm from the counter and plucked a neatly folded paper from his breast pocket. He handed it to Mister M, who placed the clean tall glass behind the rack and shuffled the cloth atop his shoulder. I took note of this.

Johnson nodded to Mister M’s prodding of the photograph. He took his coffee and sipped, eyes down. My employer mumbled to himself, his mind racing modestly.

‘Well this is a tough one,’ he finally replied. ‘Have you thought of praying?’

Johnson chuckled. Like a child. I smiled.

‘I don’t believe in fairy tales, Mister M.’

‘How about luck? Do you believe in luck?’

‘A little. Man makes his own, don’t you think so?’

‘Oh, I do. I do indeed. Would you mind coming with me behind this door?’ he asked after a pause, pointing to the kitchen entrance.

‘Why?’ asked Johnson, peculiar skepticism and caution in his creamy and now haunting voice.

‘To try your luck, of course.’

He took his time mulling the thought over. Then, gingerly, he rose from his seat, one foot then the next on the floor, stretched his back, and pushed his heavy body alongside the counter. Mister M smiled heartily, already by the counter’s side. The door was red.

‘Are you going to kill me?’ asked Johnson. Mister M frowned, then in consideration, shook his head with a faint smile.

‘You have had a lot of pain and mistrust in your life. I am sorry you feel that way. Maybe something in my kitchen will help with easing that.’

‘You mean food?’ jumped Musyoka.

‘Good food. Soul food. I am an excellent cook, if you don’t mind me saying.’

He laughed. ‘The coffee wasn’t strong enough for you?’

‘Is it ever?’ replied my employer. I craned closer, trying my best to keep away from view. ‘Maybe after a good meal we shall have the answer to your riddle. Agreed?’

The man wiped his brow for a last time. He was relaxed now. I could tell. I took note of this.

‘Then please, by all means Mister M. Let’s.’

From where I crouched I could see the door open. I could see the light beam through it, hard. I could see the legs. What I could not see was Musyoka’s gasp. His shock. The crumple of his blue sweater and hankie on the floor. Mister M’s laugh. A hearty laugh.

It was cold. I took note of this.

Raw onions and salty beef. Baked beans. A perfect blend of sauteed and sizzling pork ribs. I could smell all of this standing behind Musyoka. His neck smelled of crystallizing sweat and desperation. It was not new to me.

‘What is this, M?’ he asked with a faint stutter.

‘My kitchen, of course,’ my employer replied, smiling. ’Shall we go in? The peppered pork is just right for your palette and—'

‘It’s not possible,’ Musyoka interrupted.

‘Anything is with the right attitude, Johnny,’ said a soft voice.

I could see her. She. The woman in the red skirt and black top. The woman with the red lips. The woman in the photograph. She sat in a comfortable sisal chair, fashioned by the smiling man beside Musyoka. Her smooth and silky legs, glistening from all the sudden warmth blasting out of the kitchen, folded one over the other in seductive fashion, each meeting a pair of shiny black heels at the end. A long coat, mink I think, shielded her arms from view. From where I stood, she seemed to be a little younger than Musyoka. They shared the same look in their eyes.

‘A—Atieno?’ the customer asked, sparingly. His stink pierced through the already wet back of his shirt.

‘Yes, my love?’

‘What? How?’

‘Perhaps we should all sit.’ Mister M strode past the threshold and had his thick hand squeeze Musyoka’s shoulder. The latter walked through. Shakily. I scurried in before the red door slammed shut behind me. I slithered my way through the pots, pans, plates, smoke, legs, shirt and rested myself at the top of the sink. It was cool, just like my corner at the shop’s entrance. I licked the tip of my pencil and took note of this.

Mister M sat at the top of a stout stool, shorter than what Atieno was seated in. Musyoka kept standing.

‘Well?’ bubbled Musyoka in apparent anger. ‘Care to explain to me what my wife is doing in your shop?’

My employer’s non-existent brow quipped. That was new to me. I penned it down too.

‘You are angry with me.’ He said it casually, with the breath of an understanding cleric.

‘Furious! What is my wife doing here? I have been searching for her for the past two days!’

‘You have?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Yes! I even thought it was that Isakho you eloped with.’

Atieno spat at his boots.

‘You dared think I would cheat on you? With him?’ Her lips were pointed at my employer. ‘With Isakho? He! You are a fool.’

‘A fool who stands while you sit. Where is your respect woman?’

The meat sizzled in crystal silence. Mister M stood and stretched his feet by the stove. He passed me a caring glance after switching the flame off and went back to his warm stool. He put his hand in his waistcoat pocket and felt inside of it with his tips. His fob watch. I listened hard. I could hear ticking.

‘Lunch?’ he asked casually. The couple munched each of their lips in response. ‘I think we can do that later then,’ he added after the pause.

‘How did you get here?’ Musyoka asked. He was calmer. I took note of this. ‘By here, I mean this duka.’

Atieno sighed. ‘The same way you came in. Through the door.’

‘Two days ago after your shift?’

‘Yes. Two days ago after my shift.’

‘Why?’

‘To hide.’

‘Surely not from me.’

‘No. From what we had done,’ she replied. Mister M swiveled upon his stool, his hands firmly set at the cliff of his knees. I knew that stance. He was curious.

‘What did we do?’ asked Johnson. His face was drying now. His anger had subsided. The tap dripped solemnly behind me.

She looked up. I saw her full face for the first time. Her eyes were round and wide, everlasting. The thick lips of a woman who had seen it all matched ever so evenly with the cheekbones of a hard worker. She had a gap between the upper deck of her white and slightly tinged teeth. She was beautiful. The kind that is defined and obvious. Her face scrunched up. Pain.

‘Have you carelessly forgotten? Who did I marry? Ah!’ she riveted in her chair. Her arms never moved.

‘Atieno. We promised we would not speak of it ever again, not especially now that we are in the company of a stranger.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t call myself a stranger, really,’ laughed Mister M. It made me smile, his laugh. ‘Please, air this out. You two clearly need the therapy.’

‘Therapy,’ muttered Musyoka. He clenched his fists and wiped his clammy hands across his dirty jeans. ‘Do you remember what it was like after?’ he asked his wife.

‘Everyday I remember,’ she replied. Her eyes became sullen. Far-away.

‘How, even the first few years after, we thought it was a dream?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes were wet. ‘I wish we hadn’t.’

‘But if we did not, would we have ever—’ Musyoka’s voice was cracked. His face crested against his chest. Mister M coughed. Musyoka shook his head lightly and palmed it at the temple with his left hand.

‘M. Where are we?’ he asked.

‘In my duka, Musyoka. I told you already.’

‘What are we doing here?’ asked Atieno. ‘How did I get here?’ She fidgeted. Loudly. The mink coat around her shoulder started slipping off. Mister M sighed and stood. He stretched his back and bowed before Atieno, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. Musyoka lurched a foot forward and held himself back. Mister M had craned his neck and their eyes connected. Musyoka was vibrating.

‘What are you doing to my wife?’ he demanded.

‘What I should have done the moment we walked through that red door,’ answered my employer sweetly. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered to her.

He swept the coat off her back and thrust it to the far corner of the room. She gasped hard and cringed. Musyoka yelled and bulled forward, his fists curled and ready to brawl. Mister M stood aloft, his face bland.

I took note of this.

Atieno was tied to the chair in silver chain at the arms that tightened with each movement. The metal was so deep across her flesh that veins popped. She had not known. She could not tell.

‘Johnson!’ she screamed. ‘What is this?’

‘M! Release my beloved!’

‘Johnny,’ she pleaded. The numbness seemed to have become a sudden reality. It melted into her, this pain. It almost felt hot. She moaned and cried, her beauty evaporated in an instance. The room smelled of fresh meat and dripping regret. I took note of this.

When I looked up from my paper, Musyoka’s fists were deep in Mister M’s shirt, coat and chest. His bow tie was askew. I put my paper and pencil into my pockets and jogged ahead, fists and elbows ready to fight.

‘Enough!’ Mister M bellowed.

I stopped in my tracks. The woman stopped weeping. The husband froze. The metal around them stopped clanging. The food stopped sizzling.

Mister M took a hold of Musyoka’s hands and pulled them from his person. The latter heaved and frothed at the mouth. My employer patted the man’s back and nodded.

‘I will not answer your questions. It is not my place to do so.’ He started by fixing his bow tie. Then his shirt. ‘No. I am not angry.’ His pocket was next. He felt through his fob watch with the tips of his fingers. Ticking. I heard it.

‘I am not disappointed.’ He wiped his brow and cracked his knuckles. He smiled. ‘I am surprised.’

‘Why?’ asked Musyoka. He was calm. He was breathing normally. His wife was quiet too. Crying. I think she knew.

‘You see, by now I was hoping you would have figured it out. The secret.’

‘What secret?’ sobbed Atieno. ‘What are you talking about?’

Mister M was beside me, his thick and sober voice a salve for us all. I could smell him. He smelled of the oceanic wind.

‘You, my dear Musyoka, are the third customer today. Atieno. You are the second.’

‘But,’ she mumbled, scared. ‘I don’t remember ever coming into your shop.’

‘Exactly,’ replied Mister M. ‘But you will. Shortly.’

‘M, explain yourself. Do you have my mother somewhere up there too? One of Atieno’s old lovers? Hmm? Do you have Isakho tied up in the storage room? Why are we here!’

Mister M did not laugh. He was quiet. His face spoke of a man who had seen war. Years of war. He spoke succinctly. His hand was on my back. Warm. Gentle.

‘I can only have three customers a day. Those are the rules.’

There it was. The ticking.

‘And the first one has been standing here all this time. I think, even longer.’

Musyoka’s eyes were big. So were Atieno’s. Their mouths hang loose. They could finally see me.

And then I remembered.