You notice a lot when your date is late to a rendezvous. You sit there on the cold concrete slab by a dried out mini-pool, watching as couples giggle their way into the cinema, under the neon glow of the lights above your head.

The rooftop at Sarit is a curated slice of urban leisure: bars and restaurants line the periphery, each offering tantalizing cuisines that fill the air with a mingling of spices and sizzling meats. The string lights overhead flicker like distant constellations, giving the ambiance an even more poetic charm. Music, smooth and deliberate, seeps from the unseen speakers, making the open-air space feel like an oasis detached from the chaos of shopping in the actual mall below. Here, the world is reduced to laughter, aromas, movement, and the occasional exhale of cigarette smoke curling into the night sky. Oh, and of course, the TikTokers.

To your left, a Rastafarian cloaked in the night’s darkness puffs contemplatively by the dimmest corner. Across the expanse, a couple engages in a quiet but fierce debate, their hushed voices edged with sharp accusations. Why does your shirt smell of female perfume? You were given perfume at work today? Beside you, a group of girls dance to the most recent TikTok challenge, their exaggerated movements stark against the night. Awkward, but who are you to judge. You are the one sitting awkwardly alone by the concrete while everyone is out with someone or two. Meanwhile, two strangers beside you rub salt in your lonely miserable wound by entangling themselves in a kiss so deep and long it seems to defy time. Get a room, your companionless shell whispers as you roll your eyes. And then you spot another lone figure by the nyama choma stand, eyes fixed on the sizzling meat, lost in the hypnotic dance of fire and oil, and you realize aah it’s not that bad. You’re not alone.

But you still wonder where on God’s blue earth is your date?

You begin to wrestle with the thought: should I just head into the cinema alone? But you hold both tickets, “..she’d be denied entry,” you mumble under your breath, realizing how ridiculous you must look, speaking to the air. A few faces have started to catch sight of you as the night gets darker and colder. You continue with your monologues: would you and your date have been just another pair lost in this twilight dance? Kissing, like the annoying couple beside you, hugging and giggling under the lights? Would she be under those same lights, phone in hand, snapping snippets of the night, or would you already be inside, enveloped in the world of the Pride Lands, or Milele?

Waiting does things to the mind; it forces you into corridors of introspection, where possibilities twist and fold over each other. You contemplate leaving, but the hypocrisy of that decision stings. You, after all, are no stranger to tardiness. You’re always late to your classes and meet-ups, things that you consider of less importance than going to watch an animated film. So there’s no room for calling the kettle black.

Then finally, your date arrives. An elegant beauty draped in nostalgia and inside jokes that stretch back to childhood. You used to do mchongoanos back then, and she always struck with precision and flair. As much as you want to chongoa her for her perpetual lateness or her petite frame, your receding hairline silences you; that would be an open invitation for retaliation. Besides, you guys are already two hours behind schedule.

The plan was to watch the Mufasa premiere at 7pm. The delay forced you into the 10PM showing, pushing the night deep into the whispering hours past midnight, where you chatted and chatted on nothing in particular till the night took a toll on you.

But even the 10pm showing wasn’t as seamless as you’d thought. A winding queue at the snack line swallowed another chunk of your evening, and you hadn’t even acquired the necessary 3D glasses. Forced back into the snaking line for the glasses, you felt every second slipping away, a relentless ticking against your patience. The guy ahead of you embodied peak indecision, debating between Wicked and Mufasa while the film itself edged closer to its climax without you. “The listings are right above your head, bro!” you grit your teeth, contemplating the depths of human unpreparedness. But you understand that your lack of preparation shouldn’t constitute an emergency for him.

By the time you stagger inside, you are vexed beyond words. You snatched the glasses from the counter, your silence a manifestation of sheer exhaustion. You just wanted to get through the movie, let the hype wash over you, and later retreat into sleep. The irony? You weren’t even hungry. Barely thirty minutes earlier you had ravaged a plate of ribs and fries from one of the restaurants around. Yet, there you were, clutching an overpriced bag of caramel popcorn that was far too sweet, drowning it down with an unnecessary Coke.

The actual film? Mid.

Disney had once again overindulged in its love for singing. Even the antagonist, Kiros, was given more verses to sing than actual vengeance. The infamous eye scar that would cement Taka’s transformation into Scar felt anticlimactic, a mere scratch across the face. You had expected a grand betrayal, a moment of poetic tragedy, but instead, you got a light tap and a forced narrative shift. But you remind yourself that this is a children's film. Rafiki, Timon, and Pumba, however, injected much-needed levity, their antics keeping the film from drowning in its own grandeur.

The cinematography however was an undisputed triumph. In IMAX 3D, every lion’s roar resonated in your bones, every stampede sent vibrations through your seat, and made you clench your soda tighter. It was a visceral experience, one that made you momentarily forgive the film’s narrative shortcomings. Also having a pretty lady beside you made you more merciful to the narrative.

Yet, as you walked back to your apartment, all you could hear was the incessant melody looping in your head—“My brotheeer, my brotheeerrr…” Music has a way of lodging itself in the mind, setting up camp without rent or permission. And also, Kiros and his white pride singing “Bye bye” before wiping out your entire pride and claiming your lionesses. The lion kingdom is brutal: you either kill the rivals or drive them out, but the lionesses remain, forced to bear cubs to carry on the victor’s bloodline. Wild.

Speaking of brothers, I often encounter two boys in my apartment building, perpetual warriors in an endless battle of play. Recently I stumbled upon them at the stairwell, locked in a skirmish over a plastic water gun. The older one had the upper hand, pinning his sibling to the cold, unyielding floor. Their faces bore the raw intensity of a rivalry stretching beyond the moment. Childhood fights, untempered by reason, have a way of escalating into primal combat.

I intervened, pulling them apart, and in an instant, their fury redirected toward me. They each argued their case: the elder claimed dominion over the weapon, dictating that the younger one could wield it only at night. But who plays with a water gun at night? Who would he shoot? The dark itself? I offered a compromise: they relinquish the gun to me instead.

They turned in unison, their eyes narrowing.

For a brief second I felt the weight of betrayal settling in their bones, a silent pact forming between them. Brotherhood, in its most primal form, is forged in the face of an outsider. They had been at each other’s throats mere moments ago, but in me, they found a common enemy. In that stairwell I realized something profound: loyalty often hides beneath layers of conflict. Mufasa and Scar. The lion’s den. The water gun. Different stories, but all part of the same eternal script.

So I did the only thing I could. I ran, with the gun in hand.

And they chased.

Reagan..✍🏽