Waiting on a date.

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, wrapped in the kind of joy that feels almost performative 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 solitude of 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 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 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 strange 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 evening classes, and so there’s no room for calling the kettle black.

And then, finally, my date arrives. Barbara. An elegant beauty draped in nostalgia and inside jokes that stretch back to childhood. We used to do mchongoanos back then, and she always struck with precision and flair. As much as I wanted to chongoa her for her perpetual lateness or her petite frame, my receding hairline silenced me—that would be an open invitation for retaliation. Besides, we were already two hours behind schedule.

Our plan was to watch the Mufasa premiere at Century Cinemax. The delay forced us into the 10PM showing, pushing our night deep into the whispering hours past midnight, where we chatted and chatted on nothing in particular till the night took a toll on us.

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

By the time we staggered inside, I was vexed beyond words. I snatched the glasses from the counter, my silence a manifestation of sheer exhaustion. I just wanted to get through the movie, let the hype wash over me, and later retreat into sleep. The irony? We weren’t even hungry. Barely thirty minutes earlier, we had ravaged a plate of ribs and fries from one of the restaurants around. Yet, there I was, 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. I had expected a grand betrayal, a moment of poetic tragedy, but instead, I got a light tap and a forced narrative shift. But I reminded myself: this was 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 my bones, every stampede sent vibrations through my seat, and made me clench my soda tighter. It was a visceral experience, one that made me momentarily forgive the film’s narrative shortcomings. Also having a pretty lady beside made me more merciful to the narrative.

Yet, as I walked back to my apartment, all I could hear was the incessant melody looping in my 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—perpetual warriors in an endless battle of play and conflict. 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.

In unison, they turned, 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.