DAVID'S BLUEPRINT

 DAVID'S BLUEPRINT

Saturday morning arrived with a quiet, sharp clarity that Kahawa Sukari only experiences before the public transit buses start roaring down the service lane. The music system was silent, replaced by the low, rhythmic scratching of a ballpoint pen. Sunlight cut through the window from the balcony illuminating a living room that looked dramatically different from the night before. Tabitha had forced order onto the chaos; the clothes were folded, the mugs were washed, and the scent of freshly brewed ginger tea filled the air. The initial paralysis of the shock seemed to have worn off. David had taken an A4 notebook from the coffee table next to the Sofa. Tabitha’s words from Friday night still echoed in his mind: 'We must accept things as they are.' His sister watched from the kitchen counter as he drew precise columns across the first page. Tabitha smiled to herself. This was the old David trying to construct a scaffolding around his shattered world. He divided the page into three columns: Logistics, Finances, and Sarah. "You can’t spreadsheet your way out of a pregnancy, bro," Tabitha said softly, leaning against the doorframe with two mugs of tea.

"That's not the case, Siz," David replied, his voice raspy but steady. "I'm trying to survive it and if I don't write down clear plans, then the panic will definitely come back."

Under Logistics, he listed clinics that he had learnt over the internet, comparative costs of prenatal and delivery packages as well as probable baby delivery date. Under Finances, he listed his savings account balance which was initially for his planned trips but now would be used for Maternity and Infant Care. But when his pen hovered over the third column—Sarah—the point remained suspended in the air. How do you quantify an injured heart and how do you map a timeline for reassurance? Tabitha looked at the page, then at David. "The plans, numbers and timelines are the easy part, Bro" Tabitha said, setting him tea down right next to the notebook. "Look at the third column, David. You need to call her. No more 'all will be well' scripts. Tell her you were terrified. Tell her you're still terrified, but that you are there."

David swallowed hard. He picked up his phone, his fingers hovering over her contact name. The routine of the past two weeks had been a coward's loop: call, deliver a hollow platitude, hang up, panic. But now, he had to call her confident of a plan and way forward.He pressed the dial and it began to ring.

@Stephen Mungai