Frida

She walked in without hesitation. The movement caught my attention, half startled, but then recognizing my visitor quickly enough I stood and protested only to watch her continue a calm, controlled stride forward. Even as I moved toward her she didn’t look at me, but just continued to glide through the threshold. I was left uttering a “Hey!” in the direction of the kitchen into which she’d disappeared.

Before she came, I was on the couch reading an article on my laptop having moved in from the rain. I had been in the front yard, a 15 by 15 foot square of packed dirt topped by loose stones varying in size much like apples. The space is surrounded by walls, roughly laid concrete on one side and corrugated steel sheets on the other. The wall abutting the street is an opaque steel gate that looks like that of every other house. A black water tank sits in the corner, equally as high and wide as I am tall. Though relatively uninviting, the yard also hosts a tree that’s old and leafy enough to shade guests and gently rustle in a breeze.

I had set up the table, making sure the legs settled on stable ground between the stones, for the first time since moving into this house. I found a plastic chair in the closet, wiped it off, and leveled it, too. There was still noise here — the shouts and laughs of kids were clear, often followed by a soccer ball rattling the steel gate. But the light and space were comforting, and the sounds of kids playing were a normal part of the days’ refrain as school was out of session for the month.

It’s rainy season in Kenya. It’s not an all-day kind of rain, rather it comes in occasional, abrupt waves several times a week. So when the first threatening drops hit the table I did not delay. I brought my laptop and the plastic chair back inside and sat where I could work while enjoying the passing storm. Soon puddles began to swallow some of the stones in the front yard.

Thirty minutes later, a short time after the rain had stopped, I was abruptly distracted but he blur of white as she walked by.

Hey!

I followed a moment later to see her waiting by the back door that leads to an enclosed rear yard much like the front yard but it has field grass, a small disused fire pit, and a crowd of banana trees that dominate one corner. (Unfortunately, they are not currently bearing fruit.) I opened the door to let her pass and she looks around, stepping cautiously, scanning the scene. Looking back at me, there’s an obvious worry conveyed in her eyes. Her very young litter of two is missing, perhaps hiding but not yet revealing themselves.

I wonder if I’m just personifying an otherwise blank look, however as time passes she remains in a nervous state in stark contrast to the confident walk I’d previously witnessed. The look of worry does not fade. She disappears up over a wall. I close the door and return to the tasks at hand.

I learned later that a prior resident of the house called her Frida after the bold, oblong splotches of black above her eyes on otherwise white fur. I love the name, of course, as a fan of Frida’s work and because it seems to perfectly align with the confidence of my stoic cat housemate.

A hankering for tea and curiosity as to her whereabouts brings me back to the kitchen where I peer out the window. Frida and her kittens, eyes closed at ease, are curled up in the fire pit on a bed of grass that has long overtaken the pit’s former use.