The hallway stretched out before me, dimly lit by a single, flickering bulb. The carpet underfoot was worn thin, the pattern faded from years of neglect. I counted the doors as I walked, each one identical, each one hiding a different story behind its chipped paint and rusty lock. At the end of the hall, I found my room, its number barely visible on the tarnished brass plate. But I could see the faded number 13 on the door.
The door creaked as I pushed it open, revealing a small, dingy space with a very old small bed pushed up against the wall. The mattress sagged in the middle, the blanket was thin and stained, and the lightbulb flickered every few seconds, casting brief shadows that danced across the walls. The bulb switch on the wall wasn’t working so that means the bulb will be flickering the whole night. A small window overlooked the street below, where I could still hear the distant sounds of the bar, the drunkards and music tracks changing from the latest mixtapes of Dj Kym’s Nickdee entertainment ( I know this from Olal back in Koelel), and the occasional matatu horn from the Embassava drivers outside, trying to coax one last passenger before the night grew colder.
I sighed, locking the door behind me. It wasn’t much, but it would do for the night. I sat on the edge of the bed, my body finally feeling the weight of exhaustion creeping in. I kicked off my shoes and lay back on the bed.
As I was staring at the cracked ceiling, my mind still racing about this whole events.