You think you have seen them all until someone chucks a success card you sent them in class eight. This is a whole different story, altogether. I mean, all women are crazy but some are truly crazier than others. With the traffic situation today, I was stuck at a spot which reminded of an encounter I had some time back.
I was onto one of those random two-three many with a childhood bud, let’s call him T. His friend had a gig as a DJ at some haunt in the Ngara area, Nairobi. This was not my original plan, though. I had reluctantly tagged along from T’s prodding and more so, for lack of a better plan.
Soon, dawn begun suggestively licking the drowsy nightscape. I picked my cue to nudge T into joining the great migration that throngs nippy Nairobi mornings the day after. Well marinated and stubborn as ever, we just managed to moved joints. He said he was intent on grabbing some this or (l)ass.
We ended up in a smoky, stuffy underground spot where I remember following a South American football tournament. A cold Pilsner thrusted my already violated throat and kept the ‘Smokey Robinson’ image in check.
Right across was a lady. Or as they call it nowadays mteke!
She wasn’t particularly a thing of beauty, but those Gazongas elicited involuntary jaw-dropping. She was serious too, and not an off the mill ‘trapster’. Still, she was worldly and very particular on Stickmatisation which just intensified my interests as she appeared feeery ‘innocent’
All this, I learnt on the second meeting. It was on a random weekday and safely tucked in a corner ideal for canoodling. See, she was full of surprises. This time, she flipped some Chinaman phone and be hold, her glorious preciousness shot from several possible (and impossible) angles appeared in all the graininess pixels could offer!
I almost tilted the table over as levers worked my fulcrum when I peered closely enough –
Man, even Moses had not seen anything as dense one as that. The bush was stronger on this one!
Don’t ask why I kept on – I dropped enough hints for a smooth course of action, and on a particular Thursday evening, I was to transport the ‘Merchandise‘ home. One liiiiiiiiittle problem. I had about Kshs. 550 /- to my name. The month has taken a particularly nasty turn, but blue balls know no month, rather the many months gone by.
I had to wait for her to leave work (at some cinema) and had planned on hanging about the office until it was time.
All the same, I couldn’t sweep her off straight away to the stage. Tact. So I decided to gamble with one as I waited. She came, and naturally, had to order for her as well. She seemed in no rush. Therefore, even as I drained the last drags from my bottle, I steered the conversation towards leaving.
Then she ordered another.
My balls cringed.
Shortly after, I had only 150 /- to my name. Fare for both of us would be Kshs. 200… even as she kept asking what my plan was.
Bang your brains off ya mean?
“Yeah, yeah, we hang around this local, have a few, dance, at least before dawn…”
She had high heels and the walk to the stage was a painfully slow torture as my mind shuttled between how I’d make up for the fiscal shortage and giving her enough excitable reasons – in case she decided to change her mind mid – stream.
Boy, I dint even have fare back to work the coming day – but I was fery fery determined that the Syokimau Train spends the night at the Embakasi terminal.
We’re seated on the mat, at about 12:30 pm. It’s one of those late night javs run by a racket intent taking advantage of transport shortage.
Part II, en route.
My DEaR Wa-jee-raw*!
I would want to break into your thoughts with what’s written in my heart!
Hey wait, waiiiiiiiiit, let me tone it down as you would when you smear your Kimbo-vasirini* and the layer is too much for your mothiririmos* liking and those soft hands rise over and above your chocolate thighs…
Oh, the sighs that come out unbidden out of my lips when i ritho* you do your rishio*.
Surely, there’ll be no rats to interupt your animated grunts as my rhumbas serenade and refresh your body, soul and mind (in that oda!) like the ka-Novida*drink i brought you from the big city!
Shy girl, shy girl, hear, hear, give me your ears for all these years i’ve wanted to see you draw that map on the red earth with your big toe…for such a market day like this, when your mother and mine rush to sell ndumas* and ikwas*, i’l invite you right into my hut…and what’s more, into my heart!
See, see, Wa-jiro, my rav*…i bought a brand new kanyitera and, tsk tsk, suprise, supriiiiiiiiiiiiiise, a pink lacy one…the kind cool girls in the big city wear!…don’t blush, don’t blush, Wa-jiro, don’t blush, because even as rains have disappointed, i shall stand to appoint you with countless reasons…reminiscent of the days we rolled carefree on the green grass carpet and it’s viridity merged with our childhood innocense….
Hold on, hold on…Wa-jiro…i know you got no humor tumor in your head and i can not be simpler than this…but i can assure you, in Uni-verse-City, they don’t award degrees for virginity!
So, pris, pris, un-insure your thoughts from mindless chastity…
Ok!Ok!OK!My bad!I fixed the bed, i swear i did…that by the time the sun bleeds over Gaichanjiru Village and the mishumaris are loose, i bet the crickets will swallow the creaking with the rhymes of their chymes….
Oh…there comes your nyukwa, i must go!
laughter in that language – i told you!
*Wa-jiro > Wanjiro- the name of a young maiden Kikuyu girl.
Kimbo-Vaserin >Kimbo is a cooking fat brand- folks in the village back in the day applied it as you would Vaseline…vaserin is, yes, Vaseline!
Rishio> Ritual, hehe
Ka-Novida > Novida – a refreshing non alcoholic drink from the Schweppes and Cocacola stable…assumed to be ‘up-market, mobile…with-it city folks…
Ndumas & Ikwas > Arrowroots and…Arrowroots…they’re all dug out!
rav >love, lol.
Kanyitera > a smoky lamp made of tin, a wick and paraffin…emits a lot of smoke!
Nyukwa> A derogative term to refer to ‘your mother’.
i was never the kind of a guy a girl could give a second look, forget a first fast glance… and i knew it, i never tried to make anyone like me. I was a wretch, a loser, a reckless leech with no sense of direction, melted ego, no self esteem, but great self astonishment that God would keep this creature alive, in his cosmic lab, the universe.
With two hollows for eyes, scant brain to maintain the buoyancy of my rotting head, i was another screw head, scrap soul in His junk yard, waiting, watching…
But…..it was *never* always like this.
I were once loved.
Someone once liked me, in another life.
The most precious memory i have, encrypted secretly in my microchip, away from the demented soul i have become.
Since my inception, never had such a feeling descended in my heart, soul, body and mind.
It was divine, my life glittered, sunshine warmed my soul, my heart smiled.
She loved me, Ivana she did and in Havana we lived and heaven she gave me.
Her words and wanton eyes, her curves and cuddles, her nipples and the ripples, they tripled all over my crippled soul, i healed…her voice and the void it filled, her embraces and the creases it unfolded, in my sexpansive thesaurus, not a single word i have found, to subscribe this.
For all i know, i gave her a rightful share back, though wobbly and shaky, almost flowing over, i tried.
But one day, that prematurely dark afternoon, in the alleys of Rome, where lovers do roam, she whispered the words…the words that echoed -and still echo- in my mind, swirled in dizzying oscillations and when they came to, crystallized into a bitter capsule that settled on my tear gland…
they trickled, acid droplets of condensed, compressed human bitterness, they corroded my face, eroded all beauty, faded all the glory.
All was changed, changed utterly.
A terrible beauty was born.
Unto this day, i roam in these lands, lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting for stray souls in the orchard of broken dreams and narrate my ordeal, before ripping and roasting their hearts.
it’s a beautiful life~30 seconds to mars
hmmm, with such declarations, i deserve a permanent editorial position at some Nairobian newspaper you and i know, but then, i only own a measly free blog- where i try make it juicy for y’all ama?
iko ivi yaani, today is sato and everything is dancing to the tune of a shattered-day(or shat-a-day with shat being the past participle of shit hehe).
well, i am not feeling so well but my mojo is so beyond its normal.
i want out!
out of this shell of being tired of being sick and tired!
For this reason and others, i’d so like to attribute to some feministic attribute, i visit the campus clinic. en route there, i realise that it’s my first time since 06! is that a Glory to God i hear?
my file was/is still there and i couldn’t help but shudder at the thought that they have my records. it’s not that i have a criminal or questionable past, but i dread leaving trails!
soon, i was ushered into the ‘Doc room’ where a label above the door read ‘Consultation.’
i knock once and a glum voice tells me to come in.
i find him putting down a ‘Rich Boy Poor Dad’ book as he reaches for his glasses which are resting on the desk. i wonder why he needs them – to see properly? or to look ‘Doctorly’? after all, he could read the fine print of the novel and am way bigger…
“do you have headaches…so i can prescribe an injection?” he enquires
uhm, yes, but not severe, in fact they have stopped…i said quickly as the thought of needles pricking my behind sends a ‘false healing’ through my head.
he asks a string of other questions as my eyes wander around his small lonely office with little intimation of life – never mind i had come here to have my life improved…could i survive working here?well, maybe am just too claustrophobic…
later on, after the usual dose of drugs that has been prescribed year in and out – even if its HIV thats eating at your marrow – i drag my not-so-feeling well body to the lib.
my mood was mellow-coddly (as val could say) everything is in purple, pink and a lovely orange 🙂 and whereas i dissassociate my absolute manhood from manipulation of the faintest trace of oestrogen in me…i think if i were a chick, on such a day,like this, with such a vision – i’d ovulate!
dropping my student ID at the periods…uhm, periodical section, i chuckle.
there is a quizical look on the librarian’s face but i move on to peruse the day’s papers and am going through the magazine section when i bump into Adam magazine.
how to groom yourself, blah blah and similar pictures fill the pages that i think it has an appalling gayish feel to it!
it’s so ironical to think Oh-younger Parlour (wo)manning such a mag while he so furiously writes a ‘man talk’ column!
the metrosexual man, hmmm..they call him (the man, not Pala Oyunga)
what’s up with them and make up? a man using lip balm? what the hell is fair and handsome?
what happened to the traditional man we knew before? the one that is perfectly embodied by dad?
with a natural scent, a little vaseline if any, to shake off traces of ‘mpararo?…after taking a bath on yet another scentless soap- jamaa…name them?
rough yet smooth, raw yet ripe, tough yet soft, that be me!
with a little he-motion here and there, am ready yo go…or don’t they say that its soft deep inside?
but to be swallowed by this wave of seemingly wimpy creatures(no pun, but quite intended!) :i refuse!
the kind that take ages to prepare themselves (in the bathroom- what with all make up?) kila weekendie, they are at salons, queing with ‘other’ womenfolk for a re-touch, pedicure, manicure…
honestly, i’d feel quite uncomfy spending a night with such (you know those arrangements, dont misquote)….remember Terence Howard in ‘white chicks’?
manze, you may wake up upate umembamba ule jamaa mbaya uuuuuuuuii…(after getting derailed by your dreams and some sweet musk from your bedmate.