I lost my virginity to a Nubian girl.
She was our house help. Her parents named her Samar, it meant evening conversations. I was 16 and she was 19. Her parents were a little poorer than we were. They figured there was no point in letting free labor sleep around their house. My mother paid her 3000 Bob a month, though the initial agreement was 5K. Mum , always quick to get a discount asked the girl to pay for her own food and board. That was the last time the issue of payment was raised.
The first kiss was an accident really. My mother was working, as always. My dad was somewhere fornicating with someone even younger. An empty house, a cold July afternoon and raging hormones, it was inevitable. She was done cleaning the house. I usually helped her when I was around. She liked to sing as she worked. She loved Lingala. There’s this song she particularly loved. I think it was called “Ndaya” by M’Pongo Love. It sounded like 2 lovers lips smashing into each other, both wet and tender at the same time.
suka se kotingama eeh,
ya ngai na mobali na ngai iih,
pantalo mokaba mama aaah,
tobalana kosukisa bilobela ango ya bato ooh,
likwela ya ngai na cherry suka lilita ma aah.
She had this little dance she did with her hips as she sung. Her waist gyrating oooh so slowly, while her upper body remained erect. Goodness! I can still see it.
We were watching TV, she liked it when I put up my feet on her lap. We always did this after the chores were done. The only difference was there was something in the air that day. She came on to me, nose first. We did it just like on TV. That first kiss was more teeth than lips but we managed. It really was a Physics problem. And once you understood how to use both your noses as fulcrums, you could settle in for a long and mostly enjoyable kiss. The only problem were my hands. They kept reaching out to her blouse. I assure you, even I did not know what they sought. I suspect centuries of my ancestors opening girls blouses had buried that skill deep into my DNA. Not that she minded it. In fact, she encouraged it. We were 2 ignorant children, embarking on a virgin journey, pun heavily intended.
She wasn’t wearing a bra on this particular day. Which I should add was most fortunate for me. I suspect had I had to open a bra, I would have happily given up. Once the last button on her blouse gave way, 2 shy eyes stared at me from her chest. Almost asking, “are you ready?” I wasn’t.
I stared at them too for a looong time. You see, I had only seen breasts in glossy Magazines that Kinyua used to sneak into school. Those women, usually white, had the most voluptuous breasts. I wondered often, especially during exams if they ever tired of carrying them. I would have given the world to help them.
Perhaps, I would have stared longer at those breasts had she not driven my face, forehead first into them. I never knew bliss like that. Swimming, oooh so sweetly in a sea of breast tissue. It was a pool I knew then, I would come back to again, again and again. It is at this point that I should mention that one nipple accidentally found it’s way into my mouth. I think it was the left one, or perhaps it was the right one. All I remember is sucking like my life depended on it.
Samar, bless her soul, made sounds that bordered on the manly. Kinyua later explained those were moans. The were guttural, emanating from somewhere deep. Her vocals evolving from the normal high pitched norm, to a D flat. Had you been unlucky enough to eavesdrop on our tryst, you would have thought I was strangling the dog. Speaking of dogs, my mama owned a dog, aptly named Simba! Simba on this day, sat quietly on the floor and watched as I made a fool of myself with the Nubian girl. He must have shivered internally wondering what happened to the men of this generation. In Simba’s heydays a man went straight for the kill, not this kissing nonsense. I digress.
I would like to report that after undressing Samar we had a long, long mating session. That I expertly maneuvered her curves. Stopping ever so often to kiss slowly the mountain tops and to lick the valley bottoms. That I used my fingers deftly. Using only the index and middle fingers. Strumming it like a Nyatiti to the sounds of Emma Jalamo and Musa Jakadala. Slowly at first Jaber. Then as her body responded, picking up the pace a bit. Plucking it now to the beats of “Elector Nyarkano.” Her body being the electric guitar and I was Madanje Perimeter until I stopped. Suddenly.
So that she was not sure what to expect.
I waited for a long 2 seconds, as she caught her breath. This time not strumming but rubbing it against her vaginal walls. Finding a bean shaped oasis. Camping my finger’s tent on it. Claiming it as mine, naming it after my ancestors. Perhaps I kissed her thighs. Near the knees first, moving closer and closer to her softness. All while rubbing against her bean shaped oasis. That I dived in tongue first. Using my tongue’s tip to separate the folds of Maya Angelou because she was that deep. Kissing it, loving it, holding it. And it kissed me back, loved me and tried to cuddle with me. That she started shaking and for the first time Simba barked. Perhaps worried that the girl who fed him was dying, and he would be left with me. Under whose care he would most surely die a long painful, hunger filled death. Samar’s muscles quivering from pleasure. From her mouth emanated prayers, threats and thanksgiving in quick succession. That she called onto her ancestors first, thanking them each for their role in this. Then the Christian God who most surely objected to this but must otherwise be thanked. Finally, to me the owner of the holy rod, who without using it had brought blessings of wetness upon her land.
When she was finally ready.
It was as if the floods of River Gulu opened. Amidst her ululations disguised as heady moans, water came forth and I was washed clean.
Instead, the truth is I lasted a mere 17 seconds. Simba walked off in a huff. Disappointed in my ability to single handedly shame the entire male species. He would never look at me the same way or take food from my hand. I do not blame.
Samar stayed in the sitting room longer. She would wake up later to go wash herself. On her face you could see it. She understood. It was my first time after all. Her expectations had been low. The story on her chest was different though. Those eyes, fixed eternally on her breasts, drooping, were unforgiving. It was written all over them.
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Tuonane next week!