On Kampala road I meet a long line of women. Scantily dressed, with their nether regions winking at the moon. The moon blushes, and hides behind some clouds. They stand strategically at the doors of motels that charge between 100-300 bob for an hour....
The guitarist begins, slowly at first. Strumming a few lines that get everyone silent. He is the best in the country and everyone can see why. He strums it again. This time without letting go. The way a hungry lover devours his woman. As if every croon of her body was a hidden treasure willing him to find it. The guitar gives way to him. Churning out the most melancholic of tunes. The music carrying in its potency the sum total of the grief of a people. Then just before the singer comes on, he slows the guitar even further.
We grew up watching the TV series Suits, Boston Legal and White Collar. So forgive us, if we thought our first jobs would be in swanky offices that smelt of new currency. Earning a salary north of Ksh. 50,000 which came with a girlfriend who called me every morning to tell me she loved me. Instead, I found myself in industrial area. Getting intimate with sacks of relief food at the UNICEF Warehouses.
I have always loved girls with smoky eyes. Not thick thighs, just the eyes. I never quite understood why. Perhaps its because my best friends ex had those sort of eyes. And I always wanted to bed her.
He increases the tempo a bit. The moan escapes her lips without warning. She asks him to stop, he does not. Instead, he moves from one foot to the other. She thinks that of all the things this man can do well....
It has been 15 minutes now and the bus has moved only 9 inches. The city smells like the midnight moon drenched in 37 liters of water...The smell has a name, husk I think. An Indian once told me that the smell of rain falling on hot soil did things for him, a woman's touch could not. We are no longer friends with that gentleman.
Do you ever look at young lovers and pity them? The way their fingers find every excuse to intertwine. The simplicity, the genuineness of how much they like each other. The naivety of believing it is enough.
My first and only suggestion is to add the amount of alcohol in the Mojito. It is immoral to put a drink in any man's hand that will not give him a slight buzz...
I touch the words inscribed there..."Hapo Zamani." My husband's idea. To remind him. To remind us. That once upon a time she existed.
She tells me she misses him. Especially when she sees how much I resemble him. I ask her if she thinks I am as handsome as he was. She laughs, and heads out to call the doctor. Women….always avoiding questions. At the door she pauses, looks at me and says “If he was here, he would want you to fight to get well.” She runs out before I can say anything. It is her way of telling me to stay with her.
The men begin to talk specifically about how they will play the song at the funeral. They discuss this in low tones, listening to the song, writing down some notes as the continue to discuss. The deputy president can contribute nothing to this conversation. His skills are more attuned to manipulating the minds of the people than any musical instrument.
For some reason, she kept coming back to his bar. She was nice to him, unlike the rest of us in bars when we have a bit of money. Where we insist on calling waiters and bar tenders like dogs, "Wewe, leta mbili baridi!"
But before she went, she kissed me, and suddenly I was 18 again. Having just kissed Nina. The little princess that my heart pined after then. Her father having threatened to eat my balls if he saw me with her again. I would have risked everything for that girl, Nina. Her father found out about the kiss. He snitched to my mum about it. They collaborated in giving me the most fire of beatings I would ever receive. I remember every time the whip landed on my back. I thought of her lips, they looked like 2 slices of freshly cut beef about to be deep fried. Her lips in mine felt like a fresh mango, that has had the time to ripen, served with blood red pepper. They hurt and pleasured me in equal measure.
It is a bit sunny today, a stark contrast to the rains that have been falling vigorously this past few weeks. On a normal Saturday, the girls would be in class reading or at least pretending to be reading. The more enterprising ones would be at the school nurse, pretending to be sick. Just so … Continue reading If mama was here
The first time he kissed her. It was raining. He said he had just been walking past the girl’s hostel when it started to rain. He did not have a sweater. He had come to her room. He only wanted to keep warm until the rain passed.
He sips his beer again. His friends are still laughing but slower this time. They have not noticed his absence from them. He stands up, pretending to go to the washrooms. He instead heads to his car.
I remember the way he got my attention. Sneeky at first. He would comment on some of my posts on Facebook. I ignored him. So he found me on Instagram and sent me a Direct Message. Guess what his opening line was....
In my younger days, I was an avid fan of RnB music and especially of Leona Lewis. I swear this is not because of her thighs though I was willing to lose my virginity to them...ahem.
I'm seated in the dark. The window is open. My clothes on the floor. My panties on the kitchen table. I am not quite sure how they got there.
This is a national icon, just below our national anthem and above mutura, the national treasures. If you ever see the Great Grevy Zebra, as a patriotic Kenyan you stand up, hand over heart and salute it.
They smell of boyhood. He wonders if they know the singular joy of cupping a woman's breast in your hand and....
You pull the last suitcase to the door. You stand there looking even lovelier than you did the first time. You stop, and look at me. You ask if there is anything I would like to say. "Stay with me, please."
Then he will do what all men do in silence, cry. Silently at first, his manhood fighting to hold on to the last vestige of dignity.
He is lying there with a knife in his chest. The room smells like a butchery. Human blood is everywhere. She is crying her eyes out about not wanting to go to jail. The other girls are busy consoling her.
She hasn't felt like this in years. You can almost smell the sweat falling down her brow. Her tongue tastes like sweat. When the night started she had no idea she would be celebrating the new year in a toilet in Tribeca....almost naked.
I still remember it, the day she told me about it. We were seated in Java. The one just opposite Nation Centre. A long courtship had brought us here. Months of me asking, begging, bargaining even threatening. She finally relented to let me take her out. It wasn’t like I was out of options. … Continue reading FIGHTING WITH GOD
Love stories… some end the way they begun; silently. Without scarcely a whisper from the universe. It seems almost as if the gods of love do not care. And others, well….they begin the way you and I started. Two great stars in the heavens colliding. Whoever got caught up in between be damned. It was … Continue reading I’M I WRONG?
This is how it ends, or it is supposed to end. Music slow fading in the background. You, walking away, your hair shimmering slightly. Running off to catch your plane, me…promising to wait for you. But reality is a bit more believable.