A love story, gone horribly wrong. A corpse, an older lover and the threat of jail.
Category: Short Stories
You come over to the kitchen, wrap your hands around me. You kiss my neck, and I giggle and blush like I am not a 43 year old woman. You whisper into my ear something nice. I push you away playfully.
You asked me a year ago why I loved you. I blushed. Then I said something about not having the words for it. Imagine that. A writer lacking the words to explain an emotion. I've thought about it long and hard. Of you, of me, of us. So here's your answer; a year later....this is why I love you.
She is on my bed. Her left leg is over mine and she is telling me she loves me. Yes, she has a boyfriend but it is me she loves. She will leave him. She just hasn't figured out how to do it. He is working in the big city. He sends her money every now and then. He doesn't ask for much. He only wants to see her once every month. I never ask what happens when she goes there. It is always the last Sunday of the month. He always sends her fare and some spare change in case she needs to buy something while traveling. Sometimes he calls her at night, when she is sleeping over at my place. He says her voice makes him sleep a little better. Just before he ends every call, he asks her.
For now though, he feels a new dialogue happening in his pants. One he particularly enjoys. She will feel it too. She will reach out to grab it. Gently at first then.... She will grab the back of his neck. His breathing will quicken. His ears will grow just a little bit hotter. She will stop kissing him. She will draw back. Look him straight in the eye, and say happily, I like you. She will kiss him again. And again. And again. A really small part of him will want to lift one leg up and lean into the kiss. Just a small part.....
The first time a man touched me, it was at home. I was barely 6 years old. My parents used to travel a lot for work. Most of the time, it was just me and the nanny. That afternoon, she was giving me a bath.
She said, "goodbye love." She then left immediately. His world broke. He knew she was serious when she left. A part of him knew it. I ask him, how did it feel when she was walking out? Like God had left him. Like everything good that ever happened to him was leaving with her.
My mum will go to church that day. She will sit at the edge of the wooden pew, on the fourth bench from the front. She has always sat there. Close enough to the altar, but not too close that everyone notices. She will pray. And because God is in her pocket, he will listen. Somehow, my many sins will be forgiven, I will see heaven, on the back of my mother's prayer.
When I leave for work, she walks me to the car. I ask her, "nikuletee nini?" She says, "kitu yoyote mzuyii." This is the reason the house is filled with silly trinkets. She's always happy with whatever I get her. A habit I'm hoping her mother will pick up.
I have erectile dysfunction. It hit me like a brick the first time. I had finally managed to get Achieng' to come over to my place. She was a difficult one Achieng'. She took a lot of convincing. Achieng', was and still is very easy on the eyes, with an ass that felt like Whitney … Continue reading Men who limp
I've always thought of how it feels for a girl to kiss a girl. Cherry lips kissing blood red lips. One's lips are strawberry flavored while the other's have some chocolatey infused goodness with hints of mint. Is there an explosion of taste in one's mouth?
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.
They smell of boyhood. He wonders if they know the singular joy of cupping a woman's breast in your hand and....