It is five in the evening, on a Wednesday. And you are from doing your last exam for that semester. The hardest of all, a paper wrapped a beautiful name, communication research II, instead of advanced statistics. And you feel like someone who has been sitting on your back just left, but you are still bent because you are somehow broke. Broke guys are never happy, but again the thought of being through with your exams excites you, and plunges you into a world of ‘what now?’
You have had these solitaire moments in your life when everything good is succeeded by a much worse thing. Looking at where you have come from, you tell yourself, I ain’t letting no damn thing weigh me down. Deep inside you are wrecked but you chose to tell the world everything is under control. You brutally refuse to cry in the public.
You grab your earphones and listen to Franco Luambo, Madilu and the likes. You are pretty sure that you don’t understand anything but the beats, damn! They send you to cloud nine. They are the kind of beats that help you whine slowly, and get your thoughts together. It is obvious that you are no Jamaican riddim guy where people dance on the floor with their bottoms up and their heads facing mother earth.
Telling yourself ‘it’s gonna be okay’, you decide to stroll a bit and get your head straight. Maybe some fresh air can do miracles, or a blessing may come your way. So you walk in silence, lost in your own thoughts. You can feel the warmth of other people around you as you walk, you can feel their broad smiles chanting their way to you, you can see their bright faces rueful and contented, but holy you!
Something is eating you inside, and you can tell it is bad, because even the music is not soothing you at all. Music is supposed to cheer you up, you are just hearing it half happy half dead. Your emotions become hard and dry. Each person you come across looks at you funnily. Did that just happen? You ask yourself. Why did she look at me like am a weirdo?
So look back in a manner that denotes war. She is looking at you and your eyes meet. You have seen those eyes before. You have held that face before, but you can’t recall where. You have kissed those lips before, you have seen that body nude before…but where?
You look familiar!
You think of saying, so do you but you opt to reply rather differently.
Mmhh! You pretend you didn’t hear her ask anything. You stop and face her eyes wide open and strained, like those once you called bedroom eyes when you shagged her.
She paces back a bit and says hey.
You spot a smile building from the corner of her lips and you quickly infer what that means. And you wet your lips with your tongue as you say a prolonged hey.
Heey! Long time no see, huh! It is pretty sure that you hardly remember her name because it is almost four years down the line.
Long time, me good. Look at you, you looking all good.
But do I say, you forgot that I have grown up a lot.
Oh yeah, you even got a huge beard now!
Are you kidding! I had this from back in the days.
Sure, but you changed boy.
You can feel her taking you back to the times. She is more beautiful than ever, and ripe than she would ever be. She is full and you can’t resist looking at her like you just got out of jail, where you had seen no lady for 6 years straight.
What have you been up to?
Are you sure you want to subject me to an interview in this state?
Not really, we can find a spot if you like and catch up a little. She says.
Sure, why not?
Heading somewhere specific?
Nop, just getting my head around with a little stroll
What of if we go to my house. It is more comfortable I guess.
A bloody evening starts to spice up. A human conversation takes over as you roll to her house, oblivious of any other plans you had. Listening to the graphite below your boots as she walks heavily, you can’t avoid admiring her humongous ass.
It is quite true when they say you never get enough of a good woman. She is like a mango tree that keeps producing more and more mangoes. And each time you can’t restrain yourself from throwing stones at it.
When you look at her with a different kind of eye now you see the beautiful woman you once knew. It is just a few moments you have met after four years and already it feels like you have been together for all that long while. Everything has changed but looks like you are still the same people you were four years ago. That same thirst suddenly returns to your throat and you can’t explain what you feel. Even as you walk in half silent half chatterboxes deep down each of you can feel that the other is thinking of you.
Before you she sets a well cooked meal. Her house is just an ordinary one but well maintained, from the recent lovely purple paint of the walls, the flowery curtains that drawl easily to the base of the floor, a Samsung plasma TV on the wall cabinet and the nice sofa sets set across the living room spaciously, sending an implication of sense of style. Everything else resembles her and depicts a good life anyway.
You are tempted to ask her, have you been riding on a sponsor lately? Four years ago she was 20 and seriously with a broke ass. She had no education, no job, no nothing. All she ever was was a cheap couple of dollars earned by selling her ass at a night club. Her house was in a small ghetto that had small substandard one roomed cribs that resembled a pile of dung spread all over. She had broken kuyu English. When you met her that night she was drawn to you. She looked you with a different kind of eye, not like a customer but like someone connected to her in a way she could not understand.
Back then when you met, you were sitting at the dark corner of the club sipping your whiskey in untamed manner, head poised and mind wandering what she was doing there, hanging from a pole. She saw that look in your eye, the one that suggested that you were questioning her innocence. And the judgment gaze that you held upon her made her feel guilty.
Hours later you were sitting around the same table. She saw your eyes straight to hers, and a silent connection of you two was up and it was unexplained when both of you talked at the same time, you gave her a chance- Go ahead, ladies first.
Your arm was up; a bottle of champagne was popped because that was what she preferred. From the way she held her glass you concluded that she had held more glasses than you have, and she had probably drank from more bottles than you had done, and hung from poles, a thing you hadn’t done yet, and sat on the same table with men often than you ever did with ladies. But with you it was more of intimate sharing of feelings. That table held the mystery, and before her you felt she was no longer was a night club hommie.
That particular night you had her particulars between your arms, her nudity was before you and you wrecked her mercilessly. It was the best night you ever had, one of the best she ever had because she told you so later. Later on you talked had a powerful conversation, one which changed her life after she left your place.
It is that one moment that changed her life to this moment. And when you look at the changed her, you feel your heart cripple and cave in for a moment. You discern that maybe she got married, and any moment might make you regret if her husband shows up unannounced and finds you in his living room, with her woman serving you the best of meals, and watching your favourite program from his telly. And it will be trouble that you will loathe, ominous and unforgettable.
Her food is so tasty that you can’t talk, you may break the sweetness pattern that comes with that meal. Every time a bolus goes down the throat, an eminent feeling of sweetness lingers on there and you wish it should never end.
Then comes that look again. It reminds you of that moment when you first held her face in your palms. It was like molesting an innocent kid but at the same time feeling good about it. It is an invitation to something you two can’t say in words.
Down goes the clothes…heaves….and then kisses… and massage, and caressing increases…lingerie drops and you can feel the freshness of each other. The weak sounds, squeaks of the bed and soft moans fill the air. It is a great way to end the night.
As you finish your business…you remember that you had no condom on, but you brush that thought off and sleep your way to the morning.
Mzangila Writing Masterclass Registration still on. The first group of 40 is filled. You can register in the second group, that will start their lessons on February.
charges: kshs. 500 for students and kshs. 1000 for non students.
Deadline for group 2 will on 15th January.
photo credit: pinterest