One day you’ll get to walk
through the paths, dusty and beaten, of this village in a remote part of Uasin
Gishu County. On that day, there’ll not be anything except orphaned children,
neglected mud-walled houses, lands that have been permanently left to fallow
and young men wallowing in the fate that has befallen them. They’ll be chewing miraa, while fondling
plastic Coca-Cola bottles with clear liquids inside if you peer closely. They (these
young men) will be fathers to their own siblings and would be mulling about the
day their parents went wrong. Today I’ll do you a favour. I’ll walk you through half the journey. I’ll
walk you well in advance before that day comes. Be warned though that this is
subject to exaggeration on my part and it would have been really great if you
walked it by yourself. Let’s begin the journey.
Here, you will catch a glimpse of
lands with cypress trees grown on the edges, pruned to the tip. You will wonder
how this is possible and give up when you realize that it is a vanity. ‘There have
pruning drones, ‘I‘ll lie to you. ‘Haven’t you seen them?’ I’ll ask to rouse
your amusement. Mud-walled houses with
rusty tin roofs and many of them grass thatched line haphazardly along the
dusty road. Maize plants on these lands speak of neglect. Weeds have choked
their growth and most are have very thin stalks with barely anything to
harvest. You’ll notice the road painted white from chewed maize stalks. It’s a delicacy
during this time of the year.
On the east of this village lies
a more affluent village. Large trucks of land where wheat and maize plantations
stop your eyes. If it’s your first time, you will find it delightful and you
will give in the temptation to take selfies to brag to so many people who don’t
know you on social media. Lonesome bricked houses stand solitarily either in
the middle or at the edge. There are those who let reason prevail and found it
worthwhile to construct their houses close together, but still on their farms.
It’s called Chebaon. It would qualify to be a leafy suburb. Let’s call it a
leafy village. Yes, Lavingtone.
To the west of Chebaon is Kaoni,
where my story is set. A river separates these two villages. Here you will
access Kaoni through a dilapidated bridge, constructed when there was still
very little difference between the two villages, when Chebaon had very few
residents and those who had settled found it worthwhile to have neighbours who
they would occasionally borrow each other salt when it became extremely
impossible to get to the nearest Kiosk. And they needed a proper bridge. Who
would walk through a wooden plank in the dark? The present doesn’t allow that. Chebaon is
almost not a village. A village is rather a backward word that denotes a people
who are clueless about civilization. People here upgraded their television sets
to pay TVs while the other village still is clueless about television. The
other village supplies labour to Chebaon. And that’s the biggest difference.
The kids of Chebaon parents
attend the best schools that could be found in the region. Kaoni kids attend
local primary schools and in Chebaon, the only school which hosts kids from
other villages but its own. Chebaon in very simple terms is a home of people
who don’t live there.
Across the river, you’ll find
grass thatched houses standing like they’ll collapse any minute. Some even have
poles placed to support the leaning houses. The mud-walled houses reveal a
sorry state. You’ll see kids dressed in rags, which mostly entail an adult’s
shirt or sweater, playing innocently outside these houses. They care less, just
relishing in their innocence. One will lend a wail to the rather quiet village,
having exhausted means of winning a contest against another who apparently is
stronger than him or her. An older kid
will prevail on the young ones and soon the games go on. They will be engrossed
till pangs of hunger cannot be contained anymore. Luckily you won’t be here to
see that. I’m just being too generous by telling you this.
One of those mud-walled houses belongs
to a village elder. He has many children some his own, some not. The
extraordinary thing is he doesn’t care about them. Everybody knows he flogs his
wife thoroughly yet they will rush to him with domestic cases. Everybody knows he doesn’t contribute a penny
to his children’s upkeep. Their mother can send them away for ages and he won’t
badge an eyelid. He could be tempted to ask where they are and the wife’s stern
reply would be, “is there anything you want to give them?” He spends all his
time away from his home except in the mornings when he milks his cows, (he
trusts no one when it comes to his cows.) and when he’s surveying his inherited
piece of land, scavenging for something to sell. He is a father, but this title
is largely ceremonial. Once he beat his wife senseless, leaving her unconscious
and went to tell his kids to go and pick their dead mother.
This elder runs the village. He solves
the issues that are way below the scope of the sub-chief. He solves small
squabbles that family heads find too tasking to tackle like when the wife wants
a more sober approach to their persistent squabbles, sometimes over the excess amount
of tea leaves in his tea.
As you walk through the dusty
paths, you won’t fail to feel something ominous in the air. People here seem lethargic.
They portray a picture of a people who’ve lost hope such that they view
strangers with contempt, like they’ve been sent to take away what’s left of
them and for them. They seem like orphans. They seem they are scared more by
what they know than what they don’t. Their greetings are hurried, like one is a
bearer of bad news, of death perhaps.
The animals too, tethered by the
road side, have that look of their owners. Cows are herded along the roads.
Trees sway sensually to the wind, almost often against its will. Young men will
be sitting aimlessly along the road, waiting vainly to ogle at a girl’s
posterior. Here girls are mothers, their innocence taken away at the earliest
opportunity. Their eyes stare at
something invisible, the hands clutching impalpable pain. You will be tempted
to look at what they are looking at, may be stretch your hand to feel what they
feel when their hands are tightly folded. Nothing will yield more disappointment
when all you feel is a rough hand born of many hours foraging for food, for
The disease is in the air. No one
wants to talk about it. I feel it every time I inadvertently stroll through
this village. There are people am afraid for, the guys we played football
together before I left for where it would be easier to cross to greener
pastures. The journey is almost complete. A few days and I’ll be done. I’ll
show the homes of my childhood enemies. One time they beat me and ran away. I spent
almost all my lower primary break time trying to revenge. It’s been ages since I
last saw them. I want to meet them and ask them if they still remember the
source of our squabble.
That little squabble is among the
minor things I remember. Even the day I was flogged thoroughly for a mistake I’m
still trying to fathom to date doesn’t rank highly-part of the minor memories. There
was this day when the fight against AIDS was in full swing. It was in the
curriculum. It was around 2003 and 2003. The head teacher would gather us at
random times and tell us about this disease that doesn’t have cure. There was a
song she’d sing.
Tell them about AIDS slowly
So that they don’t say they didn’t understand.
And she did spoke of it at
lengths. And more importantly slowly. It got me scared, I don’t know how it
struck the rest. I stayed off girls as much as I could. One day the school organized
an HIV/AIDs awareness day. We all trooped to a neigbhours house to see for
ourselves what AIDS could do to a human body. We saw gory videos, of very thin
people whose bones were about to escape from their bodies. Effects of AIDS. We also
saw of other sexually transmitted diseases. They were equally gory. Unsightly. Nauseating.
All that and my friends didn’t take
it seriously. I wonder what happened to their brains. Now they are chewing
miraa, staring at their futures fade away. Like they want to salvage, they
clench their fists, gnaw their teeth. But it’s too late.
Tell them about AIDS slowly
So that they don’t say they didn’t understand.
I hope your regrets have this
sound track. Wait for your fate. Or guide it to a more favourable ending.
Leila had just closed school. After a few exchange of
pleasantries through text she asked when I’d be around so that I could buy her
a drink. She said her favourite was Chrome. I wondered. Chrome! Odd name for alcohol. I mean there’s Kenya
Cane, Kenya King, Konyagi, Meakins [I can name almost all the brands of cheap
liguor-I belong to this class]. Names weren’t yet exhausted to warrant someone
naming a vodka Chrome. Like someone woke up one day with a stiff hung over from
the other liquors and said, ‘I’m gonna make me a liquor and name it Chrome. I’m
gonna make Chrome more than just a browser.’ Five years from now a deep voice
will emanate from our speakers….when
chrome was just a browser….
My interest was irked. Trouble is I hadn’t enough problems
in my Problem Bank to make me visit the liquor store. Every time I felt the
urge of communing with eagles I was always repulsed by the Problem Bank
customer care. Sweetly she’d say, ‘You have insufficient problems, please find a
woman and call back.’ That’s when I realized how it sucked to live without
problems. The world would suck even more without problems. There’d be no
politics and worst of all journalists would be jobless. Imagine a world like
that! A world where people wake up, make love with only their wives, eat, pray
and make love again [with their wives only-this is important]. The world would
be so freaking boring.
Back to chrome.
So am heading home with my paps. The sound track to our
silent conversations has always been Franco’s music. He has an album that he
plays every single time I’ve been on that car with him. We drive reveling in
our awkward silence. Franco belts his tunes. I used to hate such kind of music.
Now I don’t, how else would I survive a six hour journey? We stop at Nakuru. He
had some business to attend. He disappears and I spot a huge Chrome advert on a
billboard. There was a dude dressed stylishly, with shoes that glowed around
the edge of the sole. There were curvy colorful lines imposed on him but not
enough to make him indistinguishable. The photo was taken while he was dancing
to some hip hop music, I guess, because his hands were in the air and he stood
on his toes. Below him was a fancy slogan I forgot to remember. The clear
target of this drink was the young broke ass people. Just like me. RRP 180.
‘I’ll buy it one day’ I promised my liver.
We get home in the wee hours, the kind my high school principal
used to call satanic hours. That was just one of the few punchlines he managed
to pull. One day he claimed our parents were the poorest South of Sahara and
north of Limpopo. If weren’t peaceful enough we’d have lynched his car [one of
his]. Looking back our parents sure had to be. I mean if you can build a
multi-million house immediately after purchasing a Toyota Rav 4, everybody had
to be poor surely. I retrieve my bag from the car boot and prance about
indulgently. There is something about the village; fresh air, no noise except
dogs barking occasionally and cocks crowing-the air is generally serene.
Something about home. No matter how long you’ve been away
everything will always seem normal. No matter how changes have taken place it
will still be the same place you left a few years or months back. It will still
I should meet Leila, I thought basking on a rock by the
stream. I always check on this rock occasionally, but almost always, when I
want to clear my mind. The gurgling stream offers the best beats as the birds
sing recklessly up the trees. A few texts later we strike a deal. We’d meet the
next day, a Sunday. As usual she says she doesn’t have fare. You get a cookie
for guessing what I did. Bingo! You got it right.
Is it impatience or is it that girls drag themselves
deliberately when they agree to meet you? Or it could be my own problem? She
had promised to leave her place at 3.30, add another hour and she’d be there. At
four I was there, spruced up. I called. She doesn’t pick. I call again. No
answer. An hour later she calls. I rushed out from this dinghy movie place,
where retards catch Dj Afro movies. I forced myself in, for time to move. I’d
missed Dj Afro anyway, and that was enough an excuse. This is also the place we
catch football. Here the roof is dust infested. Woe unto you if a belated
Arsenal fan jumps in jubilation, worse still for a replay of goal. It’s not
rare to find people celebrating a replay, especially when their team’s behind.
I think they should ban replaying from different angles because many people
here confuse for another goal.
Leila says she’d be leaving her place in an hour. That’s makes
it two. Thinking of two grueling hours in a dinghy place, coupled with sweaty
human beings, crammed in one place and the hotness of the place prompts me to
ask what’s keeping her that long. I call her back immediately she hangs up. She
picks up and barks.
‘I just told you I’ll be there in an hour….is it this money
that you are desperate about. I can send them back…’ and she hangs up just like
that. Without according me an opportunity of reply. Meager money. I couldn’t count
the amount of money Sportpesa and African Spirits Limited have gobbled
up-probably a thousand over.
Why would she be irked by a hundred shillings? Why would she
even think I would be at a loss with a mere hundred shillings? Just because she
wouldn’t be around wouldn’t mean I wouldn’t get where I was to go [apply your
poetic knowledge or lack of it]
Just stay wherever you
are, do whatever you are doing with whomever you are with, however you lie it. Got
nothing to lose. I text her and head to this pub. It doesn’t have
a name now but three years ago it use to be called Metro Pub. It’s deserted. I count
only two tables, with a huge space between them. Three high stools are around
the counter, unoccupied. Kalenjin music pierces the air. I look around and
notice a drunk light skinned girl cuddling or seemed an old rugged looking man.
I don’t want guess his age, cheap liquor has a way of aging someone embarrassingly.
May he’d just cleared his fourth form. The girl rises once the song changes. I didn’t
even notice the change, but I know it was Chelele before as it is now. She dances
around trying to move her rigid backside to this Chelele song. Well, all Chelele songs are the same. And she
has the guts to call herself Binti Osama! How would you allow to be killed by a
non-entity? Oh, I guess your dad wasn’t there to protect you, blame it on
order Chrome. This is where we make acquaintances with Chrome.
I hope you aren’t slow like the browser,
‘We only have this,’ a motherly waiter says plainly. Trouble
with all the pubs around here is there aren’t any beautiful waiters. No even
one. And the serve you in those coloured plastic cups. I see a green liquid
‘Aren’t all supposed to be like this?’ I regretted saying this;
probably I’d be thought as an amateur drunkard. Knowing I don’t know she’d be
at liberty to charge me any amount. And that’s robbery considering the fact
that I’ve emerged from Muthurwa’s unnamed pubs on my goddamn feet. Skilled drunkard!
‘Lemon flavoured, ‘ she says, devoid of any emotion. A rock
would say the same words without altering anything.
Green, blue, yellow….whatever (Breaking Bad fans). I want to
taste Chrome. I grab it and she demands cash. Like I just stumbled into the
pub. I reach for my pocket and retrieve a two hundred shilling note. I hand it
to her and she hands me a glass. For the first time I see a glass. Maybe first
timers are served in glasses, like most homes do to visitors. Those reserved
utensils, you know. I pour a little and gulp it down and waited. Nothing happened.
I poured some more and gulped. Nothing happened. The music still sucked. The two
lovebirds were still miserable. Me too. Leila is distant. Like she’s never
existed. May this Chrome is as slow as the one am used to. I pour half the
glass and gulped down.
Then, without notice everything turned beautiful. The music
became the best sound one could ever hear. The ugly couple looks sexy. The motherly
bartender looks sexy too. I want to rise and gyrate whatever I have. That would
wait, I think.
Then she calls. Leila calls. I look at the phone and toss it
aside. She calls again. Same procedure. She calls once more. Same procedure. She
texts. I look at the text.
Doesn’t sound real.
I mean it.
You’d have texted immediately. Not three hours later
Just received the text now
I’ve haven’t seen yours too, will check them tomorrow. Good
More and more sorries come in. I’m sorry for her because I wasn’t
even reading them. Minutes later, after clearing my drink, I summon a boda boda
guy. Ten minutes I’m fumbling with the door lock, it isn’t actually a lock but
a nail driven into the edge of the door and curled, just to keep the door in place
but not for security.
It’s rather a strange thing to do
today. I’ve found courage and now am raring to go. I want to forget you not
because you ever did anything bad to me but because I need to think of fresh
things from now on. Truth is, I’ve found it hard to keep you out of my mind. I
have raised the rent but you still afforded it, lowered the standards but you
still found it fit to live in an abhorrent and deplorable world. I almost left
my mind for you, but upon knowing I need it more than you do, I’d like us to
strike a deal. Lets part ways in the most amicable manner such that we can
greet each other on the streets, corridors and may be sometime we grab a drink
without looking like strangers or seeking to patch old differences.
Ever since you walked into this
anodyne life of mine I’ve been haunted by the illusion of keeping up to an
impossibly high ideal. I’ve tried to act like the man you wanted. I’m haunted
still by the thought of us never having amounted to anything. For these haunting
thoughts I’ve had to act like an animal around you: talking trash, doing silly
stuff and now you think I bear a grudge against you. Actually I do. I wanted
revenge to what I considered a callous attitude on your part. But I would
provide you what you sought and you had to seek it elsewhere. I wanted you to desperately want me. I wanted
you to find me irresistible without trying to look like it. I wanted you to
think of me as much as I think about you (the culmination is this letter).
This letter is a pact on my part.
I’m accepting everything as it is. I’ll let you be you without subjecting you
to any judgments. I’m accepting you are you and there are things you seek in
life that might not be favourable, at least to me, but are to you. I’m
accepting everything as it is. I’ll treat everything I’ve heard of you like a
rumour; like those peddling it are merely envious of you.
I didn’t see a reflection of me
in your eyes. I didn’t want to. I treated you with suspicion and I don’t want
to find out if I unjustly did that or not. I’m satisfied of what became of us
and I will be more than contented with what you choose to do with your life.
I’m letting my mind free of you. Let me think about you when I see you.
It’s Friday. No one
recognizes it more or better than a jobless Nairobi lady, a hooker and
university students. They all are of the same mettle, all with the some needs.
It’s not an ordinary Friday. The month is approaching its final quarter and
many wallets have been excessively worked out. Some are malnourished. Some are
but a mere burden. It’s cold, a typical July weather. Tracy lay on the couch
alone. Her boyfriend Geoffrey should have been around to cuddle had it not been
for her niece‘s unprecedented visit. The last thing she wanted was to be a bad
example……. no, an inconvenience to her niece−she was grown up. May be she even
knew more than her aunt, she turned on the couch.
Tracy had her Samsung
Galaxy S3 smart phone in her hands, both the television and home theatre
remotes resting on her belly. Westlife music wafted through the room. She would
occasionally sing along. It calmed her. It made her feel in control of her
thoughts. She would imagine Geoffrey singing to her ear in his rough and rugged
voice. She loved to hear his distorted rendition. Pleasant ripples went through
her body at that very moment. She smiled to let the memory go away.
She checked her phone
again and again. All she could see were messages her girlfriends inquiring if
there was a party they would get crash or she’s been invited. She hated
replying back with a negative. She has always been the girl they looked up to
when it got to having fun−drinking and dancing till dawn without parting with a
single cent. They would admit that it was dangerous but would brush it off with
‘we have only one life’ or ‘soon we will be married.’ The only had one chance
and it was while they still studied. Tracy, like most of her friends, was post
graduate students at the University of Nairobi. Her niece, Stacy was also a
student at the same institution.
At the very instant of
thinking about Stacy, she knocked on the door with a smile on her face. She
couldn’t recall a day she wore a frown on her chubby face.
“What kept you that
long?” Tracy asked, just to talk to her. She was not interested in her answer.
“I met some
friends who kept me long, regaling stories of what they’ve been up to…..by the
way they invited me to a party that they’ve invited to………”
“Where?” She cut her short.
rumour has it that a prominent politician will be in attendance,” Stacy said
with a blush.
“Will you accompany me?”
Stacy jibed in with a giggle that revealed a dimple on her left cheek.
The process of making up
their already good faces began. Tracy hated it. She hated staring at herself in
the mirror applying chemicals on her face. She hated the rigour that
accompanied choosing attire for a night out. But she had to look good, perhaps
better than any lady in the house that night. It came with many goodies:
spanks, stares, complements, cheers and the most coveted of all, drinks from
the richest and handsome.
At the end of the
evening she had settled on a tight fitting black polka dotted dress that went
way above her knees. Her niece had settled for a pair of jeans and a purple
top. They were all ready went a cab pulled into their apartments parking lot.
It was deserted, silently proclaiming that the tenants were already out having
“Good evening hookers?”
The cab greeted them in a heavy Kikuyu accent.
“Were you sent to insult
us?” Tracy fumed.
“That was not an insult.
It’s a whole world of truth. Do I suppose you are theMheshimiwa’sdaughters, eh? Beauty will ruin you
girls.” He said as they settled uneasily into the back seat. Tracy looked into
the mirror and caught him staring may be her thighs.
“Shut up and drive!” a
visibly agitated Stacy fumed.
Quite moments ensued as
the black saloon car eased into the light Nairobi traffic−people had been
forced by brokenness to take their cars off the road. Everybody seemed
engrossed in their thoughts, desperately hoping that somebody will break the
silence. Tracy stared at the tinted cars wheezing past them. She felt like
asking the driver to press the gas pedal much harder but checked on herself
when she recalled the sneers they had to contend. She seemed to be the only
lady who loved speed. Her friends had joked about her being so early for her
own funeral days before she died. Stacy sat silently. She was calm and seemed
unbothered. She loved her life the way it was. She was busy on her phone,
sexting perhaps as Tracy observed they way she would broadly smile periodically
before hitting the send button.
The cab pulled up in an
exquisite parking lot of the Renault Apartments. Everything spoke of affluence:
a beautifully manicured lawn, expensive cars parked and a certain kind of
fragrance that had a close affiliation with wealth. This is where sinners
converge to multiply their transgressions. This is where married men sought
solace in the ever open arms and legs of university students without worrying
of cameras and their hawk eyed wives. This is where married men regained their
masculinity among university lasses. It was secure too: there was no chance of
being blown up by terrorists as had become the norm in this part of sub-Saharan
They alighted. Tracy
adjusted her dress. A uniformed guard rushed to their side and asked them to
register before proceeding to where they’d be hosted. Tracy tried to protest
but her niece exhorted her to comply with the directive. They strutted to the
miniature shelter that housed the watchman. Tracy was visibly annoyed by the
idea and she didn’t hide her anger.
“We are not about to
blow this place or make away with anything.Kwaniwhere do you have to register to have
The guard entered their
names and identification numbers in a register. It was new and their names
appeared third and fourth in the register. Tracy peered and noticed that all
the names were feminine. It still safe now, she thought as Stacy took
directions from the watchman as she texted. Tracy was all of sudden bored and
she seemed to contemplate why she had hoped into a party which she wouldn’t
even explain without arousing suspicion. She fell low on the list. She even
failed to understand how they would be chauffeured into a party where a friend
invited a friend who invited a friend and that friend asked her to come along.
Now they were are in Renault Apartments, earlier than those who asked them to
Aunt and niece took the
steps one at a time. Their stilettos struck the marbled stair case in unison.
Tracy kept quite. She seemed she hadn’t gotten over the altercation between her
and the watchman. Stacy on the other hand looked more composed than her aunt.
She seemed older and more mature, from the dressing to the facial expression.
On the first floor they met a young woman out to hang clothes. She looked at
them with spiteful eyes. It wasn’t anything new. Both of them had gotten used
to such stares from the fairer sex –their fellows. Those who perceived
themselves in the higher class looked down upon those who were the lowly and
the lowly despised those in the higher class. A woman is an enemy of her own.
Gender parity is a thing that should start with the women appreciating
themselves first and working together to tame the men, or at least have the
remotest ability to.
They reached the third
floor and turned right as they had been instructed. Slow music welcomed them
from afar. House number three hundred and four was the destination. A slim
young woman in her mid twenties ushered them in. She was clad in a cheap black
skirt that went slightly above her knees and a floral filled purple top. She
shopped in deplorable places such as Gikomba or Muthurwa, Tracy thought as they
settled on white leather couch. Tracy pulled her dress. It showed too much of
her thighs and they were no men around to admire them. There were only four
ladies in the spacious living room; two others and them. Stacy sat on her
right. Everything spoke of opulence: diamond encrusted chandeliers, thirty two
inch plasma television, a home theatre (the origin of the music), leather seats
and artifacts that hung on the wall−they were souvenirs from around the world.
A picture and a calendar hang conspicuously at one end, dwarfed by the
artifacts. The decoration would surely make a lady to go on one knee and beg
the owner of the house (not the landlord but the tenant) to marry her. It was
awe inspiring and breathtaking.
The lady who welcomed
them came back. It seemed she was satisfied that they had made themselves at
home. Or had had the opulence exhibited by the owner of the house sink into
them. She came with a request that had become too familiar to them.
“Whisky or wine?” She
asked with a contempt filled voice.
“Wine,” Tracy answered.
She didn’t bother to know what Stacy preferred. It wasn’t her who had the same
problem. Many have always assumed collective preference for drinks wherever two
people sit. Stacy would have loved to complain had it not been her choice too.
And they being strangers invited by third parties.
Minutes later she
appeared with a tray. She carefully placed two glasses on glass table. They
looked at the drink, each waiting for another to pick it first. The silence
that ensued, save for the Michael Bolton sounds coming from speakers placed at
the corners of the room, was disturbing. Tracy took a sip from the glass. Her
niece followed suit before her glass embraced the table. They sipped slowly at
long intervals. They didn’t want to get tipsy before the party started.
As the clock chimed at
nine, people started streaming in. Majority of them were girls. Slim. Fat.
Light. Dark. Happy and sad. All trooped in bubbling with contagious excitement.
Tracy would spot only two men glad in
black suits. Their eyes darted from girl to girl desperately longing to frisk
them. May be they were part of the security detail belonging to the dignitary
they were to entertain. How would ten of them or more entertain one man? There
sure were his friends and psychos who hang around him like a moth to source of
light. Most of the girls were half clad. They dresses desperately clung to
their bodies in an attempt to conceal the areas around the loins. The furrow on
their breasts ran until it disappeared in their stomachs. Their faces were
heavily made up. It outshone the bulbs that hung on the roof. Tracy and Stacy
looked like they were headed to church. Judging by the precedence set by the
other girls; theirs was decent by astronomical proportions.
The party started
immediately. The girls chatted animatedly, giggling and clapping, toasting and
ordering more. Tracy and Stacy were joined by another girl, a friend of Stacy.
She was the one who asked Stacy to come along. They were the silent ones. They
watched the lone waiter struggled to cope with their unruly behavior. Drinks
flowed swiftly from where they were stored. It became apparent that soon men
would have a good time without effort. They hadn’t even arrived except the two
men in black suits who were already trying to resist erotic glances from the
Tracy and her company
were busy discussing the latest trend in the fashion world that they hardly
noticed a man join them. He was clad in a loosely fitting pair of blue jeans
and a white shirt. He was clean shaven. He enchanted them with compliments
before asking to share the table with them. They obliged. He then called the
waiter who hurried to their table. Judging from her posture this was ‘the’ man.
He called the shots. The lady went back as the drunk girls escorted her with
slutty insults. Obeying the master was worth all the insults. She came back
with a bottle of whisky and four glasses. She wanted to pour it into the
glasses but the man excused her. He poured into the four glasses and requested
a toast. All the girls lifted their glasses and then took a sip simultaneously.
Tracy noticed more men in the room. All were busy groping the drunken girl’s
breasts some even their loins. They didn’t show any act of resistance. All
forms of it had been drained by one too many drinks. She knew it would escalate
and soon they would strip and quench their concupiscent thirsts right under
One more toast….and
another. She tried to resist and the man gave her that ‘I said so’ look. All of
them obliged begrudgingly, before stupor gave away their inhibitions. Tracy
began shouting for more alcohol. She rose, staggered around breaking glasses
and hurling expletives at any one that tried to stop her. She was very unruly
and had extraordinary strength. Stacy tried to calm her to no avail. The man
that they had been drinking with (they didn’t even ask his name) was visibly
angry. He mumbled something into the ears of one of the men in black suits then
disappeared. No one saw where he went to.
The men in black swiftly
approached Tracy. They grabbed her and forced her out. She screamed as kicked
but her resistance was no match to the muscular men. They shoved her out of the
door and came back. They sighed having executed their master’s orders
successfully. Tracy and her friend rose and headed for the door. They were
aware of the dangers Nairobi posed especially at that hour of the night. The
men in black told them point blank that the boss had said they were not leaving.
Stacy begged tears welling in her eyes. It met a resolute no from one of the
men. Stacy asked them to consider the safety of their friend at those wee hours
of the morning. One of the men told whispered into the ear of his colleague.
“The boss wants one of
you. We are going to bring her here and the remaining two of you belongs to us
for the night.”
They quickly agreed.
They opened the door and locked from outside Stacy wanted to ask why but the
thought of her aunt restrained her lips from parting. They hurriedly descended
down the stairs. In no time they were done. The watchman at the gate told them
that Tracy turned right and went retreated into his shelter. There was no
figure or even a silhouette of a woman in the flood lit road. They ran a few metres
before the men asked them to stop.
“She isn’t around and
the boss will be furious if he finds us missing. We can’t go any further,” one
of them said in a deep solemn voice.
“Please lets go just a
little distance, she might be around,” Stacy pleaded.
“NO! Let her be a meal
to starved Nairobi savages. You must honor our deal,”
“Shut up young girl!”
she was cut short. One grabbed her and the other her friend. Both were similar
in appearance, from the mode of dressing and their facial features. They well
built with muscular arms and broad chest. They grabbed them and dragged them
into the ditch which wasn’t well lit and had their way into them. It was more
of a quickie and the men buckled up their trousers and zipped them and asked
them to rise. Tracy had a difficult time pulling her tight fitting trouser up
her thighs. Her thoughts were on her aunt and not on their rape. At least they
were safe in their arms or so she thought. At last it made through and she
zipped as they made their way back into the den.
They stepped back into
the room to a cigar stained air. It was smelly when they left. A furious
‘boss‘greeted them at the door. He demanded to know why he was deprived his
status as a very important person to a deplorable prisoner and worse still in
his own house. The security aide cowered under his breath. Though they were
more muscular than he was they dared not challenge him and suddenly one
“These sluts tried to
escape…we….we captured these two but one managed to escape…..”
“What!!!??? You mean
after taking my expensive liquor you try to run away? What’s your name?”
“That’s not a name. Your
second name,” he thundered.
“Jeptum,” Stacy cowardly
replied. He pointed at her friend by elongating his lips.
night he had a crazy dream
A wish was granted just for him
It could be for anything
He didn't ask for money
Or a mansion in Kitusuru
He simply wished, for one more day with you
One more time
One more sunset, maybe he'd be satisfied
But then again
He knows what it would do
It would leave him wishing still, for one more day with you
First thing he'd do, is pray for time to crawl
Then he’d switch his phone off
And keep the TV off
He'd hold you every second
Say a million ‘I love you's’
That's what he'd do, with one more day with you