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.
“Renault Apartments,
rumour has it that a prominent politician will be in attendance,” Stacy said
with a blush.
“Can I…..”
“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
fun.
“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 the Mheshimiwa’s daughters, 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
Africa.
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. Kwani where do you have to register to have
fun?”
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
come along.
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
drunken girls.
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
their glare.
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,”
“But…”
“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
blurted:
“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?”
“Stacy.”
“That’s not a name. Your
second name,” he thundered.
“Jeptum,” Stacy cowardly
replied. He pointed at her friend by elongating his lips.
“Chebet,” she barely
whispered.
