Celebrating East African Writing!
The Kenny G CD was playing softly in the background. A slower instrumental rendition of Barry White’s You are my everything.
It reminded him of when they first met. It was magical. It was at the Sherehe Siri Den in Kileleshwa. They were each dining alone and Barry White’s You are my Everything had been playing in the background. It was a warm evening as he read a magazine, dressed in a navy blue Marco polo shirt and khaki trousers with brown loafers, while having cocktail before ordering for dinner when she walked in. She stood at the doorway and within the elaborate Lamu doorframe. The Kodak moment was not lost on him. It was exquisite.
She was dressed in a black chiffon low cut blouse and ivory linen pants that accentuated her curves: voluptuous and sexy without being erotic. She carried an ivory clutch purse that matched her cream baby doll sandals. Her hair was held back with a large bow with hairclip to bring out her beauty. Light skinned with brown eyes, flustering eyelashes and shaped eyebrows that screamed aliveness and wide lips that had a cheeky about-to-smile look.
She gazed across the room to looking for a table. Though the patrons were not loud in their conversations, the tone seemed to go down a notch to when she stood there. Electric was the effect; quiet, yet full of energy.
“I could spend the rest of my life with this gorgeous woman,” was the immediate thought that waltzed through his mind.
She found a table that, when she sat, she was in eye contact with him. As she settled down, she ordered for a glass of white wine. It came, and as she raised it, ever so elegantly, to her lips, their eyes connected. He raised one eyebrow; she gave her teasingly cheeky smile and with a manicured finger gestured for him to join her. He stood up, and with a self-assured gait, joined her at her table.
“I am going to spend the rest of my life with this handsome man,” were the first words she uttered.
Back to their Lake Naivasha home on this Saturday evening. The breeze accentuated the ambience of the room. The room that was warm courtesy of the heater that hummed rhythmically near the wall. They had switched it on when they came in from yet another working safari; she, from Lusaka, Zambia and him from a two-week seminar at the coast.
This was going to be their first Saturday alone in a long time.
They had taken hot baths and now in the unspoken conversation, he was lying on the king size bed that was generously draped with black silk sheets that were edged with burgundy strips. The dimmed low wattage warm lighting bounced off softly from the peach and cream coloured walls of the expansive bedroom. There were paintings; kikoi hangings and other artifacts from all over Africa that gave the room a tasteful yet comfortable setting.
It was going to be a most wonderful Saturday evening.
He was lying on his stomach and she got astride him, and she, too, wore nothing. She poured some of the heated baby oil, blended with lavender and other aromatic oils, onto her soft palms, rubbed them together and spread it gently but firmly along his back. The effect was electric and immediate. As she massaged his shoulders, all cares and worries seemed to ooze out and he relaxed. He wavered between deep sleep and yet somewhat conscious of his surroundings. The music, the breeze, her breathing, and her thighs that so nurturingly and protectively encompassed him and still, he was out of this world.
This was bliss, pure bliss.
She leaned forward after she’d massaged his legs. Her soft breasts touched his now glistening back, she sweetly lingered as she breathed in his ear and then ever so softly she whispered, “Darling, please turn now.”
And as I turned, I woke up. Damn! I had been dreaming again in my bed-sitter in Buru Buru phase 3.
I had taken a nap as there was no electricity when I came in at 4:30pm. I reached out for my mobile to check the time and it was only 7:33 pm. Still no electricity. Damn these KPLC folks, if only they could stick to their rationing programme.
It was going to be a loooong Saturday evening, alone, again.
© Chris Lyimo 2009
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