Celebrating East African Writing!
Hi, I’m a tampon.
“Ati a what?” I hear you gasp in shock. “These things shouldn’t be talked about in public. Are you crazy?!”
What do you mean we can’t talk about these things in public? Kenya is a free country, ama? Freedom of expression is guaranteed in the constitution, isn’t it? Though am not sure of what chapter of the book this guarantee is scribbled in.
Yes, you. I’m talking to you. Isn’t it?
“Okay, it’s a free country, Tampon. Tell us your story,” I hear you say.
Cool. Let me start again. Hi, I am a tampon and you can call me Mr. T. The picture of the burly African-American actor with a neo-punk hair cut has popped up in your mind, hasn’t it?
Well, right-click your mouse on the man’s picture. Now scroll down the drop-down list and click ‘Delete’. Then click ‘Yes’ on the window that pops up.
Ah, there! We have a clear mind now, don’t we?
Where was I? Oh, yes. I’m Mr. T and I am in a supermarket shelf. There’s eleven other tampons in the bluish packet that we are packed in. (The dirty dozen? hhmmm.)
We were put here in this packet a month ago in a factory where we were manufactured.
“How do you look like?” I hear you ask.
Let me think for a second…uhmm… OK, imagine an inverted, white, standard candle. No, not the giant church ones. Just regular ones. Now narrow down the length and diameter of the cylindrical candle wax. And then lengthen its wick by, say, kedo six inches.
Yeah, that’s how I look like. Cool stuff, huh? I’m made of a spongy white material and they even put some type of fragrance on me. I think I smell good!
But not as good as the tampons on the pinkish packet right next to ours on the shelf
Yes, I’m sure the tampons on the other packet smell better than us; for they were manufactured and packaged by a different company. A foreign company, in fact. They’re imported.
But we are local; made in Kenya…mmhhhmmm…Kenya!
Anyway, there’s a lady tampon in the pinkish packet. I like her a lot. She’s kind of cute. She’s a bit quiet, though. Doesn’t say much. A snob perhaps? I think she’s from England. Yes, she’s definitely from England.
“Kwani, how sure are you she’s British?” I hear you ask.
Look at the packet she’s in…farther down on its front right side corner. Yes, look closely. Read the three words printed there.
“Made in England,” you say.
What did I tell you, bro? I know these things. I do.
“Hey, Lady Tampon, can you hear me in your pinkish packet? I’m called Mr. T and I am a Kenyan. I’m in the bluish packet beside your packet. Yeah, over here. To the right of the shelf. I think I like you. What do you feel about me?”
“Hi, Mr. T. You can call me Miss T. I’m from the UK. You smell different. I think I like you too.”
I’m about to reply to Miss T’s alluring remarks, when two women – one white, the other black – walk along the aisle of the supermarket. They’re both carrying shopping baskets. They’re chatting animatedly and they both stop beside our shelf and reach up and grasp a packet of tampons each – the white lady the bluish packet, the black lady the pinkish packet.
They both place their packets of tampons in their individual shopping baskets and then turn and stride along the aisle to the till where they pay for the items on their baskets.
“Miss T, can you hear me?” I yell as I’m picked up by the supermarket attendant and dumped into a carrying paper bag together with other goods.
“Mr. T, I can hear you,” she yells desperately from another paper bag. “I think this is it. Our last chat; our last meeting. It was nice knowing you. Though it was only for a short while. I wish we had met sooner and had a chance to spend more time together, and become close friends.”
“I wish so too,” I yelled in desperation as the white woman carried the paper bag I was in out through the supermarket’s door. The black woman, too, carried her own paper bag and strode beside the white lady.
“When will I see you again, Miss T?” I ask desperately.
“I…I…I don’t know,” Miss T yelled back at me, her strained voice trailing off as the two women parted ways in the parking lot and each boarded her own car and drove away.
I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m mortified. I’m lonely. Imagine that! I meet the woman of my dreams and guess what? She’s taken from me! Snatched from my grasp. I didn’t even get to touch her. Hold her. Life is so unfair. I’m depressed.
“Is there a therapist in the house?”
“No!” I hear you say.
“Calm down, Mr. T,” I tell myself. “You have to accept the tragedy and learn to live without lovely Miss T. Learn!”
Early the next morning, the white woman woke up, got out of bed, took a shower, towelled herself, and reached for the bluish packet of tampons on the medicine box of her bathroom.
She plucked me from the packet and proceeded to shove me up her vagina. My neck (remember the candle wick-like string I was talking about earlier) remained sticking out of her opening.
She then slipped into her knickers, brassiere, liner and eventually her skirt suit. She then put the packet of tampons in her handbag and shortly departed from her house to her car. She got into the car and drove away towards a certain direction.
Half an hour later the car stopped on a parking lot and the white woman consequently stepped out of it. As she walked across the pavement, she soon met up with the black woman, the one from the supermarket yesterday. She too had just parked her car. Chatting animatedly, they both strode along the pavement and soon went up a flight of steps and got into a tall office building.
“Mr. T, is that you? I think I can smell you,” I heard Miss T’s voice saying from within the black woman’s person.
“Yes, it’s me!” I said in rapture, glad to have the opportunity to meet her again. I never imagined that we’d be reunited. I’m so happy. “Where are you exactly? In her purse?”
“No, not in her purse,” Miss T said, chuckling. “I’m in her vagina. Six inches deep!”
“Is it warm?”
“Yes, very. But I’m soaking up her discharge. I’m all red now. Tripled in size. What about you, Mr. T?”
“Me too. I’ve tripled – delete that – quadrupled in size. I’m all red. We are the same colour, essentially. I don’t think I smell good. Do you, Miss T?”
“No, I don’t think I smell good either. Where are they taking us now?”
“That sounded to me like the doors of a ladies room. Listen to their voices; they’re echoey; as if in a large hollow room,” I yelled in alarm.
The white and the black woman soon entered into individual toilet stalls and locked their respective doors and pulled up their clothes and sat on the toilet seats. They both peed. Twrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
“I’m falling, Miss T,” I yelled. “Falling out of her body and right into the toilet bowl’s water.”
“Me too, Mr. T. I’ve been pushed out of her body and into the toilet bowl’s water. Am floating.”
“Oh-oh! What’s that sound now?” I yelled in alarm.
“I think they’re flushing the toilets, Mr. T. Again, this could be our last chat; our last meeting. As I said earlier, it was nice knowing you…am spinning in the bowl, the water pushing me down the drainage pipes…bye-bye, Mr. T!”
“I too am spinning in the bowl…it was nice knowing you too…I’m being pushed by a gush of water down the drainage pipes…bye-bye, Miss T!”
Down in the deep dark sewer under the building, a surge of dirty water carrying two red blotches splashed into the stagnant sewer water.
The two red blotches then rose to the surface of the water and floated.
“Miss T, is that you? I can’t believe it!”
“It’s me, Mr. T. Give me a hug. Ah, you’re warm. I’m glad we ended up together!”
“Me too. Ha ha ha…”
© Denis Kabi, 2009 www.deniskabi.wordpress.com
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