Celebrating East African Writing!
She wore her skirt seven inches above her knees, so that it cropped up her thighs when she sat down. (My mama used to say that big-legged women were going to kill me). And here I was flirting with my new landlady, and not because she was single and rich, but because she was simply irresistibly and ravishingly hot. Do you normally flirt like these with older women, she had asked in a girly voice. Certainly not, except with a good cause. I had replied with an air of audacity that only a circumcised village elder could master. And with that, the die was cast, her boat burnt and my unprecedented fairy-tale date with my new landlady flagged off.
She must have been in her late thirties, scary smart and crazy beautiful. My first impression of her was those egocentric, control-freak, corporate career women who had no time for sex, children or men. She had this exclusively stately ambiance of sophistication, elegance and classiness. Her hair was pricey done and fell on her shoulders perfectly. She spoke hopeless Swahili but spoke ‘proper’ English with a twang and sparkling of Muthaiga-ness. She was of medium height though her short skirt gave her the impression of added weight. She had an exotic name, Cherono, to go along with.
A week later, she had reserved a table for two in one of the Sarova Hotels in town, and as I pulled a seat for her, she generously gave me a blow-job smile. She was dressed in a flimsy skirt and a seductive lavender-coloured bra that seemed helpless to hold her boobs that were threatening to literally spill off, while exposing her juicy cleavage that were mercifully begging to be oiled. My attempts to understand the vastness of her business empire in real estate were met with dodgy, un-coordinated answers. Like a wise village rabbit, she was cautious in her conversation, flamboyant in her outlook and generous with her smile. I tell you, it’s easier to squeeze a loan out of Equity Bank, than to squeeze information out of this daughter of Eve.
By now as the expensive wine was flowing, unable to control my raging hormones anymore; I had stealthily slipped my right hand under the table right into her thighs. They say if opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door. Caught unaware, she had to take a moment to catch her breath. Capitalizing on her reluctance to push my hand away, I decided to extra-judiciously execute her nervousness by gently leaning forward and planting a large, wet passionate kiss on her succulent lips. As we made our way out of the Hotel, the guard outside had slapped me with that disgusted look teachers reserve for retarded students perhaps to register his disapproval. Not to be cowed, I had slapped him back with a sarcastic smile wives reserve for mother-in-laws.
Cherono lived in leafy Muthaiga. Her house had a solely stately ambience with an authentic African touch. After causal chit chats downstairs where I learned that as the only child she inherited her parent’s vast business empire after they were killed in a road accident, we had made our way upstairs. Minutes later, she was shouting my grandmother’s middle Idakho name as she reached her pinnacle. And as she shuddered in orgasm, while slapping me with little pornographic smiles, she struggled to put her legs together, evidently to hide the flow of pleasure.
Fourteen months later, this past Christmas holiday, Cherono and I had visited my parents in the village. Interestingly, my heaven-bound, Scripture-spitting, and devil-cursing mother wanted Cherono and I to spiritualized our ‘marriage’ with a Pentecostal church wedding – and as such she had prayerful began putting everything in motion.
We had woken up the following morning to a flurry of activities. Unknown to us Mtumishi wa Mungu Bishop Omurondo had been invited to facilitate the supposedly wedding plans. Bishop was an otherwise tall and skinny gentleman with a hoarse voice that was poorly complimented with angry scars on his cheeks that apparently were a permanent reminder of his days as a sinner. Also invited was my uncle Saimoni Shipukuchi who had shown up with his latest arrival, third wife, Sulumena.
Well, my 71 year old uncle philanthropically inherited the 26 year old Sulumena with her four big-headed ignorant rascals. Sulumena who specialized in dressing to de-sexualize herself, became a widower a year ago after her drunken husband fell into an unfinished pit latrine. Now, like a horny African hyena, my uncle was exclusively oiling Sulumena’s cleavage, albeit to the silent disapproval of the village. My uncle was feeding and clothing Sulumena with her little rascals. For what its worth, he had the right to squeeze an elderly orgasm from her tender groins.
My grandma, carrying angry wrinkles on her face had intuitional shown up without an invitation. So was the 63 year old village elder, who has since declared interest to represent the youth and the marginalized group in the County Assembly. And just before the meeting kicked off, we were joined by seven more villagers who had equally shown up without an invitation. Among them was Shirochi, my former primary school teacher who has a very disturbed sense of humour. Shirochi has unsuccessful been trying to be part of the ICC witness protection program. As a result, he has freely been offering himself to the prosecution as well as the defense team as a credible witness to the post-election violence. Well, never mind that the closest Shirochi came to the post-election violence was hiding in his malnourished banana plantation for half a day after his wife threatened to eat his liver after he was seen flirting with Sulumena on the way to the river weeks after her husband had passed away.
Just as the meeting was about to kick off, Bishop had said a rather long prayer which was punctuated with angry curses, swearing and rebukes hurled at the devil. Of course, in the prayer Bishop had magnanimously blessed Cherono’s womb, which was about to carry the honourable Waudo bloodline. Predictably he had also prayed for the tea, and the food, in his own words, which he believed was being prepared to honour the servant of God. Somehow, the prayer had veered off to Syokimau victims, the Ocampo Six, and to Yokozuna little devils which were causing sinners in Kiambu County see dim dim. Bishop had then prayed for all those who were travelling. Not forgetting to remind the guy upstairs that by travelling he meant people who were travelling by (well, he went ahead to mention all the means of transport) from air, sea, road, boda boda, cars, walking, running and the like.
Cherono, being the official guest was given a chance to speak first. In her belabored English-Swahili accent, she surprised everyone when she pledged to finance the wedding with a cool half a million Kenya shillings. And still she wasn’t done. She had promised to dig a borehole for my father (since in her own words my father seems to have a problem walking his skinny cattle all the way to the river). She had also promised to do a sort of extreme make-over for my father’s cheaply and poorly roofed house. And when we thought she was done, she had also pledged to easy coach almost half of the village to Nairobi, where the wedding she insisted should take place. Predictably everyone had quickly nodded in agreement. Finally, Cherono had promised to boost my mother’s chama’s kitty (she had mumbled off some things about economic women empowerment, though frankly speaking no one seem to understand).
By the time she was done, my mother was already profusely speaking in tongues; while my father caught up in the celebratory mood had stealthily irrigated his throat with fiery spirits he likes hiding in an unhygienic bottle in his coat. While for everyone else, this was a chance to mercilessly devour the skinny miserable-looking mandazi’s. In the meantime, they kept peeping outside to confirm whether chickens in their numbers were being summoned to the afterlife.
Clearly cornered by the unfolding of events, I had played along with the wedding plans. I had no intentions of fighting the tide, especially now that my whole village was ready to do whatever it took to ensure that I didn’t die an octogenarian bachelor. You have to understand that my village was born out of the centuries-old-notion of the African spirit and culture, which itself is partly a creation of the early Greek philosophers and the Judeo-Christian-Islamic ideology of positivism.
In other words, you are born, baptized, you live your poor life doing good for the guy upstairs or sacrificing for Him, and you are rewarded by an invitation to Heaven. In Heaven, you while your time away dressed in white robes, being serenaded by an orchestra of Fally Ipupa-like angels and endless flow of fortified holy wine. Or depending on your version of Islam, you are rewarded by a bunch of 72 un-flowered damsels. This, therefore, explains why in essence everyone is usually poking their dirty noses into everyone’s business.
Two weeks ago I found myself co-habiting with a friend in a crammed one-bedroom in Umoja, after Cherono threw me out. Well, Cherono, who supposedly was travelling to South Africa on a business trip, had returned unceremoniously where she caught me oiling the cleavage of Nafula, my old flame. The Kikuyu say: When the day of the monkey reaches, every tree it tries to climb is slippery.