Celebrating East African Writing!

A fateful day in Paradise…

She calls out to the man on the street

‘Sir, can you help me?

It’s cold and I’ve nowhere to sleep,

Is there somewhere you can tell me?’

He walks on, doesn’t look back

He pretends he can’t hear her

Starts to whistle as he crosses the street

Seems embarrassed to be there

-Phil Collins

It is just beginning to lighten up outside. I can see fairly well with the little light straining through the blinds. I look at her lying there next to me…. On her back, snoring slightly, eyes shut… mouth slightly agape… breasts rising and falling… rhythmical symphony.

Her dark skin… clear and even in the dim light… has no tell-tale tan lines; no visible faults. Angelic beauty… the beauty of youth. She has a perfect nymph’s form, but for the tussled-up weave… Yes, the ubiquitous weave, defiantly escaping from beneath the versatile stocking. That stocking that is just as offensive, if not more, as the weave it’s meant to be restraining.

She stirs, snapping me out of my reverie. I watch as she subconsciously rearranges her body… leaving it midway between prone on her back and resting on her left side, leaning back slightly as if propped up by some invisible column. Her left hand is bent underneath her head… making for a pillow; her face slightly upturned, facing away from me. Her right hand carelessly flung over the tussled sheets that are lying between us.

Her right breast is within my view; mango shaped and still gravity defiant….. rising ever so slightly with the rhythm of her breathing. A series of small bumps surround the dark coloration that is her nipple; semi-stiff as if aware of my dwelling gaze. The edge of her ribcage clear, as it tapers away from her chest giving way to the gentle rise of her belly. I follow the tell-tale stretch marks past her love-handles to the curvaceous hips. Those hips that had arrested my eyes the first time I had seen her. The image of them, sheathed in a sheer miniskirt, had since been permanently emblazoned in my memory.

Memories of that night, barely a week ago, replay in the background of my mind. I wonder if like the man in Phil’s song, I, too should have walked away. But she had not given me the choice… she had followed me from that all night party…. silently daring me to turn her away. I hadn’t had the heart… or the will, and so we’d gone to my place… to sleep off the after effects of too much partying.

I remember wondering if she was worth breaking my rule of not bringing girls to my place. I loved my space… the last thing I wanted was anyone thinking that it was big enough for the two of us. But she didn’t have a place of her own. That much I’d gathered from the sketchy answer she’d given when I’d asked who she lived with. She was living at her elder sister’s house at the present, though she tended to split time between there and her mother’s across town. She had vaguely alluded to having just recently moved here from Springfield.

We half stumbled up the stairs to my apartment… she babbling incoherently and me quietly contemplating the future and what may or may not transpire when we get inside. I’d let her in and showed her to the bedroom. I’d poured us both a quarter glass of Alize each and watched as she quickly downed hers…. then she’d found a playlist on imeem and proceeded to dance around my bedroom… an amazing fete considering what a cramped mess the said room is.

I’d watched, somewhat bemused, as she had stopped suddenly in her step during a break in the song, then raising both hands straight up as if reaching for the ceiling, she’d began to tip forward slowly…. then all at once, as if some invisible hand which had been holding her up had let go, she had toppled, rigid as a post, face first into the fluffy softness of the down-comforter covering my bed. The force of her dead-weight landing on the spring bed had jarred me, splashing the contents of the glass in my hand all over me.

She did not get up.

Her passing out in a drunken stupor should have immediately raised red flags in my well developed defense system… but I too was in a state perilously close to hers. I had struggled with the buttons of her denim jacket before giving up and arranging her best I could on one side of the bed. Then I’d blacked out right next to her.

I was woken up 5 hours later by a strange alarm… which turned out to be her cellphone going off incessantly. I tried ignoring it, but figured after the fifth ring that it must be important. It was her family wondering where the hell she was…. she told me before answering and diving into a long discourse in Dholuo. It ended with her saying… in English… that she would be there in fifteen minutes. Then we had gone right back to sleep only to be woken up two hours later… by the same alarm. This time she left right away promising to bring me back some food later.

The call came in at about 5… in the afternoon. Did I care for some tilapia , she wanted to know? The question brought to mind memories of ‘Mama Samaki’; the lady that sold us cooked fish by the road right outside our court in Komarock – where I had lived briefly before moving to the States.

I politely declined the offer; not because I didn’t care for the fish but for the simple fact that I wasn’t sure I wanted her to come over. She did anyway, lagging a young kid. In the hour she spent there, I determined that she was only slightly more coherent while sober. Thankfully her year and a half old nephew was a good distraction.

I had tried to subtly find out more about her…. beyond the skimpy outfits, and the excessive drinking, but wasn’t able get far. The conversation kept going back to what her friends were up to, how she didn’t care much for this or that plan… how her mother wanted her to do this and not that.

What did she want to do with herself?

Well, she was gonna be enrolling for nursing school… she was gonna move to another state… Did I want to go out with her and her friend that night?

“Ummm.. NO….Thank you. Gotta work in the morning.” I’d replied, perhaps wanting to impress upon her shallow mind that there was more to life than partying non-stop. If she caught my drift, she did not show it. She said it was too bad I had to work and that she would call me after she left the club just in case I was not sleeping. When she’d left shortly thereafter, I did not anticipate I’d be seeing her again…. not under any circumstances.


How ironic I muse as, smiling incredulously to myself, I reach across the gulf that’s separating our so different personalities, gently cup that breast that still continues to rise n fall… as if in mock defiance of my inferred though unspoken superiority….. and catch my breath as the nipple perceptibly hardens beneath my hands. I watch her face, her lips tightly sealed forming a thin line across her face. A smile begins to to form at the corner of her mouth as I squeeze gently… the supple flesh yielding softly in my hand.

Her eyes flutter open… and the lips begin to widen into a smile before the owner stifles it quickly… giving me but a flash of white before the lips close up.

Mhhmmm! What doesn’t she like about her smile… I wonder as I continue to knead the flesh in my hand.

I watch as she begins to stretch… curving her back inwards so that her bust extends forward and away from me; and my hand. I watch her ribcage extend upwards as she inhales deeply, her legs stiff and extended; both arms come up and bend at the elbows.

And for a long moment she poses there… like a Greek statue. The curve of one tight buttock… visible; holding up a firm fleshy thigh, covered with the tell tale imprints of the ruffled sheet she’d been lying on. Her eyes tightly closed, as if savoring this moment….

Then slowly, as if suspended in time… she begins to relax, letting out a low moan in the process.

Her eyes open and lock with mine.

She smiles…. a hint of a smile, with her mouth closed. She raises her head and lays it on her open palm, her hand bent at the elbow supporting it against the mattress. Now she is looking down at me, and the smile is now in her eyes. I can feel my pulse quicken, blood draining from my head…. I lick my now dry lips and as if on cue, she bends over and gingerly places a kiss on them and with the same movement lithely drapes one leg over my torso before straightening and sitting up… effectively straddling me.


The creaking of the bed brings to mind that song – ‘bed noise’ by Lady Saw. I smile……

‘Damn the neighbors…’ I think…. ‘let them cite me for noise making again!’ I figure as I bring myself back to the task at hand. My hands seem to have become a part of those pliable breasts, now wet with the sweat that has her whole dark body glistening.

Her head is flung back…. way back for I can feel her hair brushing against my shin as her body rocks in an increasingly frenzied motion. Whatever became of the stocking?

Her hands tightly grip my wrists, pulling them tightly against her body, effectively using them as supports as she rocks back and forth; faster and faster and faster. I am almost certain that her effort will soon have us flying across the room. Those thoughts are soon lost as my whole body is racked with spasms that seem to rise from the depths of my being….

One after the other, they rise to the top and then dissipate to my extremeties… Pretty soon, like the climax of a July 4th fireworks show, they start riding on each others tail end… so that now I feel like my body is one spasmodic train, suspended high in eternal bliss.

It is in the midst of this that a lone thought struggles to the surface of my consciousness…. having fought it’s way through a melting pot of electrodes and the whatnot that is standing for brain activity at this moment……

‘NOOOO….. No Protection….’ It screams out at me.

And for a fraction of a second…. it’s as if everything is suspended in time. Everything on my end comes to a halt…. but just for a fraction of a second.

She must have sensed the hesitation – either that or that thought had escaped through my mouth, because she at that instant bends forward and grips me by my shoulders – her pelvis seeming to open further than I thought was humanly possible, the warmth of her femininity sucking me in and swallowing me whole and through teeth gritted in ecstasy, managed in a guttural whisper….

“Don’t worry…… I’m safe.”

Her words are barely audible thru the convulsions that have gripped her body. Not that it would matter, anyway, for at the same time she is saying them, whatever instinctive brakes I’d applied to that spasmodic train, slip…. crashing under the weight of the pent up centrifugalize orgasmic energy. It plunges unrestrained over a cliff that has suddenly materialized out of nowhere and goes flying into a dark abyss…….

A warm feeling embraces me as I am enveloped by the darkness of that eternal pit.

Slowly, I regain control of my faculties….. I fight to keep my eyes closed as my brain tackles the strangeness of my circumstances… in the midst of which are those few words, hanging conspicuously in the post coital air long after she had uttered them. Those words, uttered in a most untimely manner and serving to give anything but the reassurance that they are meant to: Those words that are only rivaled in their incredulity by similar words uttered by the same mouth… under similar circumstances… the previous night.

“This is the first time I am having unprotected sex.”

If you would like this piece to be the Story of the Week, please vote below on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being weak, and 10 being excellent. The numbers will be tallied on Friday and the story with the highest figure shall be Crowned Story of the Week. Be sure to fill in your name and verifiable email. You can include your critique/comment after the vote.


4 comments on “A fateful day in Paradise…

  1. Clifton
    June 15, 2009

    The alure of th detail is hypnotizing no doubt, n th sudden ending a good jerk back to reality… Id gv it a 7. I was a lil disapointd u dint gv her charactr, th kid, n moments out of bed such vivid attention even if just to show hw superficial she myt hv been, bt mayb that was intentional? Ua goood!


  2. Clifford Oluoch
    June 17, 2009

    You have the language to make an interesting story. Great attention to detail, but be careful not to overdo it in short story writing where the plot is more important.


  3. chrispus
    June 19, 2009

    the plot is definitely non exisitent but the you have used the language quite creatively. the description is excessive hence the loss of the storyline. i give it a 4.


  4. Kei
    June 19, 2009

    Thanks for the votes and the critique guys… when first written it was as a test of that narrative style and had no clue about plottin and such… will mos def take your advise for future entries. Thanks again.


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