Celebrating East African Writing!
That would make a lost purpose I believe, and their faces minted in an image of money is a generation that is losing a bunch of ladies and gentlemen to an alien tradition.
When they walked through the Mabati door of Makuti Bar they were almost naked, they stupefied the security guards, and went through uncensored. If they would be suicide bombers, that night they would have destroyed souls, free of charge including Alex alias aka Chanzi.
They looked like business magnates from Abuja or Pretoria; to me, they were time bombs, ladies of royal breed. They were holding the glances of over fifty married men in their hands simultaneously, remote controlling eyes of a bunch of fire brimmed bachelors like me and Mark in an isolated restaurant. They had lips any man would lust to kiss, and a figure that many would die to caress.
‘Let’s bet, Daisy.’
‘Mark, Chelsea won…and am not Daisy.’
‘No, it’s those ladies.’
‘That is silly, get serious.’
‘I’m serious, watch me.’
‘You are going to lose.’
‘What? Mark are you insane.’
‘No, me? No.’
That is a bet we laid on two women who have their ways, and read both mind and newspaper. That is our mistake, men.
Eight months later, I received a call from Mark; I owed him ten thousand Kenyan shillings. She was going walk the aisle draped in his arm. Isn’t that stupid? But wait I did not like it at all. The President made the Judge look like a fool, by wiping clean a fourteen year sentence for the lesbians…it was the President’s Pardon.
Then the wedding day dawned and I had no choice than to pay up and be among a marching throng to witness Mark’s Day.
The church was filled to the brim, I was there nursing my wound, sat beside Mark on his big day, oblivious of any surprise. He kept bragging.
‘I told you.’
I was never thrilled by Genève; in fact I lost the bet on Day One. I felt lied to and she had become a nuisance to our bachelorhood club by grabbing Mark.
‘Is there any one against this two being joined as man and wife?’ Pause.
Obvious, there were many, including me, the best man. I lost my money and that kept on lingering in my fogged head like a dark cloud about to bust rain of vengeance. What was it about this girl, no, woman, that made men restless, that kept the boys at the Makuti Joint on their toes like one year old babies. Okay, maybe she understood the game, knew how to lay her cards and my pal Mark must have been a lucky man to win this woman, that is, until the dark moment when the Padre asked the silly question.
Then I saw a hand shooting up two hundred yards from the pulpit. My eyes cocked up wide because if I was not dreaming then I was having a sight blur. She was a slim chocolate lady in dark shades, in official brown suit and white blouse. I did not see the shoes. I heard the Padre murmur in strange evil tongues pushing the devil off the sanctuary.
I became impatient as we waited for the Padre to finish his meditation and sip the news. Every body went quiet, ready to stone Mark because it was all African to blame men for these uncertainties of life. The Padre turned to Mark with the eyes of a provoked Gnome.
‘Mark, do you know that lady and please don’t lie.’
‘No…I… Jesus… who is she? I’ve never seen her!’
The unsatisfied Man of God wanted to prove Mark wrong so he called the lady on a magnified voice, all the microphones quiet and every person burning their asses on the comfortable plastic sits, waiting.
‘Lady, do you know this man in front of us?’
‘No. I… mean, no.’
‘What are you…?’
‘Genève is my lover, I want to marry her.’
‘Machala…blood of evil, smoke, beer and hell, what did you say, lady?’
‘We are going to be married.’
‘Holy Mary, Mother of our Savior… are you in your right mind?’
‘As fit as a fiddle, Bishop.’
The last thing I saw was Mark going down and the priest holding a big bottle of red looking brew getting drunk. I took the carton with the cakes and disappeared in the mist for I did not want to be caught in a media mess and carry Mark’s shame with me. It was hopeless to sympathize with him. I disowned our long nurtured friendship before a crowd of two thousand faithful, and walked away.
The wedding was over.
I won a foolish bet.
©Alex Mutua 2010
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