Celebrating East African Writing!
She donned the red skirt today. Not that she had any particular fascination with it or its colour, but that it was a short way above the knees and hugged her lower body tightly revealing the well rounded derriere that made men drool, whistle or make catcalls after her. A total stranger in her life had given her a Sh 1000 note just for the privilege of having her phone number as his eyes had amorously feasted on her body all the while.
She had a headache selecting a blouse. Should it be white today with a matching coat that complimented the skirt’s colour or simply a long sleeved one without a coat? She asked herself. Standing before the dressing mirror, Wangeci put on about a dozen or so blouses removing each as it didn’t match to her taste until she finally settled on a satisfactorily one; a checked sleeveless one that was low cut revealing her ample cleavage, another of her greatest assets that fired up men’s testosterones.
Her assets, as she knew, owed their mystical alluring legacy largely to her padded silicone brassiere and pants, which more enhanced her sexual appeal driving men crazy, for, otherwise, without them, she’d be that flabby chested lean buttocked cheap sellout that men wouldn’t have a crash on.
She was careful with her makeup, a procedure that took close to an hour and whose results would have frightened the old and astonished the young – for she was like a ghost from a fairy tale with the final outlook – so demurely did she look it would be a disservice to her to say she didn’t attract wild stares today.
She was ready to go out. She rang Mwangi, the boda boda operator informing him she’d be around in the next few minutes and would he please be there waiting. How could men be that stupid because of a woman? She wondered. Mwangi never charges her because she allows him to pat her breasts or caress her and the moron thinks that equals having a good romp with her! He once followed her to her doorstep after dropping her home one evening with intention of soliciting her for a lay and, turning back, she saw him and made to scream and the man absent mindedly made a lame excuse, “I thought you bade me come in for a cup of tea as the evening is exceedingly cold” before retracting and congealing in the darkening night.
Mwangi said he’d be waiting, and, as usual, made several jibes to his fellows who he’d kept wondering when he’d make a real foray on the woman. When one day, he’d gone to drop her to her usual rendezvous, the men had conspired and strategized on the best approach to seducing the lady whom their colleague was “lucky to lay his hands on but not his dick in!”
Wangeci’s appearance a few minutes later saw the boda boda motorcyclists whistling and angling to have her climb on their machines. They employed every dirty sexual epithet in the jungle book to make her crack up with laughter and win her over. She found them vulgar mouthed though her face remained neutral and her lips stretched out in that ‘smiling-laughter’ effect of hers, that, like light, would have drawn moths to a glow globe.
Mwangi applied sudden pressure on the kick-starter and his machine roared to life with a phlegmatic cough. Already, Wangeci was approaching him with that bewitching how-are-you-darling smile that he found his eyes popping out in awe. He pushed the motorbike to the front of his colleague’s vantage view and let the lady clamber up on the carrier. It was calculated. As she lifted a leg up, the skirt alarmingly receded back revealing an ample fleshed thigh that made the boda boda operators whistle in surprise or make low sexual remarks which were not lost to her but did chagrin her though her face betrayed this not.
“Where am I to drop you?” Mwangi asked. She found his voice chocked with emotion he best tried to conceal unsuccessfully. She smiled benignly and gave him an address. This time, it was to an affluent neighbourhood of the town. He knew she mostly socialized with middle class clientele but today was a surprise. He was so accustomed to dropping and picking her up in various middle class homes wondering what she did there till one day when her phone had rang, and eavesdropping, had caught snippets of sexually loaded conversations and made a connection. She had once joked that she was a ‘Miss Socializer’ by occupation – whatever that meant – but to him, she was a daughter of men, or aptly, Daughter of Destiny.
“Well,” he found his voice as the motorbike gathered speed. “I’d say you’re…” he searched for the correct word, “stunningly looking, no gorgeous, I mean to say.”
She had been awaiting his assessment or a complimentary comment on her appearance. And there it was! Only if he’d known the trouble she went to selecting this, well, what, demurring or fixating apparel? Now that the remark had assured her that her choice wasn’t bad after all, she’d give herself a moot point for being the best fashion connoisseur around, if hardly she was a one!
Mwangi pulled his machine in front of a gated residence whose occupier lived in lavish opulence. It was a storied, tiled residence that dwarfed the cathedral across the street with a communication mast on the roof juxtaposing the cathedral’s spire.
“Now you know where to pick me up in the evening,” Wangeci said, not asked, as she climbed down from the back.
“Mmmh…!” the others was an effort to answer as his eyes were hungrily feasting on her revealing cleavage and his thing was beginning to itch.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Evening came with the suddenness of the natural light dimming gradually to be replaced with man made artificial one. Neon lamps flickered on and the buildings took on a ghostly silhouette with incandescent lights peering out through blinded windows like thousands of fireflies.
It was at this time that Wangeci was emerging from Gathoga’s residence, for that was the rich brute’s name. A brute, because the man had an unnatural sexual inclination and had rendered her bottom sore – and she was very sore – that she’d have to pad her underpants with thick towels to ease the pains when sitting down. He was high on substances and had forced himself on her with savage brutal strength that she had screamed, not in the ecstasy of pleasure, but in the agony of pain he had inflicted on her with his monstrous shaft.
He had asked her to spend the night over as he licked his lips anticipating a pleasurable night and she had flatly refused, as she had also spurned off his offer of dropping her to town in his top of range vehicle. He had screamed obscenities at her throwing her a crumpled Sh 200 note and showed her the door. Oh men, what brutal beasts! She cursed as she dialed Mwangi’s number.
“Just dropping a passenger and I’ll be there shortly,” was Mwangi’s clipped reply.
Some passing motorists wound their car windows down with some making gestures at her but she was too preoccupied with her thoughts to notice them.
The headlamp of an approaching motorcycle as it cut a corner jolted her to the present. That would be a record for Mwangi coming for her when she thought waiting for him was not worth it and was thinking of alternative transport back, just to be fast rid of Gathogas of this world and their ilk.
The motorbike braked abruptly with a protesting screech.
“Wangeci?” It wasn’t Mwangi’s voice. It was a stranger’s.
“Who are you?” She was very alert now.
“I’m Jeff. Covering for Mwangi as his bike had developed a mechanical problem,” he said.
Wangeci grimaced. Her face, which in ancient times would have launched a thousand ships like Helen of Sparta’s, contorted in a rage, which, thankfully the other didn’t see. Had not Mwangi said he’d presently come for her? What had gone amiss? She wondered.
Suddenly, her phone vibrated. It was a message alert. She read it. It was from Mwangi: ‘Sorry darling, got problems with the bike. Just dispatched a guy to take care of you’, the message read.
Take care of me? She wondered. “How did you know where to find me and my name?” she asked abruptly.
“He told me your name and to look for the house opposite the cathedral with a red gate and a towering mast,” he said. She should have known. That was a landmark only a stranger would have missed. She drew the conclusion Mwangi must have also told this Jeff her name too.
She climbed on the motorcycle’s back, glad that Mwangi was that concerned for her to the extent of sending someone to cover for him.
‘Jeff’ proved an exact opposite of Mwangi. He sped at a breathtaking speed that she clung tightly on him. He missed a turn, another, and then another. She started shouting but the onrushing wind would tear the scream from her mouth with a savage howling. ‘Jeff’ was unconcerned. He turned to a desolate branch off road that led to the public cemetery then turned to an empty pathway and braked in an empty clearing where the other men were waiting.
She had no time to react. A hand cupped her mouth from behind as others lifted her off and pinned her to the ground as her skirt was torn off and the underpants pulled down and the first of the eight assailants’ weight pressed hard on hers with his weapon ready for penetration in what was to prove the longest night of her life…..
©Paul Kariuki 2010
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