Celebrating East African Writing!

Daughter of Destiny

Written by Paul Kariuki

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

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.


11 comments on “Daughter of Destiny

  1. Gitura Kihuria
    November 23, 2010

    A date from Hell for Wangeci.

    Will she ever trust her ever reliable taxi biker, Mwangi? or was it a set up?



  2. Joseph Kamotho
    November 24, 2010

    Its a strong 9 for me.
    Wow! I particularly like the way Paul has used real social issues i.e. Prostitution, indignity showed to women by chauvinist guys, the boda boda menace so common in our towns today, crime (Read rape) – All that in one package!! In a sudden twist of events, Wangechi is no longer la daughter of destiny but of FATE.


  3. Joyce
    November 24, 2010

    I vote for the Daughter of destiny to win this week competetion written by paul kariuki


  4. peter kiragu
    November 24, 2010

    i like this…10!!


  5. roundsquare
    November 25, 2010

    Of her makeup….”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.”

    this is how she appears elsewhere in this blog ” There is also this curious tall girl whose dress looked as if it had been designed in a rage and put on in a tempest. If she had tried to look picturesque, she had only succeeded in being untidy. As for her nails (why? they were only fit for an exhibition). Then there is this one who was wearing a shapeless blouse and skirt, without make-up, at whom forty nine out fifty people would not look twice. (And I think I was among the first to detect her) I also noticed a tall girl whose first experiment with make-up hadn’t worked that well. The dark outline shadow and the pink lipstick with her dark features don’t help.”

    then look at how Okot P’Bitek describes her (she’s called clementina but prefers to be called Tina) in his song of lawino..’.the beautiful one aspires to be like a white woman..applies powder all over her face, and when she sweats, she looks like the guinea fowl in mating season…ashy if she’s sick with dysentery..” that’s from lawino, the other plain village girl with whom this Tina shares her westernised husband. alienated africans, self-hating themselves ‘why were we born black?’

    Was all these in her bid to peddle her flesh? or sees herself inferior?

    i whimper at your images Paul. Funny, my piece has an inkling of images, but no violence. Yours looks innocent of violence, but oops! there there with thy monstrous shaft!!

    wow!! what a tragic end to a life well lived (making friends with crabs;shaking rough handshakes) under the vanity of fleshy love? doesn’t those living by the figurative ‘sword’ end it through the literal ‘sword’? Your mastery in powerful phrases and tight meanings may atone for her death, if she didn’t survive the sexperience. much as I loath her eventual tragedy, I don’t regret or feel much for her (actually there’s little you or I can do to divert fate. when the finger of destiny points at you..there there.. no joke thing 🙂

    a 7 if am eligible to vote.


  6. chrispus
    November 26, 2010

    the words are flowing!! weak conclusion though


  7. Joyce
    November 26, 2010

    Wangeci deserves that; next time she might dress decentry

    a strong 9


  8. mwangi
    November 29, 2010

    a 5 for me. your sentences are too long, the story is weak and grammar is wanting. you need to learn more words you that you can say want you want to say at ease.


  9. mwangi
    November 29, 2010

    i think my previous comment was too hasty – I’d just read the first few lines. Gosh!
    3 points.

    you need to make your writing less about the writing and more about the story.

    ask yourself:
    what happened?
    what made that happen?
    what are the lessons to be learnt?
    who are the people?
    how did they relate?
    how do the actions in the story affect their lives?

    the writing is shalow and fails to make a good story.


  10. essie
    December 1, 2010

    good story but too much intrusion by the author. again there is too much telling instead of showing…


  11. Brian
    December 2, 2010

    Brute candor, as brute as the story. I give you a 7 for being really real. You miss the 3 because of the construct of language, wording and grammar. The good news is that this can be improved. Keep working. And take the advice given seriously.



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