Till Love Do Us Part

(PART I) 

MAANZONI LOUNGE, 19.02 p.m, 21^st April, 2014

Cool music. Playing in the background. I guess it’s Neyo. Usher. Or maybe Akon. Yeah. Akon. By the way, how does a black ninja sing in such a feminine voice? I don’t get it. That’s a thing for white folks (No racist). But it’s great. Cheers to yoh all Akons out there. Keep making stuff. Serves the purpose just right. Puts you in the mood.

Warm lighting. Illuminates the room. Thanks to the candles adding a breathtaking look. What’s that scent? Scents of garlic, boiled onions, not really sure which it is now. But it is something close to that.

Two silhouettes. Silhouettes in the dark. They hug. Caress. Kiss. Touch. And shag. One of those figures is Stacy. Me. Me naked. Him nude. The shagging goes on and on. 

This is ecstatic. It will last forever. I want it to go on. On and on. It’s magical. I feel him. Him in me. I move my waist round and round. He moans. Moans like a wounded dog each time I do that. Each time. I do it faster, then slower. Faster, Slower. Repeat. I want him all. All in me. I feel him. He feels me too. He is getting there. He is downhill and going fast. He will be 'home' soon. I better catch up fast.

“Keep going!” I shout. That ecstasy again.

My left hand rubs his Arab hair. It’s soft and pleasing to touch. My long nails dig deep into his skin. His masculine back though suffers most of my claws’ adventure. I wrap my legs around his butt. And pull him deeper. I can’t hold it anymore. Yeah! Yeah!

“I’m cumming baby!” I beg.

“Yeah! Have it! Get it baby!” He replies.

“Yeah! Hit it baby!” I command. 

And boom! He explodes like its fucking Afghanistan. His grip tightens with every grenade of his ‘warm-yoghurt’. His grip is stronger than those of Thor and Batman combined. Those guys should come benchmark with this guy. It is the very last blow of his drip that sends me to worlds unknown. My turn is here and kaboom! I blow up and shake like I’m having seizure. His, now immobile, body pins me to the bed like the nails on the Titanic. For a second one could mistake my shaking to power surges. He keeps it in there, just the way I love it, till I am shaking no more. I stare at the ceiling above. Stare, and stare for long.

15 minutes later.

I slip to the side of this king-size bed and sit up. I look at Carl lying there. His chest reveals a good amount of time invested to keep fit. I envy him. How does one get to be so lucky in life? Wealthy and good looking. I think that is success on steroids. No potbelly, or one of those forced-kitambis some of these Subaru-driving boys try to force on themselves. Hey fellows, you look like malnourished kids from somewhere in Turkana. Cut that thing. His eyes. They look so peaceful. So certain. Like he has found exactly what he has always been looking for all along. I do not know what to feel about it. Should I be happy or sad for him? Guilty? Maybe.

I look away and stare at the candles still ablaze. Wide awake. The flame burns lazily. I can’t help but stare at it. The flame is swayed from side to side by the breeze from the swimming pool outside. But never does it go off. It is resilient. It forms irregular, regular and all manner of shapes as it burns. Yet remains as the flame. Just what it is. I feel becoming the flame. I have been hit by waves. Waves of life. Sometimes the waves are too strong that I have had to change my shape. Yet I still remain a flame, no matter what shape I take. Or have I? 

“Creepy?” Carl whispers into my ear.

His voice isn’t the deep type, but it is very reassuring. It has a way with me. It takes me off wonderland.

“So you say, maybe,” I reply.

GNFA CHURCH, MACHAKOS, 11.02 a.m, 17^th December, 2016

Flowers. Lots of flowers. Lilies and roses. I look around and I am amazed. All these for me. I love it. All for love. I never thought in a million years that this could ever happen to me. I mean, why me? I do not deserve it. But well, here it is. You better make hey while the sun shines.

Smiles. Smiles everywhere. Male and female. All smiles. All for this big day. I look around and all I can see are good hearts here to witness my big day. The day I turn from being a little girl, to being a woman. A woman of a man. I have looked forward to this day for long. It’s my wedding day.

Now, here we stare at each other with my soon-to-be husband. His eyes glow. The kind of glow that makes you feel creepy if you are lying. It’s my wedding day, but well, what probably could I be lying about? Well, I’ve lied twice or thrice. Maybe a little more than that. Hey fellows, hold your whip before you begin judging me. Who hasn’t told a lie or two? Well, I have, and can’t a bride for fucking sake have a lie or two hidden somewhere in the past? So like the Son of God once said when he himself was walking amongst us mortal folks, he who has no sin let him cast the first stone. Funny story, the fellow just then decides to begin drawing things on the ground. And before he is done with the fifth bird(if that’s what he is drawing), he looks around and everyone has left. So, kindly, put back your holier-than-thou guns. So where was I? Flowers, smiles, staring. Okay.

He looks very handsome in his tuxedo. Trust you me, this is the first time I have ever seen this guy in a suit. I mean, this guy is allergic to suits because, since time immemorial I have never seen him in one. He keeps saying suits make people like penguins. Forgive his sense of humor, but that’s just the way it is. Not even the pants. The closest he gets to penguinsm is a khaki. He has an attitude to white collar. I guess that explains why he never pursued his education even after having passed so well in his KCSE. He rather opted to get into the farming business. It seemed like a pretty stupid idea considering his parents are advocates, but you gotta give it to the man. He really made it work. And here we are years later. Him forced to put on a penguin by this particular event. Why hasn’t he ever downed on a suit before? He fucking looks awesome. Enough with the cursing fellow! This is my wedding.

“If there is anyone here who thinks these two should not be joined together in a holy matrimonial, speak now or hold your peace forever.” The Reverend poses the most dreaded question ever. 

I mean why the hell do they ask this question? Are you trying to break families beforehand, Reverend? You see, some desperate girl somewhere who thinks my husband could work best with her could probably shoot their bloody hand up and fuck up this whole thing up. Or some random mad man somewhere could just show up in decent clothes, like  my guy’s suit here, and say that we have been shagging in the preparation room just before the wedding. You see? That’s what I’m saying Reverend. Is it possible to remove that part of the wedding recipe?

Karma is a bitch.

“Yes! Here!” Some idiot from the back shoots their hand up and everyone turns around with their mouths wide open like they have seen a ghost. As wedding security is about to grab him, two bigger securities appear, and well, the wedding security curl their tail in between their legs like a little puppy. Every part of me begins shaking like a twig. I don’t know why but it feels like everyone’s eye is on me asking, 

“Who the hell is this dude?”

Hey idiots, it 2016, don’t you know dudes shag dudes these days? Or haven’t you heard of those men who go around kissing other men like maggots do, what the fuck do you call that(cursing again?)? Stop staring, you are scaring the shit out of me. This guy could be anyone guys. So can we at least keep an open mind fellows. Thank you.

No, no, no. Guys, tell me this is a nightmare. Where the hell has he come from? On my wedding day for that matter, come on guys? You don’t just show up on my wedding day fool? Or which asshole invited this other rich asshole? Suckers! I told you guys to keep a secret. Come on. Who told him I am wedding today? Oh, wait a minute, and he didn’t bring a fucking date to my wedding? Gross. Who does that? I mean, everyone brings a date, right Benso(You guys remember Benso? My retarded cousin, and guess what guys, he fucking brought a date!)? Not even a present or something? Come on? Someone please hit the alarm button? Or if there is a sink button too, or any fucking thing that can snatch me from my own bloody wedding? Guess what? That ain’t happening. This shit is as real as it comes.

There, right there. Walking to the pulpit, on my wedding day, is the ‘lover’ I left in the middle of the night two years ago.

“Hello Betty” Carl greets.

“Who is this honey?” Elisha asks.

To be continued.....

Mama, Now That's A Job

"Index 143!" ordered a loud female voice.
"Yes sir! Sorry, Yes Madam!"
The whole battalion of students eager to face their life defining paper burst in laughter as I majestically walked to my desk. I could feel the sharp eyes of the invigilator pierce me to the bone marrow as she escorted me with them eyes like a faithful bodyguard to his master. It was as if she was asking me the Sholei-question, "Do you know who I am?" But I gave no single care of what she was trying to declare with her stern face that completely was no match to her curvy body.

She had the kind of body that God created on a weekend when there was not much to create. You see, on a weekend I imagine God created the "wonderfully" made, while the rest of us normal/ugly folks came off the pipeline as the "fearfully" made. She downed on a very thin dress that seemed to beg any hand that had the opportunity to touch her. The kind of dress that isn't too long to kill you with boredom or too short to make a man have a heart attack, but long enough to hide the subject matter, you know that type? Right?

I took the desk next to the wide window. Not that I chose it for myself but because the Old-Man up there pulled His strings of fate and saw it fit for me to be index 143, not 142 nor 144, but 143. But who am I, a mere mortal, to question what His Highness the Lord Himself selected specially for me? Who am I?

I took my rightful place and began chanting every prayer that my staunch Reverend had ever taught me. I could feel that these prayers were being served to God by His army of Gabriel and the strong fellows up there. They were not the kind of prayers that have to go through the likes of Peter, Matthew and doubting Thomas for vetting, no, they were designed so personally that daring to open my letter/prayer would amount to one trying to read a letter of a son telling His father the problems that ail him. I hope saint Peter with his excessively inquisitive habits didn't poke his nose on matters that do not remotely concern him. If you did, Peter, I have a bone to pick with you. That's not a threat for that matter.

"And lastly, index 223!" That female voice again.
Each student took their designated place ready to reap what they sow for a whole scorching 4 years. I was in "the others" hall with the rest of us bunch of fellows who never worked hard in form three and fell for index numbers that were identifiable by more than 2 numerals. This is where all idiots who hardly managed a mean grade beyond a C - converged to undertake our examinations.

Don't judge me that I found my way to this hall too. You see in form three I had these adolescent emotions which were burning me up like a raging fire on grass. Story for another day, but now you know how I ended up here.

Two very mean looking men joined the lady and begun dishing out the examination papers. A thin sweat was declaring its paths down my shaggy hair which had not had a visit by the barber in ages. I took a deep breath, thanks to my yoga tutor, and calm took over me the same way the seas calmed during the time of Jesus of Nazareth. By the way, I still don't get how this fellow used to talk to storms like they are his pals. How?

So I take out my pen and ready it to ooze knowledge and experience that has been earned not so easily but by a long four years of hardship(read canes) and lots of maize and weevils, aka, githeri, and a few beans here and there. I felt completely ready for this specific English Writing paper, regards to my teacher of English, one Mr. Hillary Muthoka(this is where I send shout out to the rest of my teachers, but today save this space for this soldier-strong teacher).

I was armed to the last tooth to fire arsenal after arsenal. Delivering blow after blow on the Queen's language. I could imagine my fellow students scrabbling to catch the slightest glimpse of the justice I was going to do to this paper. My very joking friend, George Mwendwa(by the way watch his music on YouTube as Rota Dee, how have you guys not watched his music?) would probably be throwing papers at me in an attempt to have me position my paper squarely for him to copy my work. Yeah, he would do that like he had a PhD in Exam Thievery and Answers Editing. Sorry sir, that just seemed like a good line to spice my story

I could imagine the examiner marking my paper with broken ribs out of reading the wealth of memes married with sophisticated language I was going to deliver. I hope his/her insurance works, owing to my humor he/she would be in hospital for days, which means a big bill, where the insurance comes in.

I brace myself up and I open the paper. Karma has a way of embarrassing me each time I am ready to do justice to a task.

Long story short, five years later here I am behind my laptop delivering my wrath upon the keyboard to pen down this article, namely, a blog post, while the rest of THE students are surgeons, pilots, accountants and other jobs which deserve the name JOBS.

But well, I guess it's not such a lose because I keep folks like you glued to their phones, iPhones, iPads and other i-devices.

Mama, now you see where your fees went to? Right? Mama, I have a serious job. I do articles, scripts, blog, write, in short, I am some idle jobless fellow who writes stuff as it trickles down my brain. Now, that's a job.

On a serious note, adults, I am a seasoned filmmaker, script writer, photographer, and basically any job that involves holding my camera or penning down my story via the qwerty keyboard.

Check out my coming film, "Circle of Games". Thanks my faithful readers for keeping me employed here. Have a drink on my bill.
Cheers.