I very nearly crashed into a pregnant lady strolling down Nairobi's Haile Selassie Avenue, her face sparkling with the energetic scent of those so youthful menopause could too be a mouthwash.
She had unprotected sex in a nation slithering with bugs and where hooligans strike into your entryway at midnight shouting, "Open up! Fungua!" In this nation where educators and medical attendants strike without a moment's notice and a mooing bovine could lose its blamelessness at a 'private facility' in a blaze, she permitted a tadpole to whiplash over her Atlantic and zap one of her prized eggs into life. Courageous young lady.
Her face was dispossessed of that miserable stain in ladies who misgiving strolling down the passageway, so I speculated she was recently and still cheerfully hitched. The stains and strains come later, when sentiment falsehoods covered underneath farts and wheezes and the delightful wedding photographs that took three ridiculous hours to shoot begin social event dust in a dismissed drawer trickling with yesteryear's provocative unmentionables.
Also Read: GEMA LISTEN PRESIDENCY IN NOT YOUR BIRTH RIGHT
On the other hand perhaps she was single and the father of her unborn tyke vanished, similar to the man who urinates on a lamppost and strolls, without a regressive look.
Bouncing over an open channel, I pondered whether she met him at a wedding. Possibly church or Facebook. Perhaps they were workmates. On the other hand maybe he pushed his thigh roughly against hers in a matatu and struck up a discussion, as though that would touch off an outdated spring of gushing lava. It generally begins with the climate coincidentally, even in this computerized age.
"The warmth in this town can slaughter somebody… "
She feigned exacerbation and grinned derisively. Where it counts, she knew he was thinking about an alternate sort of warmth so she scowled at him, moved from his irritating thigh and gazed out of the window. In any case, the "Fisi" continued talking. Who bites gum minutes in the wake of awakening?
He requested her telephone number. She overlooked him. At long last, in irritation, she offered into quiets him down in light of the fact that he continued arguing and annoying, unaware of the disliking looks from an Akorino couple in the bordering seat. When she landed, he said bye, oozing an affection so fake she was enticed to smack him over the face.
"He will most likely send me a vulgar instant message in 60 minutes and I will call and impolitely reprimand him," she swore. Be that as it may, a day passed. At that point two, a week, two weeks, a month… He never called.
Oddly, that hurt. Much as she attempted, she couldn't release the irritating felt that possibly 'that jackass confronted offspring of the devil' (her words) hadn't discovered her alluring. What's more, that stung in light of the fact that it helped her to remember Pablo, the "animal" she fell for in spite of knowing he was so conceited he nicknamed himself Kadinya. He didn't waste time laying down with her closest companion too and when she went up against him, he just shrugged.
"What did you anticipate? I am a man." It stung. Like damnation it stung.
Also Read: CORD BE WARNED ELSE ....
Each time her telephone hummed, she trusted it was that irritating gum-biting matatu man so she could shout, "Never, ever call this number again!" then hang up and obstruct his number. She was passing on to tell somebody all the awful things she needed to advise her ex. In any case, as Pablo, he never called.
At that point one exhausting Friday amidst the month when everybody is destitute, the warmth is smothering and her previous closest companion had quite recently posted 13 pictures on Facebook – holding Pablo, riding on Pablo's back, looking adoringly at Pablo, encouraging Pablo – her telephone rung.
Making a sound as if to speak apprehensively: "Hello there… It's me."
Irate murmur: "What do you need?"
Smooth as a snake: "Might we be able to like have espresso? Today? It would be ideal if you
She just about hurled. The nerve! He anticipated that her would drop whatever she was doing and hurried to meet him? Who the damnation did he think he was? Yet some way or another, they wound up in a thundering bar. The ones where Rhumba is boisterous, amplifiers scratchy, lager shoddy and glasses not very perfect, kitchen messy, urinal stinky, meat strangely delightful, men hefty and the well proportioned ladies painted like neon signs shroud dangerous powder in gleaming totes.
The minute she wriggled into a plastic seat, he hung over and yelled in her ear. "I went to pick my testament of good lead from the CID. I have never been so apprehensive in my life. I was concerned that the cops may uncover something senseless from 12 years back."
"What's more, what was that?" she asked, lack of engagement composed everywhere all over.
"When I was in Form Two, the director's relative presented to him a chicken. We stole through the kay apple wall, snatched the winged animal and broiled it over an open flame in the school ranch around evening time!" he yelled. She chuckled.
Five hours and three containers of Smirnoff Ice later, she understood how forlorn and defenseless she was, the amount she missed being held by a man – any man. "Do you have it?" she whispered when they kissed in the taxi outside her level.
The condom burst that night. Also, similar to a man who pees on a lamppost, spits and leaves zipping his jeans without a retrogressive look, he softened into the dusty morning air and stayed away forever.
Seven months on, there she was, strolling boldly down the road on a Saturday evening, pondering, similar to her parents and companions: Who is the i