Because You Loved Me

“Linda found a new life, with a new man, with whom they now have cute nonidentical twins – Jerry and Joey,”
“Mark died in prison while serving his term for the attempted murder of his wife.”
“Njeru is never heard of. At least, not as frequently as he popped up on Linda and Mark’s conversations; however, a few people who have recently seen him say that he has reformed and now works as a janitor in a beautiful home. In the city. In Lavington or is it Runda? All speculations however remain vague.

By the way (Use a low tone for the next paragraph)… I know I sound like a 10Kmph speed limit caution on a superhighway acceleration lane, but, imagine not getting hurt reading forward with that prerequisite, after all, speed kills, savour every word today, stop, smile, go on, again, repeat action, life is short. It’s a YOLO generation.
Who would have thought of Njeru one day settling for a wage, a mere wage? A token of appreciation. Who? Not me!
How life boxes and cuffs people then neatly ties, tucks and packs them with the hardest to self-inculcate virtues (Humility one, Love another), inside tiny coffers; like Frankenstein’s knit body parts, in the old story of Hotel Transylvania. I agree with you, Hotel Transylvania was great and to be great is to be open to competition and continuation. Think about it, from Owaah’s angle, isn’t the story of ‘the son of big foot good too? Or say my other best performing story, the lust hop, Love?” Look at it from this context, one story is good until another is told. I’m glad you get it.
But as some stories may be as detailed as Dracula’s or say, Ulysses, others remain vague, through to the end, hanging loose with that last full stop. Scripts left as open ended as software’s open source codes, or as relates to this story’s opening.
Read between the lines, it’s not every day that you walk along Ogada street in Kisumu and fail to spot sluts on low rise jeans, and pink, red or yellow thongs, peeking out their brown boosted butts, in prostitution lure; neither is it every other day that you don’t walk on curvy, light skinned women, on crop tops and miniskirts, with piercings on their noses, the belly button and the tongue – because this street is mad and evil and rotten with promiscuity and it has made its name to that effect. Octopus Street, bottoms up street, the vile street; whatever you call it, as long as it resonates with it’s evil, no one cares. Provided it operate at night and during the day like no other street in town does, no one gives a hoot. Believe it, it’s building’s veranda are always full with people, boozing, and girls, and whoremongers, going about their business, their usual slut businesses. Under the orange flair of street lights, with the boom of music, filling the air from different club houses over and round.
But today isn’t that kind of day, it’s heavily raining, thunderbolts creaking above the dark black skies. For that reason, everyone is tucking warm inside these interlocked buildings, along the deserted Street. Skeleton, and waiting, statue and grunting, like metal scarecrows clamped, permanent in static locations. No motion, what so ever, no motion.
But despite the bad weather, a few girls still come out, so often, because they are in the ‘noble’ business of warmth. ‘Noble’ because they wait in the freezing cold, dressed to ‘impress’, to serve you (isn’t that a noble thing to do), your dad, uncle, nieces and nephews, by dawn. Your clan, your fucking promiscuous clan.
And ‘prostitutes/promisquity’ because buying and selling go two fucking ways and that’s how the roundheels know that city men are as much whores as we (street workers are PIMP’s) and them, escorts, and they (slurs) will be exuberant and uncontrolled and boisterous when they talk to you (client), then brusque and impatient when they notice that you are one of those broke clients, with touchy and easy spanky hands.
“Aya, ati 200? Kanunulie mama yako omena.” (Sex for two dollars? No fucking way) the sex workers says
“Hutosi mboga!” they’ll continue
“Ok 250!” you will reiterate
“Nimesema staki, Malaya wewe.” ‘last two words translating to,” (You prostitute)…by the way, they’ll raise their voices ready to create a scene when they call you malaya.
Did you savour that exchange? What did it taste like? Cucumber? OK. Great. But still, let me break it down. The sex worker in the conversation just called her client a prostitute, which otherwise makes the name of her profession something different I believe. Nobility at it’s best, I tell you! Should we call them masseuses? Models? hehe. Ok. Drop it. I certainly don’t know what tuning away from their most popular name (prostitutes) makes them either. Enough with that.
A black car skids in front of the club, Bottoms Up, and brakes to steady traction of wheels and wet tarmac. Two gentlemen walk out, on black suits, with their neck ties loosened up a bit. They are not drunk because they walk fast, a meter on drizzles, into the bar, passing through the thick crowd inside to the counter. A few people are buried to their drinking businesses, most however, hang around pool tables, watching particularly pretty women (distinct women) playing snooker.
Njeru always acclaim crazy stuff when they are here, like,
Ngai fafa! Mark! This is a beautiful site, of whoredom – look at those clamped up boobs peering through the padded cleavages (My oh my, he slung his hands over his head) and derrieres, bursting out from bend overs… while they makes shots, on balls, the random game balls, never the black one because the game should never end,” He is a crazy chap, talking bad shit, puerile, like crazy people do. Innit?
“Hey Tom, Glenfiddich” Mark places his order, removing his court and draping it over the tall counter seat.
“Make it two,” Njeru retorts, with the exhilaration of a drunk, later gulping more tots in dry turning.
“Man, can you believe who I’ve just seen? She is here,” Mark pocks his friend and whispers.
“Who?” Njeru is loud, always loud
“Linda. The crazy chick is here. On table two” Mark whispers again as if afraid to be heard or seen. Then gets up and leaves
“Are you sure you want to go over there?” Hehe… Njeru laughs on reminisce of how the lady in question had once gone bonkers on them, made a hell out of their knocked knees.
Crazy story. Like any other raving citizens, they went bar hopping, searching for that perfect chilling spot, with less noise, good music and great to see chicks, thighs. Aren’t thighs the best ‘chick’ parts to order in Deli? (I thought so too). Until they rounded the city over, ending at this bar. And this woman stood in the verandah shaking her bosom at the two friends, as they left their car.
And “Hey baby.”
Were her exact words, intended for the all dark, tall man, Mark, as they trod to the entrance,
“Did you just call me baby? Do I know you? Mark stopped, stepped back and asked, kidding, then Linda moved forward, too close, touched his chin, then lunged her breasts on his chest and said, “I have what you are looking for. I’ll serve you warm, thighs. It’s always summer down here you know.” Cocky she
Down to presumable facts. Did he want her? He didn’t know. Would he pay for sex? He couldn’t tell. At least not at that moment, not when their eyes sparked and he moved his hands to her butt, on the street, like they had been lovers forever. Until came Njeru’s loud chirpy voice, when Linda’s lips were almost locking on Marks’,
“We bwana tuende, let’s go.”
Suddenly Mark pushed Linda’s hands off his chin, releasing the snung of her other arm from his waist.
For a moment, an distraction/attraction blazons on their faces, like a large billboard with only four bold words, Love at first sight. But that didn’t stop Linda’s juvenile machismo. The street was her office. And to show up here and almost fall for kissing her made Mark no saint.
She knew evil when she saw it. After all, she was evil herself. She knew that Mark wasn’t an exception of men touching and not paying for the pleasure and feel of the touch.
Remember, she’d been here longer, for businesses, not for love. And that’s not to say that if she got both, she would not grab the chance with both hands.
Situational analysis… if she got love, alone, it would depend, with who, and perhaps it would also be an erudite beginning and she knew better than to try fitting in relationships with unending baggages, struggling to the end.
But try to dig into your amygdala… Think, hasn’t any slut ever mentioned that it was her biggest dream to fall for a tall, white, handsome, Italian man, and to be fallen for? Their reason of staying in those pubs, not getting weary of the wait for that nirvana? Well Mark wasn’t either, not white, not tall, not handsome, jaza pengo, even so, the thought of having sex with him still felt like love to Linda, that’s despite her not being sure what love felt like anymore.
What she was sure about though is,
She had to get money off that tempting touch, or otherwise, freezing in the streets would be in vain.
She leant back to a pole, of the pub’s extended front and frowned, with familiar evocations of venom, sapentish, swaying her hips, “Uh! Tell me you just turned down all these.” She demanded, swating her body with the back of her hands then slightly lifted her tiny skirt with the middle finger, above her groin area, to reveal the side strings of her pants, cutting through her hip bone. “I get it, you are impotent. Puerile in bed, yea! Aren’t you?” she continued, mockingly, and Mark and his friend looked back in disbelief but kept walking anyway. (You don’t want to talk back at a whore in Whore-Nation, lest they join hands and strip you down). Linda was hurting and she hurled more insults at them. And when they did not reply, she got louder and they walked faster, inside, never to look back, leaving her bruised, yapping, standing a lone, almost naked by choice, a gentle paragon, cognac, seemingly educated but vile a woman with words, dissatisfied, that her words didn’t sink in them.
Not Njeru, he cared less but for the drinks and nice music, Mark however wanted to get back and kiss her.
The reason why they didn’t take long inside, coming out to no one as beautiful as she was. Because she was gone, most certainly with a willing client, tell you something, that’s how street businesses run, you buy, you get served, you don’t, someone else will buy, your loss. Especially when an imprint of an angelic face with lustrous body is stamped on your mind – the slut’, and flirts. Schadenfreude. That’s life. Marks’ life. His reason for going to the pub, every other night and staying longer, afterwards; until this night, earlier today, when everyone was gathered on table two and he made his way through to the front, to Linda’s back , and the bar’ parallel mirrors reflected on them as he tucked around her curves – Linda leaning on the table to tap on the white ball. Mark draping over her back, arms slung around her neck, relaxed, like he just got his nirvana or he was drunk. And everyone else kept distance, smiling but Linda, the crazy girl, concentrating on the last ball, the black ball, “Stupid.” She shouted and turned and slapped him, hard, in the face. In a flash, he didn’t see it coming, that subtle line of delineation bumping, touch only if you will pay, her message to all drunks, or is it a wisecrack to whoredom and whoremongers? Be the judge, only, remember, Lusike Wabuge says,
I signed a warranty at birth
“Return to maker if faulty”
Ten fingers, ten toes with perfect eyesight
A free and fertile mind,
Its capacity is still unknown
To be personalized to the parents’ specifications….
….Why did I use this poem?
Part two continues next week…