She hustled her ass through the crowd, into a dark corner with a table for two. I almost spanked her as she passed by, but a CCTV camera stared right at us. I mean, who knows, I might get clobbered out here. Shoving my dirty fingers everywhere, and all. Forget it.
She was flattered anyway, as if she’d seen the look in my eyes. As if she’d seen my arm suddenly stop halfway in the air as I pretended to pick a matchstick off the dirty floor. One of her mighty thighs then brushed against my elbow as she walked right past us, back to the counter. It was no accident. And I didn’t hesitate to gently grab her by the arm and spin her around. A brave move. Sort of like jumping into the deep end. She smiled. Much to my relief. She was warm and beautiful, just how I like them. And I smiled back at her like an idiot. Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky tonight.
From the corner of my eye, I could see my boy, Oti, watching us. He was smiling incredulously. He was amused. He wasn’t blind. He could see what was going on.
“Wanja, kuja na balozi mbili apo,” his voice roared above the loud music.
“Eeh…Eeh,” I added, watching her cute tushy bounce away.
“Sema Jackpot na tushaingizwa kwa draw,” I blurted out with a stupid grin on my face.
“Kwa mpigooo!” He laughed, slapping my back a few times. How I wished he’d just kept his hands to himself.
“Unajuami nikishakalia hadi deposit alafu nihame, sitaki ata kujua mwenye ataingia iyo nyumba,” he added.
I knew he had rent issues. Plenty of them. He was two months behind. His water was cut off. His electricity was out too. He’d even whispered to me once, that he would run away in the dead of the night with all his stuff. Not a bad idea considering the circumstances, but what did this have to do with anything? What does this have to do with her? The woman.
Two cold beers were placed on the counter top and quickly opened. The ancestors were appeased because we didn’t want to burn in hell for eternity. No. Oti didn’t want to burn in hell for eternity. I just didn’t want to die from liver cirrhosis, if my ancestors could help it. Wanja then lingered on for a moment before she grabbed a seat and made herself comfortable.
The crowd was starting to thin. She wouldn’t have to serve any more customers for a while. Then, their legs touched. Chemistry. That was fast. She was new. She’d barely been here a week. Small wonder why Oti didn’t bother to sing her praises, this time. He pretty much didn’t care if she was there at all. Of course, they had a thing. She’d been playing me this whole time. Damn it! I should have known.
National Geographic Wild was on. Animal Fight Club. Something about two male lions fighting for the right to mate. I wondered how things might turn out if it came down to this. He was bigger. But I was faster. And younger, too. Then, it hit me. Of course, I was just another wannabe tenant waiting for the previous ‘owner’ to move out so that I could move in. Just another wannabe boyfriend. Just another name on the waiting list. I felt stupid. Oti and his damned metaphors.
Oti slammed his phone on my face. I had a long look before I shoved it aside. It was a girl. Princess, he called her. She was 18. Just out of high school. And she loved him. He said he loved her too. The bartenders ears perked up at this. Probably figuring out their thing was just a fling. Princess was one of his biology students. Yeah, thats right, Oti is a teacher. A noble profession by all means. The man himself? Not so noble.
Anyway, Princess got pregnant last year, in Form 3. So much for the biology expert, I thought to myself. And no, it wasn’t because the condom broke. He just didn’t like the rubber. Made him feel weak as a man and besides, he did some of his best work without the gloves on. I wasn’t about to have the talk with him. He was way too old for that. Princess even came to his house with no panties on. What was he supposed to do? He was just a man for Christs sakes. Even the local chief would understand, right? He was also a Chelsea fan, and even Didier Drogba wore no underwear back in his league days. Things had to breathe, apparently.
But Oti could lose his job. He could get seven years in the pen. And Oti was a man with big dreams and ambitions. So she had to abort. Scratch that. He made her abort. The bartender gasped at the sound of abort. Like she’d heard some dirty word.
“Imagine mi siwezi toa,” she said. She leaned forward and added harshly. “Siangesema ni ya boy mwingine wa Kirimara” (Yenyewe kama we ni kijana over 20, na bado hujasingiziwa mimba, there is something wrong with you.)
Anyway, turns out Wanja, the bartender, had a kid too. A girl. Four years old. Lived with her grandmother. Wanja was 21. So I did the math. Unbelievable, the stories you get to hear at the bar. Some, even more honest than confessions told to the pope!
“Kwanza wangu ni photocopy yake kabsaa alafu iyo ghasia ikaruka.” She wondered if I had scattered any wild oats too. I said I had none that I knew of, wishing she’d consider a fling with me too. She cursed all men. Men are pigs. A fling with me was definitely out of the question. So much for getting lucky tonight, I thought.
“ukiona kifaranga rika hii, wewe mate namwagika hivi…Mtoto kidoogoo ivi” George said angrily, obviously referring to a child.
Over 3000 new teenage pregnancies. Fruits of forbidden love. But we all know forbidden fruits taste the sweetest, don’t we? Even George Natembeya agrees.
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