She emerges from the bedroom, half naked, exhausted, moist sweat all over her body. A smile’s on her face. “That was awesome,” she smiles again as she sips the glass of water. She hasn’t felt that way in a long time. A cool breeze flows in through the open kitchen window, blows gently on her bare exposed breasts. Her nipples get hard again. She bites her lower lip and then smiles again. “That was awesome.” She takes another sip. On the bed lies the man, the guy, ze nigga as she calls him.
Guest of honor sir, distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen, widows and widowers…meet Amina.
Okay, where am I even headed to with this, what am I even saying? Why am I even writing this romance stuff haha? Let me stop before I embarrass myself further. Stick to your shit Marvin, you aren’t cut out for romance omera. My dad always tells me I’m stupid, monumentally stupid, and going ahead with this might just prove him right. Let me just write about whatever it is that everyone’s saying over here. It’s almost the Election Day and everyone’s orgasmic about it. Team NASA, Team Jubilee or whatever those other campaign teams everyone’s on. Everyone is busy campaigning for their candidate, moving door to door, bed to bed, rally to rally…trying to convince us why we should wake up at six in the morning to go queue and vote them in. For me, nobody’s given me money yet, so I’m still undecided who I’ll vote for.
And on the other hand, well I’m just here doing nothing. Or in the words of the late William Ruto, nimekaliwa chapati over here. I mean Amina’s ruling this house ever since she came in. Oh, she moved in some weeks ago. i forgot to add that part. And mehn only God knows how hard this whole come-we-stay thing has been hard for me so far. Things have changed over here mehn. Nowadays I no longer recycle my shirts the way I want; it’s now a strictly one-shirt-one-day policy. I’m forced to brush my teeth twice a day, eat a fruit after meals and stuff. Heck, she’s even making me wear deodorants in both armpits. God knows the last time I was on deodorant was some time back when I was going to Atieno’s place thinking I’d tell her sorry and we get back together. I still remember that night; flower in one hand, a bottle of Fanta on the other hand, and Rexona deodorant in my armpit as I knocked on that door. Only for a shirtless nigga to open the door, his hairy chest staring at me as if taunting me to look at the six pack on that stomach. Yes, I know I don’t have them, the six pack and shit, but that wasn’t a pleasant sight.
What am I trying to say here? What I’m trying to say here is I nowadays wear deodorant, put on matching pair of socks, wash my hair with shampoo, and thanks to Vero (I know you don’t know Vero but just let me bring it up) thanks to Vero, I recently purchased some cologne. Or wait, is it called cologne, or spray, or perfume, or marashi? Wolefa, I don’t know which is which. I just know nowadays I smell good. And for me to be willing to do all this makeover stuff, believe me when I tell you nimekaliwa chapati. Or as my buddy from USIU will say it, I’ve been seated on chapatti here big time.
I mean I’m usually that rigid fella, the traditional rigid type of person who is always reserved to his daily routine, but this new situation I’m in is just overwhelming. It was not until recently after she moved in that I even realized a woman can be on top, and for me to even be willing to let go of the missionary position that I’d gotten accustomed to is proof enough of my Amina predicaments. I’m even beginning to regret who lied to me that I can do this. I’m usually not good at being a boyfriend. I’m that guy that’s just good at hanging out with until you find your husband then I get dumped. But this, this whole new “moving in” stuff, Lord help me.
At first, it was all fun in paradise, or let me say at first it was all fun in my bedsitter…I even told you guys about it, right? Amina isn’t the type I could let pass without telling the world about. I mean daily you were always here reading about how I got rejected by so n so, how I got blue-ticked by Laura (again, you don’t know Laura, but it’s okay. Just keep reading. Laura’s this badass chic I met some time back, so badass she quit her law career, probably the first lawyer after Harvey Spectre to tell her boss to go fuck himself).
I’d usually be here writing about how I got high and drunk texted my ex, only to be called back by his short boyfriend. That nigga is so short, but I won’t dwell much on him today either. I hear the guy’s a Kisii and as I always say, if there’s one thing my dad told me that I always follow till today is; Never mess with mother earth, mother nature, and motherfucking Kisiis.
But then Amina happened and baam! I was online again, changing profile pictures and shit, statuses and shit, clothes and shit, and my face was always jovial like I was watching the world’s best porn video, (that’s if Martha Karua did porn.) You know that first period of the relationship when you’re all smiles and stuff, smelling each other like dogs and wearing those matching vitenges? Then suddenly you start getting comfortable with each other, she even farts loudly inside the duvet and you’re just sleeping there covered to the nose…then one day you wake up and in the middle of your prayer session you just pause and ask God, “How the fuck did I get here?”
Let me just summarize whatever it is I was writing up there about the cool breeze, the half-naked girl, and the nipples stuff. It’s 1:18 a.m. midnight, everyone’s asleep here. Amina’s snoring here carelessly as if I’m not even here. She probably thinks I’m her brother. The rest of the world is dead asleep. Or just dead dead like Tom Mboya dead. Those who are not asleep are either out partying somewhere, or just having rough midnight sex on their balconies. Damn! Sex on the balcony’s always the best. Except when you over-do it and end up pushing your girlfriend over the ledge and she falls five floors down to her death. But forget about the death part; imagine just you on that balcony, hanging on the rails as you screw the living hell out of each other’s brains. Then you get tired, rest on that dusty black chair that’s always abandoned on the balcony, drink a glass of water then quickly go for a round four before you start making loud noises and wake up the neighbors. Damn!
But over here its 1:18, okay, it’s now 1:32 midnight. Amina’s still asleep. It’s quiet everywhere I can even hear myself fart. And since I’m still sleepless, I decide to take out my laptop. (Oh, it ain’t mine. Actually, I’ve never even owned a laptop before. This one’s borrowed from some awesome friend I got that always goes head over heels to help me whenever I’m in some shit of a kind, though she can be a thorn in the ass at times. I take out the laptop, open some porn series I was watching the other day but I lose interest halfway through. So I just stare at my Vaseline tin and smile; it was good while it lasted, the Vaseline and rolls of tissue helped me a lot when I was single. Nowadays I’m self-contained. I mean just look at the beautiful lady snoring here next to me. Okay, what am I even saying? Telling you to look as if you’re even here with me. Anyway nowadays the dry spells are a story of the past, coitus is the order of the day here. And in as much as I know I can’t win any sex awards, or contests, I usually just get in there, get on with the business, represent my tribe well, and get done with it.
Amina’s stopped snoring. I think she’s about to wake up and ask me if I remembered to brush my teeth before bed. I garra go. At least I had time to write down this stuff, after all who knows? I might die tomorrow without getting the chance to tell it, I might probably choke on Ochieng’s food at his kibandaski and won’t be here to brag about it to anyone. The nigga cooks some awesome chapati madondo, just thought I’d just let you know. After all, we all live once here, nobody does it twice in these times. Except for Jesus and Robert Ouko. The rest of the niggas I know nowadays all die once, look at what they did to Osama. I garra leave.