Natasha sat at the corner of the wagon fidgeting with her phone, shuffling through “Jesus Daily” Facebook updates and typing “Amen” in the comment sections, prodding God to salvage humanity from tears and rot. It was early afternoon. Dust and exhaust soot settled on the shrubs clothing the abandoned train wagons under Tam-Tam Railway Bridge. City noise slapped the wagons and fell down on the spiky grasses, but only silence sat with Natasha in the corner of one wagon. This was KR-092—huge enough for an orgy of fifty, rusty inside, but largely stable. Most wagons were ankle deep in the marsh. They lay on their sides sporting bumps and bends. KR-092 stood on its feet, away from the marsh, with not a chink on its sides. Natasha was impressed that the double-doors had not been cut off and sold as scrap metal. They gave the wagon a safe freedom. She could lock herself inside if she sensed danger. She will lock herself inside when he arrives. Today…again.
Tommy’s mind wandered. He knew the wagons were not very safe. Just last month street urchins had discovered an unsightly situation in one. The police had to be called to do the necessary and chase the tens of wild dogs circling the scene. Natasha did not know this. He did not tell her. This would be their last time here, he told himself as he crossed the street, descended the steps built on the embankment and took a detour to the thickets hiding unused wagons. Brisk strides. Sweat leathered his face. Tommy was a man oblivious to the concept of lateness, especially when he had an important assignment pending. The latch of one of the doors was fastened, but the other wasn’t. Natasha crawled and hid behind the locked door. She watched his shadow enter, then the tips of his shoes, then the whole of him. His eyes caught a brown leather Pouchee lying at the usual corner, but not Natasha. When she began tiptoeing towards him, he turned and met her with a big grin, pulled her into her arms and planted a kiss on her lips.
Tommy kicked the door closed and latched it. Four beams of light remained shooting through the spaces between the hinges on the left door.
Not much I guess. My watch says 2:45.
I know. Just missed you.
She knew what he was going to do: yank off her panties, lift and pin her to the wall, undo his belt and shake his waist till his jeans were scrambled on the floor, then bulldoze into her. Rough and wild. She liked it sometimes. She did not like it sometimes. Addiction is a bad thing. When one is addicted, one uses the same formula to solve the same equation. She was a girl of many formulas. She did not want it that way today. She pushed him away gently, just when the tip of his middle finger had thrown up her dress and was edging for her waistline.
No Amazon feast today.
I want something unscripted Tommy. We’ve been through this a million times. I want to be surprised.
A million? Haha! Be the Prof. today, then. Introduce me to new concepts.
Tommy stooped to undo his laces, shake off his shoes, and kick off his trousers. He was 5’9”, well-built and toned. Tommy’s ribs were not visible enough to count. Natasha ran her fingers over the ripples of muscle on his stomach. She was just 5’5”. She pulled his head down and kissed him. Short. Playful.
I won’t play Prof. I want you to surprise me, not me to surprise myself.
Tommy turned 27 last year. His experience with legs and breasts started when he was just stepping into his teen years. By that time, Amina had been his family’s house-help for three years. He was in Class 8 and Amina could not have been more than five years older. He assigned her an age three years older, to assuage his ego. Tommy knew there was a huge valley of experience between them but it did not take long before he proved himself to Amina. He had seen a good number of legs and breasts since then but had largely avoided romantic attachment.
But he was addicted to Natasha, though he tried to hide this from himself. She was just 22 and boundaryless like him. That scared him. It made his experience and certificates of sexual expertise inadequate. With Natasha, he wanted to become young again, to restructure the problem, introduce new equations and try out new combinations. He wanted to take his time, be the beloved tutor, assist her to arrive at her answer before reaching his own.
Natasha knew Tommy was better than the midget asymmetrical boy with the cricket-voice that was her boyfriend. Tommy’s hands were invisible hands. They moved at the speed of light and warmed every part of her body that they touched. Every dart of his fingers from one geographical region of her body to the other was received with an applause of sighs. Each of these sighs pumped him up. He was a naturally large man, so the sighs that would have made a small man adequate made him enormous. If an ant was to land on his enormousness, and prick it just a little, it would blow up.
She spread the leso on the hard metal floor and pushed him to sit on it. She stood legs apart and watched his eyes wet with desire. Tommy pulled her lithe body closer, one hand toying with her bush. She spread her legs wider, like a woman preparing to lift a basket of cassava to her head, until the lips of her vagina rested on Tommy’s waiting lips. She closed her eyes.
Take your time. You know I like when our classes are long. And please be creative while at it.
Tash, can you shut up?
Her legs began to fail her. They shook and trembled like springs. He lowered her gently onto his lap and she swallowed him whole like the Whale swallowed Jonas. He was always glad to live inside her.
Cargo trains are long and fat. They spit soot into the air, soot which settles on shrubs concealing abandoned train wagons. The train chugged and chugged, snaking noisily on Tam-Tam Railway Bridge. The train noise drowned Tommy’s sex noise, but his swears were insistent. Obscene and loud swears became obscenest and loudest swears. Tommy’s swears drowned Natasha’s whimpers and moans as he pumped into her. Unafraid. Fearless. Invited. They chugged and chugged, accelerating as the cargo train nearing the station above slowed. They chugged and chugged, inside KR-092.
Richard Oduor (@RichieMaccs) is a poet and writer and other things which put food on the table. He holds a degree in Biomedical Science and Technology, and currently works as a Research Consultant in Nairobi, Kenya. His work has been published in Saraba Magazine, San Antonio Review, among others and also regularly commentates on The Star (Kenya). He is struggling to publish his first poetry collection while working on a novel and short stories. He is part of Hisia Zangu and the Jalada Africa writers’ collective.