“We are done” by Momanyi Osoro
“Sexual energy is the ultimate life force.” _ OSHO
Late last year, at the close of the semester, I lay sleeping in my house. A lazy afternoon. I had swallowed huge mounds of ugali and sour milk for lunch. The best I could do was nap. My phone rang, thundering through the meditative silence of my room. I rolled to the side of the bed like a sated hippo. My best boy’s voice came alive, impatient and jolly.
“Osoch, where are you?”
“I am in the house, sleeping. What’s cooking?”
“I’m done with class, si we go for a walk.”
“Okay, pass by my house, then we roll.”
Minutes later, he popped up. I slid into sport shoes and we hit the road. I stay on the fringes of Nairobi National Park. Lions are frequent visitors in my hood. There are nights I leave the house hoping to run into lions, but they’ve done their best to evade me.
We traced a path into the park, trading stories and laughing about nothing. We lay bare our dreams, driven by a virgin angst for an orgiastic future.
Walks are healing. I still remember the colour of that evening. The sun, worn out, pulled back in a shade of glorious orange. On the next ridge we could spot animals, distant, grazing and running in circles. On the horizon, Nairobi settled for the night. Skyscrapers rose into the sky, dark and sharp, bullish monuments of capitalism.
We ran into two boys who couldn’t be older than ten. Their inquisitive eyes glittered with innocence. We interrogated them. They answered, eyeing us fretfully.
“There were lions around but they moved away.”
I thought to myself ‘these lions are doing a good job of avoiding me.’ What were the lions scared of? I wasn’t interested in hurting them.
As night unleashed its shroud, we urinated in the bushes. My yellowish mixture hit the ground, I felt connected to nature. For once, I was a child of the world. I turned to my boy.
“Champ, let’s get back. We don’t want to run into a hyena family.”
“What’s your plan for the evening?”
“I’m going to eat, watch a documentary, and sleep. Nothing much.”
“That’s boring, lets hit a club.”
“I’m a bit tight on finances.”
“Nobody asked you about money.”
Our young eyes clashed in the dappled evening light. Money wasn’t the problem. I wasn’t interested in clubbing; I had lost that fire. Loud music and dancing and gyrating was my portion no longer. I preferred solitude and silence.
I could have said no, but since my boy was digging into his pocket and it would be long before we hang out again, I went. Although I am self-centred and selfish about my time, sometimes it’s okay to sacrifice some of it for the people in our lives.
We called up some party girls we know. They wanted us to join them. But after serious considerations, we chose not to join the certified party girls. With them, the night could only end in one way, we wanted nothing of that sort. I imagined them at the various joints as they sat in bar stools, long legs emerging from short skirts. Them appearing lost and confused, as if they were in a place they’d rather not.
My boy whispered.
“Tuache story za waroro.”
“For sure bro. Hawa warembo watatumaliza.”
We hit a new joint. We knew the mountainous man at the door from another club. The place tutted and exploded with music. Evocative waiters walked around, servicing orders and smiling at sexually deprived men. You could see the hunger in the men’s eyes, suppressed.
One thing I hated about the joint is that there was no dance floor to let it all go. We danced suspiciously around our tables like we were in kindergarten. As if a teacher may turn up with a cane anytime. The place also rocked with young life. For some weird reason, I’m never comfortable around a young crowd. I prefer older people, calm energy. But that night I was confronted with young and fiery souls, spilling over with life.
As Nigerian music ripped through the night, my eyes floated around the club. I was confronted with youth and vitality, the full force. As people danced, wildly, as if possessed by demons, I sensed there was something bigger at play. Dancing was an exorcism. The dance floor was where they left the demons tugging at their young, disturbed and fucked up lives. They were letting it all out, the hefty course work, the pain of being dumped, depression issues.
I turned to the whiskey laid before us, a Scottish classic. The drink pulled unnecessary attention to our table. Young chaps walked around staring. Chicks danced too close to us. The waiters were cordial and warm. Everything we requested for arrived in haste: warm water, lemon. As the night trudged on, my inebriation hit new heights, I had a eureka moment about money.
We live in a materialistic society. Here money is king, the godfather. Money calls the shots and runs everything. Of course, spiritualist bastards who’ve read Indian mythology are going to tell you otherwise, don’t listen to them. To lead a fairly decent life in this urban jungle, you need a few coins to your name.
I was already light-headed. My eyes scanned the room, swallowing up everything. A man sat alone, nursing a beer. He reeked of terrible, heart-breaking loneliness. I wondered to myself, how could he manage to drink alone, in the midst of that racket of youth and music? I won’t forget the image he inspired. The beer bottle seemed like cough syrup. He held it carefully, like someone might snatch it at any moment. His face zigzagged in an undecipherable expression of confusion and sadness. Maybe his date had stood him up, or he was grieving. Whatever blow he was recovering from; it threatened to knock the life out of him.
Two fairly good-looking girls came to our table They knew my boy. They had a taste of the whiskey, their pouted mouths curled in grimaces. “Ni kali sana,” one of them whispered. This was a subtle way of requesting for a mild drink, and saying that their bill would be on us. We ignored the request. They danced with us for a while. I left the table to take a leak. Walking back, my boy tackled me, “The girl likes you. She wants you to buy her a drink.”
I broke into a laugh, full and unbridled.
“Boss, if that girl really liked me, she wouldn’t want me buy her a drink. This one just wants to grab free drinks and hit the road.”
“Broo! This girl is hot.”
“Come on champ, we’ve been with more hotter girls who did not ask us to buy them drinks. I don’t like the vibe she gives off though.”
I have a few rules of operation. Call them Master Osoch’s iron rules. I don’t take girls to night clubs. It’s okay if we meet there. I don’t buy girls drinks in night clubs. I don’t have the money, and do girls think night clubs are drink donation places? There is something devilishly attractive about beautiful women who grab their own bills.
I also don’t take girls home. If we meet in the club, we need to meet again away from places of manufactured fun. Call it an audition. Then maybe, if you pass the test, I might welcome you into my space.
The girls sauntered away, bored and angry. I laughed and cracked like a brand-new whip.
At a corner, behind the entrance, two other girls danced, alone. They had their chick drinks, and seemed to be having a nice time. Eye contact was made. They reeked of sensuality and tempestuous sexuality. My radar was up, like a wild dog on the hunt. I approached, dancing, carried through air by Wizkid. In a blur I was dancing between them, cocky like a motherfucker.
Their names got lost in the night. Both girls were from Coasto, they had it in their faces and in the swing of their monotonous hips. They took turns twerking in front of me. The way their asses moved, fluid, slow motion. I felt the softness behind the jeans. One of the them suddenly pulled me up. We danced at close quarters like lovers who’d not met in years. Suddenly she turned and grabbed the sofa, gyrating like it was a profession. Her ass came up against my crotch again. This time, the buddy downstairs protested. He wanted to join the party. He expanded and expanded. Threatening to rip open my trousers. The girl, brought her ass against my crotch again, fueling my manhood to new heights.
She swung around and faced me, her eyes digging into my soul with peculiar intensity. Time stopped. One thing was certain, we wanted to bang the hell out of each other. She moved closer and whispered. “You’re big.”
I smiled. There was nothing to be said. We stood there admiring each other, locked in the jaws of cupid. Her eyes hid a mystery. Out of the blues, she blurted.
“Buy me a drink.”
I thought. “Aha, here we go again.”
Even though I liked her, rules are rules. I pulled back from her, winked and walked back to my table. She watched me sit, her eyes glowing like an angry eagle. A nerve had been hit. She beckoned her friend, and they disappeared in the merrymaking human forest.
I checked my phone, 3AM. My time was up. I needed to get home and sleep. I gave a thumbs up to my boy who was arguing his case to some chick. I then made my customary exit, Irish. Silent, swift, clean.
Outside the club, a fresh gust of air blew into my face. It felt good to be back in nature. I jumped into a boda. The ride to my hovel, CASTLE BLACK, was a small journey of disillusionment. I thought about the meaning of life. Nothing made sense. The boda guy was from the north rift. He’d left after high school, some years back. Now he had two kids and a wife. He was two years my senior. Was I ready to be a Father? Fuck no!
I slept. Weeks passed. I chased life. I forgot about the girl.
One Friday evening, towards the end of January, I sauntered through Haile Selassie Avenue. I had had a blast of a day. In the afternoon, I’d sat in the boardroom of a mammoth advertising agency. Was my dream of copywriting finally coming alive? I watched creatives drag around the glass-walled office, free, unburdened and thought, ‘this is where I want to spend my working days.’
Haile Selassie was a burst artery, pouring people and vehicles into the city. In the flood of humanity, I saw her. She was walking towards me. Her face glowed in the sunset. As she drew closer, recognition hit home. Her previously curled mouth, serious, thawed into a shy smile. She blushed at my greeting, her celestial eyes, deep, trying to avoid mine. In the dappled evening light, she was a lot hotter and sensual.
“Hi, it’s been a while.”
”I’ve been looking for you.”
“Liar!” she poked at my ripped stomach. “You can’t even buy a girl a drink.”
“Girls buy me drinks. If I’m going to buy you a drink, you have to be damn interesting. Tell me, why should I buy you a drink?”
“For the sake of it. It’s what normal people do.”
“I’m not normal.”
“We should meet up sometime?”
“That would be nice.”
My phone was off. I keyed my contact on her gadget and we parted ways. It felt good talking to her. I had a full throttle hard on.
On the matatu back to my place, I couldn’t help thinking how women are the greatest actors on the planet. In the club, she’d been the ultimate courtesan; seductive, nothing held back. During day, she seemed the archetypal campus girl, innocent and dreamy.
For some reason, texting with her was a hustle. Our messages, far and distance, and her complaining that I was too serious, never online, me wondering whether being online paid bills.
“We don’t talk much.”
“I don’t say a lot, maybe in person we can talk more.”
She would stay for silent for days then my phone would ping.
“You’re too serious.”
“Normal me. Folks say I’m funny.”
“Hu! Hu! Hu! Can you even crack a joke? It’s like you’re made of ice. Or maybe it’s because we are not used to each other.”
I would watch her messages fly by, little electronic birds, her drawing conclusions about yours truly. One bored Tuesday, I went for the jugular.
“How does your weekend look like? Pass by, we catch up and share a bit.”
“I’m not that guy.”
“(laughing emojis) nkt! You’re so full of yourself.”
“There you go. One-word answers.”
I ignored her for the rest of the week. No, I was too held up. A Friday, mid-morning, I walked out of a CAT, my head ready to explode. The CAT was fire, I’d spent two hours coming up with my own crooked physics formulas, Isaac Newton wouldn’t be impressed. As the afternoon sun burned on lively young faces, my phone vibrated.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m doing good. I’m coming to your little town.”
“Nice, let me know when you alight.”
Eight in the evening, I stood near the stage watching obnoxious matatus come blaring into halts. Friday nights in little Coast have a tinge of urgency. People seem fired up by super human energy, the way they walk and laugh. Matatus and Ubers compete in spilling out girls. There is always a party going on somewhere. For a while I’d been part of those parties.
I watched her jump out of the matatu. She had a dark dress, very short. Her taut legs ended in brown slip-ons. She really was prepared for the dust. A small handbag on her arm and a red bomber jacket completed the look. Staring at her walk towards me, a smile on her dovey face, I felt my teammate downstairs start wriggling for space. We hugged. Her pugnacious bosom pushed hard against my chest. I felt the warmth on her neck and the whiff of her perfume. Time stopped.
We snuggled into a table in my local. Somehow, she claimed that she wasn’t hungry and nursed a beer as I tore through ugali and chicken. She watched me like a benevolent eagle babysitting her offspring. We would catch each other noticing, smile and shift the angle of our sight. I enjoyed the playful shyness. We talked. No, she talked, I sat there listening.
“What time is it?”
She dug into her purse. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Let’s get going.”
“Where are we going exactly?” A cheeky grin cut across her face.
“And where do you think we are going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Follow me, I know the way.”
She stood up and walked by my side. My right arm rose in farewell to chaps in the local. As I stepped out, I saw thumbs ups and heard whispers. Nilikuwa nimenasa kidege.
She sat on the bed and looked around. I sat on my reading table and watched her do a scrutiny of my place. My hovel, a studio, did not provide much beauty to interrogate. I lead a hermitic life, with few prized possessions (books).
“I will have a shower.”
“Okay, let me get you another towel.”
“How many people have used it?”
I smiled. That was a trick question. By ‘people’ she meant ‘girls.’
“None, I rarely have people in this space. I use it when traveling.”
She gave me that look of ‘I know what you’re saying is bullshit, but okay.’
She jumped into the shower. I stepped out of the hovel and lit a roll of substance X. The night was beautiful. A full moon ruled the celestial skyline. I blew smoke from substance X and watched it curl it and fade into nothing. I felt relaxed and free. I wondered to myself, what could William Ruto be doing?
I stepped back into the house. There she sat on the bed. Her long legs emerged under one of my t shirts. It looked nice on her. It tried to hide something, but hid nothing. Watching her made me hard like a motherfucker. I hoisted her from bed, and she weaved her legs around my waist as her fingers found their way to the back of my neck. Her eyes slightly above mine, we stared straight at each other. Two fiery and feisty souls seeking shelter in the other.
Our lips met. Hers were one of the most sensual pair of lips I’ve kissed in a while. They were full and sweet. Our tongues locked in battle, I thought to myself, goodness, she knows what she’s doing.
My mouth, searching, probed her neck, kissing, biting. Her breathing went erratic, unscheduled. I bit her ear and watched her squirm. She raised her arms and I pulled the T shirt of her, the final barrier. I slid my forefinger into her, and moving it in undocumented patterns. I could perceive the urgent wetness. A slight moan escaped her gorgeous mouth.
She pulled off my boxers and grasped my member in her delicate hand. Her fingers curled around it, and when she pressed, I felt my body vibrate. I will report that she gave me wonderful head. It was both mind clearing and boggling. The kind of head which makes you forget everything.
I went down on her, dived headfirst into her crotch, my tongue probing her mildly acidic womanhood. Her fingers tightened around the sheets and homegirl would erupt in erratic, stilted, spitting sounds.
‘Everything in this world is about sex. Except the sex itself, which is about power’, Oscar Wilde once said.
I strapped protection to the muscled and veined friend downstairs. I was sending him to uncharted territory. She lay splayed on the duvet, her legs miles apart. I got in between her very brown pair of legs and pulled them to my shoulders.
Slowly, I entered into her. She recoiled and pulled back.
“You’re big.” She moaned.
“I am not, johnnie is.”
I pulled out. We would do this slowly, gradually, with skill. Making love is an art and everyone should have a nice time. She was wet enough and just needed to adjust to the heavyweight johnnie was.
Once again, I was inside her, this time, slowly. I could feel her tighten around me, warm and wet. Each time I pushed in and out, undignified screams escaped her mouth, muffled by classical music. I bet she’d never received strokes that way. And then there was an explosion. I slid out of her; she was gasping for breath. I rolled then slid out the condom and cast it away in the bin.
She rested on my chest, and I smoothened out her hair. No words were said, we lay there silent, our bodies vibrating with life. I could feel her fingers on my abs. In no time, we drifted into sleep.
Nothing constructive happened the rest of the weekend. We couldn’t get enough of the other. I banged her so hard that she pushed me away.
“Boy, that can kill someone with pleasure.”
“You don’t know how it feels, ni kama, inafika mwisho.”
“Hii ndio chuma ya doshi, authentic.”
I made to touch her. She scampered away to the far side of the bed.
“Don’t touch me. My whole body is literary vibrating.”
After moments to herself, she snuggled up my chest. As her fingers played with my juvenile beard, she whispered.
“You said, you’re a Kisii?”
“I am.” I answered, absent minded.
“It’s true then?”
“I’d heard that you guys possess heavy artillery.”
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
“I have finally confirmed.”
Did this chick bang me just to confirm some sexual propaganda? I’ve never felt so used. I turned away from her, heartbroken. In the dying candle light, we fell asleep.
Sunday evening, after an ‘engaging day’, the girl left.
“Dear, I’ve arrived at my place.” She texted.
I stared at the message and examined the word ‘dear’. What did she mean by that? What was her goal. That message wasn’t meant for me. We’d never referred to each other along such lines. I replied.
The next morning there was a message.
I stared at that ‘dear’ suspiciously again.
“This is how our conversations end.”
She went on a rampage with some teary and boring emojis.
“It’s like I force you to talk.”
I watched that message like you would stare at a grenade. One thing I knew, I wasn’t gonna reply.
“In the material world, the centre of all activities is sex” – Lord Sri Krisna, Bhaghavad Gita.
Momanyi Osoro is a creative writer, journalist and content creator. His work has appeared in the Daily Nation and other online publications. He also blog at http://www.kinasisi.blogspot.com. Currently, he is working on a debut short story collection and a novel.
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