THE CORPORATE BULL

Karani never thought for even a second that his behavior at the office was predatory. Looking across the open space where staff members of the department he led were seated, a satisfied smile occupied his face. Only recently had he been feted by the group CEO as being the manager who had excelled in executing SDG (Sustainable Development Goal) number 5 on gender equality. In the department he led of over 50 staff members, about 32 were ladies, something that had eluded most of the other departments. So illustrious and noticable was his achievement that the top level management took notice and gave him the coveted award during the company's annual dinner party.

Karani was very elaborate when recruiting. Besides the standard qualifications that most applicants possessed, he was on the lookout for outstanding feminine physical features. Whenever HR presented him a shortlist, he'd make sure to comb through to ensure that those who faced him in the interview process met his aesthetic needs. And that's how it ended that much of his team resembled the African version of the Playboy Mansion. 

The rest of the company knew which department had the most beautiful girls. It was not uncommon to see droves of young men crisscrossing the 4th floor, which is where the team sat, trying to catch the attention of the girls. A common joke doing rounds within the organization was that, it took the IT team 5 minutes to dispatch someone to 4th floor but 5 days to any other floor! 

Back to Karani. Not only did he have a roving eye for the fairer sex, he also had a perverted sense of power. His satisfaction lay in casting eyes across the floor in the knowledge that he had slept with about 20 of the 32 women that he had recruited. Of the remaining 12, 5 were his relatives while the rest had been working there before he joined. In his little cubicle he'd spend his time gazing at the girls, reminiscing on the great, the good, the average and the below average sexual encounters he'd had during recruitment. That gave him immense satisfaction. It's during moments like that that he would decide which of the girls in this harem he had built, would be summoned that evening or earn that trip to the workshop he was attending.

At the moment he was staring at Pamela, a thick well endowed broad from the lakeside. He recalled how shocked she had been at first when he'd began hinting about what needed to be done "in the face of stiff competition by other candidates".

She was a church girl, very qualified for the job and still innocent on the murky corporate world that Karani and others player in. Her view of Karani had been that of a paternal figure -wise, firm and deeply caring of his team members' welfare. She almost laughed when he asked her to meet him for some drinks, thinking it was a trap.

Slowly she'd come around. They'd had drinks and at one point invited she'd him to her house, where she lived with her twin daughters. They'd spent the afternoon in her living room and later bedroom - after the househelp had been given terse instructions to take the kids swimming, and "only come back when asked to". The househelp had given her a knowing look and quickly prepared the protesting girls, who had been absorbed in a movie.

Once out, Pamela had retreated to the bathroom and reappeared shortly after in a skimpy negligee, smiling at her future boss seductively. Mr. Karani, despite his lustful nature, was very conservative in his ways. At his insistence she had to close the bedroom curtains, keep the lights off and could not convince him to fully undress. He screwed her silently and only produced a little wimper towards the end. She'd started moaning but he'd held his hand on her mouth as a way to tell her to STFU. She lay there sad, looking at the ceiling thinking maybe she'd disappointed him and didn't pass the enterview. 

"Come for your letter on Monday", he'd quipped as he got into his car. She was relieved.

Shiko walked over to speak to Pamela and his thoughts were suddenly distracted. He recalled meeting Shiko's mother in their rural church. She had, like most parents with sons and daughters who are through with school, tried severally to seek his help in getting her some job or internship. He hadn't met Shiko by then but the mother was quite persistent. Trying to brush her off, he scrolled his phone number and email address and instructed her to send the daughter's CV. Elated, Mama Shiko instructed her daughter to send her CV and make follow up calls after some time, knowing that Karani was a busy man.

Shiko had done as instructed but instead of calling -as she was unsure of how to address a mdosi- decided to WhatsApp.

Karani was having a drink with another potential recruit when the WhatsApp message came in. The pretty and youthful profile picture caught his eye. Shiko was recruited in about a month. Three days of that month were spent holed in a hotel room in Karatina. He had developed a soft spot for Shiko, moreso because she was from his village and kept him abreast of what was going on among his surbodinates.

As Shiko catwalked back to her desk, conscious of his lustful look and smiling inwardly, she stopped over Peter's desk, ostensibly for a chitchat but also aware that the boss was surveying her nice behind.

Peter was a dependable worker. Karani had recruited him together with his fiancee, Mary. Well Mary got the job first but then convinced Karani to take in Peter. By then Karani did not know that the two were engaged. Mary was a beautiful girl who'd caught his eye during the interview process. He knew he wanted her and once he made sure she was in the shortlist, he began dangling the job to her as was his modus operandi. Mary was not prepared to cheat on her fiance and so a protracted battle of wills ensued. The last straw was when her fiance Peter was laid off, and it now looked like both of them would be jobless. She had confided to one of her girls on what was going on and the advice she got was "sio sabuni, haiishi!"

And so 3 months later she was begging Karani to take her in (pun intended). And here she was now, working alongside her fiance while having to accede to her boss's sexual demands occasionally. For Karani this was the perfect power game. Screwing another man's woman and watching her play innocent in his presence.

But he had heard some grapevine from Shiko that Peter was also seeing another girl in the office. Her name was Lemayan. She was a beautiful masai girl, with a dark smooth skin and perfect white teeth. He'd gone out with her once but ended up disliking her for becoming clingy. She was hotheaded and had started trying to own him. They'd jostled for a while, him contemplating sacking her, her contemplating spilling the beans of their brief affair to his family, whom she had tracked on social media. This stalemate was resolved by the appearance of Peter and his fiance. Peter was in her section, which was sales-oriented, and so they found themselves spending time together in the field. Their friendship blossomed and she was entertaining thoughts of taking Peter from Mary. Karani was relieved by the distraction and secretly cheered Peter on, while trying to poison his relationship with Mary by keeping her away from Peter through overseas travels which he came along.

"Morning Karani!" it was Chebet, the office administrator.

Chebet was one of the few married women in his team. She was married to his college roommate. He'd secured her the position as a favor to his friend. Their relationship was warm and friendly. She knew his wife and was aware of his indiscretions. She however chose to remain ambivalent.

 She silently watched as the ladies competed for his attention, favors and promotions. She'd seen a few edged out during appraisals for trying to reject his advances once they had secured the job. Her office best friend, Mwende, was also in Karani's web of subordinate lovers.

For Mwende, her current job was unbelievably above her punching weight, thanks to Karani. She'd met Karani while hawking men's boxers in a bar. They'd struck a conversation as he haggled and made lewd jokes on the sizes of the boxers. He'd paid her via Mpesa and sent her to drop the stuff in hid car, which was parked outside. She'd saved his number, contacted and actively flirted with him. Her credentials were not solid but she compensated with an amenable personality and an irresistible spider shaped figure. She was also an agressive go-getter. Karani found himself so enthralled that he helped her forge academic papers, just to have her around him. She got the job of an assistant administrator. When it came to Mwende, he could get quite jealous. As Wafula discovered during a team building. Several bottles down and with everyone having loosened up, Mwende and Wafula became the star dancers of the night. 

Ensconced in his powerful arms while gyrating to a Vybez Kartel track, he suddenly felt a powerful pull of the girl from his arms. While readying himself to fight, he looked to see his Head of Department, Karani, giving him the most hostile stare while dragging Mwende away. Karani led Mwende to a dark part of the party venue and, to Wafula's shock, gave her a hard slap on the face, before leaving the party.

A number of the party people witnessed the drama too.

Everything went quiet. Even the DJ stopped the music. Chebet rushed over to Mwende to console her. Wafula sensed his goose may have been overcooked!

"Hujuangi hio ni kitu ya mdosi?", whispered Ochie, his colleague, "itabidi umechorea huyo ngeus"

Chebet tried to restore the fun environment, coaxing everyone to join a mugithi train and blaming alcohol on the little scuffle. The party resumed though without the earlier mojo.

Mwende must have followed Karani to his room, for she was no longer in the party.

That particular event was a turning point in the delicate balance that Karani had maintained in the office among his girlfriends. The ladies that he'd had trysts, and who had harbored hopes of relationship with him, must have realised that his heart was with Mwende. And therefore the grumbling began. And it was carried over to 4th floor, spreading like a wildfire across the organization. The noose was tightening on the serial philanderer who was using his position to get laid.

Karani had grown up in abject poverty, at a village right on the slopes of Mt. Kenya. What he lacked materially and in the looks department was compensated by a sharp brain, which saw him get a good education, thanks to bursaries and scholarships. Karani had suffered rejection after rejection from girls like many other campus boys with meagre resources. His drive to succeed was partly powered by his desire to turn tables. His dream was to conquer any girl that came on his radar. Thanks to his tenacity, he rose quickly in the corporate world, finding himself at the crossroads of money and power. His youthful dream to conquer girls was still at the fore, despite having gotten himself a family.

And so the corporate was the playground on which he'd right the historical injustices of yore.

Three months after the infamous team building, a haggard looking Karani was in a room with his CEO, COO and HR Director, facing of a myriad of sexual harassment and misconduct accusation that snowballed from a single anonymous call to the company helpline, to almost 20 #MeToo revelations on email and even social media. A young intern had shared on her experience with Karani to her manager after witnessing the skirmish during the team building. Ironically, the manager too had had a thing with Karani. Seething at the obvious interplay, she'd advised the intern to make a complaint via the anonymous helpline.

As it became clear that this was an intricate web of sexually transmitted jobs and promotions, the manager began quietly encouraging her female colleagues to come out with their stories. All except Mwende and Shiko did share their ordeals.

The CEO was livid that he'd been misled to fete Karani only a few months earlier for his efforts with SDG goal number 5 on gender equality. One after another, testimonies by the aggrieved ladies were heard. Most memorable was Marjorie who, in a moment of fury, attacked Karani physically during the hearings. Her marriage had irretrievably broken down once her husband discovered that Karani was taking her with him for workshops, not for furtherance of skill and knowledge, but for penile bliss. Thanks to the efforts of a private investigator, who produced photographic and video evidence of the two frolicking in heated pool naked. She recounted how a protracted divorce case had left her wounded and broke, without spousal support. It was even revealed that Karani had been enjoined in the divorce suit.

Many broke down while testifying, recalling how much they had invested emotionally thinking they were the only side plates on Karani's table. On further prodding, and by their admission, none had been coerced - the transactional relationship was driven by the need to bag a job, internship or a promotion and sometimes romantic expectations. However this was still in contravention of company policy.

The story found it's way into the mainstream media, blogs and gutter press. Petrified shareholders and the public began to press for major action. While Karani got his matching orders, other departments in the organization began to open up, with similar accusations coming up. A lady executive was accused of aggressively hitting on her subordinates, and running her department like her personal turf. Young men trooped to the HR offices recounting tales of how some were forced to bang her on the office desk. One tearily recounted how he was forced to administer cunnilingus in unhygienic vaginal conditions as the aggressive middle-aged female executive urged him on. A pattern of deliberate use of sex as a tool of power in this organization was becoming clearer.

A company wide probe was called, that lasted several months and conducted by an independent firm. The report swept half of the top level executives including, surprisingly, the CEO. Screenshots of a conversation he had had with a voluptuous salesgirl begging for lewd videos was the nail in his coffin and made for sensational reporting, which caught the attention of a parliamentary committee and even attracted the outrage of the self-anointed moral policeman, bwana Ezekiel.

A new executive team was put in place and more stringent hiring policies enforced. Whistleblowing was also actively encouraged.

As for Karani, he took a one year sabbatical from the corporate world, before crossing borders to a neighboring country where he now leads a multinational's country operations. The multinational is either unaware or uninterested in his past, as long as he can deliver on the numbers.

THE DEFLOWERMENT

So last week we were reliving our childhood Christmas moments with my workmates on a teams call, as part of our celebration for the season, after which each of us would gift their secretly chosen Santa a gift. I found myself regaling the team with a story of how one young lass, name withheld, chose Christ's birthday to deflower me.

Well not an exact deflowerment, if you consider the many unsolicited sexual escapades with many a house manager that were prevalent and part of boys' induction into the blissful world of carnal experiences. But for me this was my first almost-adult and consensual sexual experience, where two pubescent beings went through the courtship motions, before getting encapsulated in that lustful embrace that sometimes results in new life.

I was around 14 years old and had spotted this lass in my village church, shyly holding her younger brother, painfully self-conscious of her curves and blooming breasts that were attracting suggestive looks as she passed - noticeable even in that loose conservative dress she was in. I immediately made my interest known to my wingman, a female cousin, who was utterly dependable in such matters. Had she been born in the first world, she'd probably be a founding owner of a dating site. Many a tongue-tied young men in the village used her to relay their interest and enduring love to the girls who had smitten them. Her contribution to love and lust is hereby inscribed and immortalized. But I digress.

She picked the task with gusto, hunted down the girl the way Hillary used to hunt Bill's sidechics, and brought her to me, making quick introductions, before any one of the nosy churchwomen could cast a disapproving scowl in our direction. One of the enduring memories I picked was the scent of her lotion. Up to this day I get a pang of reminiscence, followed by a boner whenever that scent wafts into my nose! I have no idea what the lotion was, but Pavlov was right!

Back to the girl. We had a few secret roadside meetings, much like those of opposition politicians and president Moi before announcing defections in the 90s. Only difference is we had limited time, lest we court the ire of our parents for breaking curfews. We exchanged several love letters, thanks to the selfless services of my cousin, who was an able courier. I have no recollection of the contents of these letters but they must have been romantic.

We were boiling with desire for each other, but opportunities were hard to come by. So we hatched a plan. Christmas day is when many celebrating adults let their guard down when it comes to their hawk-eyed supervision of their teens. Date chosen!

The venue was to be a dilapidated classroom, in a school that is next to the church. The plan was to make appearances in the church, partake in a few of the numerous Catholic recitals, give offerings then make a surreptitious escape when everyone was kneeling, deeply engrossed in confessing the sins of the previous week and begging Mary for intercession. She was to take a cue from my escape and join me at our agreed rendezvous. So I escaped.

To avoid prying eyes that would brew a scandal far worse than The Bull of Auckland, we had to avoid walking together. I made my reconnaissance tour to class 3M, which was the furthest classroom from the chapel. Thankfully it was deserted. I was armed with a single juala -again given to me by this industrious lass. Pinched from her uncle's box, she claimed. I remember waiting for what seemed to be eternity. The duration that would make a modern day lad to assume that fare has been 'eaten' spinning him to a day's depression and later a date with a bar of soap.

In my naivety I had already adorned the rubber in eager anticipation and carefully put back my pair of trousers! In those younger randy days, boners could come by liberally and spontaneously, even without a trigger in sight, just the imagination. And so I waited, nurturing my turgid member as I sat on one of the desks that I had selected because of its firmness, eagerly waiting.

She eventually came in, 30 minutes later. She'd been held up while trying lose some kids playing nearby, who posed the risk of walking in on us, in childish curiosity, as performed the infernal, sinful deed. She'd therefore taken a detour. A smart lass she was. And in a age with no mobile phones I had been quite patient. And the boner too.

Well she was here now, which only meant one thing. The Deed could officially commence, the way nature intended it. I enthusiastically lowered my pants, for the first time noticing that I had worn the rubber with the lubricated side inside out. This didn't by no means dampen our desire to proceed with The Deed.

As if on cue, she lifted her new Christmas dress, lowered her pink panties revealing a lush bush, wherein the gorge - the receiver of life lay, throbbing in anticipation.

I led her to the sturdy desk, ordinarily used for study, but this time serving a shadier cause. With her legs invitingly apart, I aimed my budding, undeveloped member, much akin the way a pilot aims for a runway while landing. It was a pinpoint precision. As I made my gentle entry I heard her gasp, just like it had been described in those raunchy novels I used to read from time to time.

I savoured hungrily devoid of tact and no wonder I quickly found myself hanging precariously on that dreaded cliff of no return.

And so brethren and sistren, after exactly 33 seconds, I noisy fired and emptied my cannon quickly running out of ammo. With nothing else to do, We remained awkwardly transfixed for almost another 30 seconds, me recovering my breathe, her probably wondering if this was it, or there was more greatness left in this lightweight object of her infatuation.It would take me several years to realize that this was a subpar performance by any human standards. But ignorance is bliss. Neither did she know (I hope) -or if she did it didn't show.

The final minutes of The Deed were spent with her trying to cleanse her dress of some stains, while I looked for a suitable place to dump my entrapped seed. 

I left first, as per the agreed protocol, and made my way into the church. At this point the priest was winding up, with the congregation on its feet. The Holy Man clasped his hand together, looked up with mystique adorning his kind face, made a sign of the cross and instructed the flock,

"The mass is ended, go yea in peace"

"Thanks be to God!", they shot back.

I turned and made my way to the exit - ebullient and contented. The day's festivities were only beginning!

KARIS - A BAPTISM BY FIRE

Karis was many things. A respected youth leader in his church, a rising executive in a blue-chip logistics company, a doting father to his daughter and model husband.

He was affable and respectful to a fault. His soft tenor voice soothing, his words carefully chosen. He was very approachable too.  Everyone sought him for his counsel, including the church leadership. Karis was the kind of person who had time for everyone and could spare his time to make small talk with a stranger. The ladies found him charming. He left all feeling great.

Karis' Achilles heel was a powerful crush on a fellow congregant in church. He knew this had the potential to destroy the world he'd build around his family, career and community. But it was an overpowering feeling that swept all logic aside. This was not an ordinary crush, it was accompanied by unbridled lust. He knew it was a matter of time before it consumed him, laying him bare for the world to see. Still he fought it the best he could busying himself with his career, family and community service and avoiding encounters with his crush. He prayed about it, his favorite verse being the part where Jesus was asking for a cup to be lifted off his shoulders. This offered temporary respite for him, sometimes for days even weeks but it would still come to hit him.

Severally he'd woken up from vivid dreams, all flushed up and terrified - having dreamt that his fellow church members had walked in on him in a compromising position with his crush. The stern faced church members had proceeded to pillory him, while stark naked. He'd looked into the crowd locked eyes his wife's sad eyes looking askance. His daughter's blank stare, not understanding why daddy was being roughed up and mocked so publicly. 

He'd freed himself temporarily, trying to flee the humiliation. Surprised that no one bothered following him, just some maniacal laughter from the crowd  - but fully aware that his escape was futile. They would corner him once again. It's at that point that he'd wake up terrified, to find his wife tapping him anxiously, worried about his howling in sleep. 

Relieved, he would lie back in the dark contemplating what a mess this crush was going to bring into his life.

But the desire persisted. And grew exponentially.

He'd contemplated moving towns and had even hinted at his boss, a kind old man, who asked few questions. But he knew that the only way to get free from the shackles of his burning erotic desires was to eventually shoot his shot.

A couple of times he'd approached his crush, armed with a pick-up line, ready to bare it all but a huge lump would form in his throat turning him into a mumbling, incoherent fool. His crush would smile sympathetically, asking him if everything was ok.  He'd nod like a little boy, hating himself for the nervous display.

You see, his object of affection was a young man in the choir. A total scandal in the pervading conservative environment. This is the reason he was so apprehensive and why so much was at stake.

Karis had grown up sexually conflicted since his preteen years. He was a shy awkward and pretty boy who loved to spend time with his sisters while his agemates were busy falling off mango trees, fighting, playing football, decapitating lizards, stoning stray cats and dogs and swimming in dirty river water (which they silently peed in while gleefully watching their friends swim). 

He found solace sitting by his sisters as they made dolls and pampered them in mock parenting. Even when the boys joined the girls to play cha mama na baba, Karis was content to play a gender neutral or nonhuman role - like say a pet, wary of any patriarchal inclinations. 

He'd proceeded to attend a boys' only high school, initially finding it awkward to fit in. He was the self conscious boy who would close the bathroom door while bathing, when the other boys were happily prancing around parading their manhoods. So uncomfortable and shy around boys was he that they nicknamed him Kayeng, also in appreciation of his effeminate looks and disposition. For reasons known to him, but which became clear later, Karis never took offence for being called Kayeng. He embraced the name wholeheartedly and even signed off notes under the name. And so continued his awkward stay in a boys' school for a couple of months.

Until something momentous happened.

One day after a rigorous cross country run, which he was almost always last, Karis was taking a cold shower. Most of his colleagues had proceeded for dinner. He heard some commotion on his bathroom door and paused the shower to listen. He looked up and saw an unfamiliar face looking down on him from the top of the bathroom door. A little shaken he grabbed his towel to wrap around himself as he pondered on how to react to this intrusion.

"Hey Kayeng", the intruder whispered, "can i come shower with you? I think you're beautiful!"

Kayeng could not find the words to respond. Meanwhile the intuder had not waited for an answer. He hsd already scaled the bathroom door and joined him. Still shocked, he watched the intruder undress, open the shower,  grab the soap and start to Karis him up gently. He gestured to him to reciprocate. Karis obliged, still puzzled but feeling sensations that he could not explain. And so these two boys spent an hour in the bathroom lathering each other and doing other erotic things. This was Kayeng's coming out of the closet moment, albeit to himself and this unexpected intruder-turned-lover. And so began a secret same-sex relationship between these two students, Muita and Karis, that lasted for the next 2 years. In those two years Karis discovered his sexuality, and also came to learn of how much of a taboo this was and the risks posed if they were ever caught. They were never caught, though there were suspicious and curious -sometimes hostile - glances when they were hanging out together. For they were so happy around each other. Muita tall and dark football star already sporting a goatee and a loud booming voice. Karis, as effeminate as ever and happily under Muita's protective wing.

Until Muita sat for his O-levels.

Karis was an emotional mess as Muita's high school stint ended. He wept uncontrollably as they embraced under the cold shower for the last time. Muita promised to visit him frequently after school and stay in touch, a promise Muita never kept. It was the last time Karis ever saw Muita.

Karis did not fully recover from his heartbreak but the passage of time helped him to cope through the remaining 2 years of school. He thought and dreamt about Muita every day and the different world he'd enabled him discover. A world he had realised was unconventional and highly scorned upon. Although he still had same-sex crushes, he never mustered the courage to make any moves, staying celibate till the end of school. He never felt attracted to girls but made great company as he had as a kid, which they loved. 

He completed school, went to college and soon after got himself a nice job. His rise was fast, and the perks afforded him a comfortable life.

His family and friends, predictably, began to throw hints that it was time to get himself a family. Repugnant as the idea was to him, he took it as a rite of passage that he must go through to assuage society, and started looking around for a mate. A  friend in his church introduced him to his future wife, a choir girl who sang and danced so passionately every Sunday in a trademark short and red skirt, that gripped her hips scandalously and exposed her well oiled thighs. Many  young men in church were pursuing her but for some reason, she seemed to have a great liking for Karis. She got a mutual friend to introduce him. He went through the motions of acquaintance, dating, courtship and eventual marriage, grateful that the past was in the closet again, this time hopefully for good. He was so affectionate and caring towards his new wife, that for many it appeared like romantic love. He was however hardly interested in her sexually, she soon came to discover.  Somehow though, they managed to sire a baby girl. She realized she had made tradeoffs for marriage and the security it accorded her, while losing on conjugal pleasures, something she learnt to live with. She had no idea why he was so low energy and terrified of sex, suspecting it to be inexperience and hoping to work on him as they went along.

And so every Sunday the young model family would walk into the church, a little late for maximum impact, holding hands, smiling and make the purposeful walk to the front row, much to the envy of many. That was their routine. His wife had since abandoned the choir and dressed more conservatively.

All was going well until the all-too-familiar feeling hit him spotting a certain choirboy named Ouma. He knew that Cupid had flung a poisonous arrow to his life. He became restless, contemplated risking everything, like he had many years back in the school's bathrooms. Only this time he would be the hunter, pursuing a younger man.

After months of false starts and awkward chitchat, Karis decided mbaya mbaya. Having taken time to scheme, he was ready for the perfect opportunity. He noted that Ouma, the ever-cheerful choirboy, always stayed behind to move the musical equipment to a storage room, right behind the pew. He'd observed his movements a couple of times and memorized them.

And so on 23rd June 2013, Karis asked his wife and daughter to proceed home after the Sunday service, ostensibly because he had some business he needed to discuss with the pastor.

He sat back after the service, making small talk and watching as the congregants left one after the other. A few still continued to hang around the church compound talking, laughing and but eventually leaving.

Karis watched as Ouma picked the last of the instruments and went into the store, pushing the door behind him. 

"Now!", Karis said to himself.

Casually- so as to avoid being noticed- he walked towards the store, stood at the door, looking around in case anyone was watching. No one was, so he pushed the door and walked in closing the door behind him. He paused to look around the room and also give himself time to calm his nerves. After about 3 minutes he continued walking, barely holding back his excitement at everything was working according to plan.

There was no bathroom to intrude here but he still hoped to relive the events of 15 years ago with Muita. He pictured himself walking in on a startled Ouma.

"Ouma may i come in?", he'd whisper the way Muita whispered to him in that bathroom. Ouma would be dumpfounded, like Karis was back then. He'd proceed to touch him, seduce him, have him. Just like Muita did.

He crossed over some drums and percussion instruments laid on the floor, heading towards an inner room where he suspected Ouma was, probably taking an inventory of the equipment he'd just stored.

Then he heard some noise. He crept closer, puzzled, wondering if there was another person talking to Ouma or it was a radio. Then he saw them. 

His church pastor Reverend Musa Kiprop (the one who a few minutes earlier had threatened fire and brimstones as the just wage for tragressions) and Ouma were locked in a noisy coital embrace. They did not see him. The elder man still adorning his clerical garb.

He stood there watching, fascinated by the energy the 60+ year's old man of the cloth, the shepherd (and a father of 6 adults) exuded. It was a duet, Ouma hitting the high notes and Reverend Kiprop enriching the performance with a crackling off key baritone.

He felt the powerful crush he had on Ouma ebbing away slowly, like a deflating tire. He felt the feelings of guilt and unworthiness that he'd carried since he discovered he was 'different' dissipate. He felt free. Liberated.

Quietly and unobtrusively he found his way out, closed the door behind him and left for home.

A VISIT TO THE MEDICINE MAN

At the back of the rickety pick-up was me, my father, my 3 sisters and a goat that was held captive using sisal ropes. At the front sat the driver, my mother and our infant twin brothers on her lap. Next to her was another man I did not recognize. The journey was on a rough terrain and since we were seated at the back, it required us to constantly hold on to the edges to avoid tipping over. The driver and my mum were engaged in an animated chatter that we could hardly follow. My brothers slept peacefully on her lap, oblivious of the rough journey. Clouds of dust would hit our faces at the carrier, causing us to squint in discomfort. My sisters' lesos, the ones they were using to cover their heads, had already gathered enough dust to distort the color to brown. Looking at my dad's dusty hair and face I knew I was a replica in appearance.

The goat bleated at every toss and turn of the pick-up, frightened. I focused my attention to it, trying to escape the discomfort of the journey.

It was a purely white goat, healthy and still young, in goat years. I watched as it chewed cud while occasionally defecating small green mounds that were more fascinating than disgusting. Goat and cow shit, heck even chicken shit was ubiquitous in our dwelling. You stepped on it barefoot and moved on. When dry it served as manure for the farm. It could also be used as a repellent for mosquitoes. But I digress.

Before this journey I had surreptitiously overheard my parents discussing the mission at hand. We were visiting a traditional doctor who was highly rated in giving protective charms, amulets and making spiritual incantations that kept all the enemies and evil spirits at bay. The man had advised that we bring a white female goat that had not given birth as yet. We didn't have one but on the day before this trip, my dad had appeared home leading a a white goat and under his arm a red cockerel.

He was ready for his family to receive this divine cleansing.

I love goat meat. Partly the reason why I was excited by this journey, besides the curiosity of meeting a traditional healer. I could picture it slaughtered and expertly prepared for our dinner at the medicine man's place, which we were to spend a part of the night, as he invoked his superpowers to wage war against any haters lurking around our family. 

The oracle had also asked for us to carry five thousand shillings in cash, which would be his fee for the services. Again strict instructions had been given on the allowed denominations - strictly 50 bob notes only. Finally a red cockerel was to complete the list of requirements. The cockerel silently stayed put in a box, its feet bound deep in thought.

After about two hours of turbulent travel, mostly on a rough untarmacked road, we pulled up into a compound with a perimeter defined by densely spaced euphorbia plants. In the middle of the compound was an old red flag with no insignia, fluttering calmly. We were now on the oracle's territory.

As we disembarked from the pick-up I felt apprehensive, my young mind concocting all sorts of eerie scenarios that are likely to happen in a traditional healer's house. I looked around. There were three grass thatched huts, a kraal with a few livestock and a dilapidated pit latrine. An old dog that did not even attempt to bark lay outside one of the huts, from which an elderly and morbidly obese man, with a wrapper around his waist, appeared. He adorned numerous ornaments on his neck, arms and feet that jingled as he moved. He ambled slowly towards us, aided by a walking stick.

My father introduced himself, reminding him of their previous encounter and conversation. The old man seemed to recall and asked us, in his raspy voice, to display the requirements needed for the rituals. We obliged and he gave them a careful inspection as if looking for blemishes, which would render our visit futile.

Despite his advanced age and ungainly frame he counted the 50 bobs meticulously all the way to 5000 bob and nodded in satisfaction. Using his cane, he directed us to his hut, with strict instructions to remove our shoes. 

The two men that had accompanied us - the driver and the other passenger, stayed out as my family crammed itself into the poorly lit hut. An array of tools of trade lay scattered all over the hut -gourds, a deer skull, dried hooves, some cowrie shells, a whistle and many other paraphernalia that I could not immediately recognize. We sat there silently, our goat still chewing cud and shitting, our cockerel finally out of the box, rummaging around for grains.

 The medicine man came in with some effort, as the door was quite narrow for his frame, and sat in the middle of the room, still clinging to the wand of cash.

In his raspy voice and with a deliberate and authoritative timbre, he began question my parents.

"Where do you come from?"

"What are the issues you are facing? Are you having any toxic relationship in your extended family? Oh, your half brother?

Tell me more about that? Oh, you don't see eye to eye over land boundaries...uh huh...you even had a physical altercation last week? He promised to finish you, didn't he?"

He ruminated over the answers given, head held down solemnly. Picking some beads and a small gourd, he chanted some unintelligible words, his midsection trembling, perspiring from the little physical effort. Once finished, he rose slowly, his joints creaking, took the goat and instructed my dad to bind its feet. 

With the confused goat lying on the ground bleating, the medicine man sat on its neck, exerting over 120kg of weight, smothering the poor animal to a slow painful death. We watched, horrified as my infant twin brothers started to wail in shock and terror. 

The oracle called out a name and it was our first time to notice that the home had other inhabitants besides him. A young dirty man, with yellow teeth appeared and was instructed to go dismember and cook the carcass.

 The cockerel did not suffer a similar fate, two lives too many, the old oracle must have said to himself. 

Meanwhile the man's attention was now on us -using a small knife to make incisions on our faces, backs, feet while applying his mysterious concoctions of dried herbs on the cuts. A lot of spittle too, dished liberally and rubbed like vaseline on a baby's bum. A mix of awe, disgust and amusement in our young heads, but I could see deference and humility on my parents faces as they executed his raspy commands

.

Any doctor, conventional or traditional, who's worth his salt will give a prescription and future date for review. I believe both for altruistic and commercial reasons. No exception here. We were handed a small bottle with some thick liquid that we we to sprinkle all around our compound as well as on our bodies, each morning and evening.

We were also reassured that the evil uncle, who was actively seeking the services of witchdoctors to harm us, would fail spectacularly. The prognosis looked good and I could see relief on my parents' faces. They were asked to visit after 6 months to review progress.

Goat meat and ugali was served, though the portions were small and drowned in lots of soup. 

It was 10pm when we began our journey back in the same pick-up, confident of the future, all worries gone.

THE IMPENDING DIVORCE

She was cheating no doubt, he thought to himself. The signs were however not overt. It was a gut feeling - energy vibes if you may. The way she wore that innocent look, almost mockingly. How she was obsessively careful to be home in good time. How she evaded arguments and confrontations. She stopped enquiring on his whereabouts when he was out ‘with the boys’.

Most times he’d walk into the house about a minute after the official curfew time that the government had imposed, grinning drunkenly. She'd be seated on her favorite couch all warmly dressed, eyes glued on her phone acknowledging his presence with a slight nod, as the kids rushed to receive him. Besides the three minutes it took to serve him dinner, she'd stay glued on the couch till 11pm, still focused on her phone.

He noticed that she was avoiding coming early to bed, waiting till he was fast asleep. On the few occasions that she did, she would lie on the far end of their large bed facing the wall. His attempts to huddle closer or initiate sex would be countered with excuses of a bloated tummy, exhaustion or simply silent non-reciprocation. On the countable times that she gave in, it felt totally unlike the old times -tasteless, a silent mechanical act, lacking the lustre and the energy of the past. Something was amiss. He’d tried broaching the issue severally, but she brushed it off, accusing him of not understanding women and their moods. He let it pass.

And indeed, she was cheating, but very discreetly. She deliberately kept it within her working hours to minimize any suspicion. On the days agreed with her lover, she would drive to her workplace, park her car, check into the office and then leave shortly thereafter. Ostensibly for a myriad of reasons ranging from a medical appointment to her children’s school visit. Her job occasionally allowed her to meet clients, which accorded her even more opportunity to keep her illicit dalliance going.

Her lover was a monied Southern Sudanese ex-freedom fighter and politician -a very tall, slim middle-aged man with a dark, shiny complexion and visible tribal marks on his face and neck. He had large jutting teeth on the upper jaw and a couple missing on the lower one. His name was Malong Kirr. He would pick her a few meters from her office in different sleek cars and whisk her off to expensive hotels and exclusive clubs.

They would wine and dine in exclusive restaurants in Nairobi before retreating to a hotel room for more intimate engagements. Besides being endowed like a stallion, the ex-freedom fighter had the insatiability of a cocaine addict. He would pound her endlessly and in different positions, his curved member massaging areas of her reproductive anatomy that had never been touched before, driving her to pulsating orgasms. It was with him that she first experienced squirting, something that she had only seen in adult movies. Her new sexual discoveries made her averse to the three-minute silent sex that she was accustomed to from her obese and perpetually drunk husband.

She loved watching Malong’s grotesque expression as he came, his teeth bared like a dangerous carnivorous animal, howling in his native tongue while squeezing her tightly, almost as if in a trance. They would then lay back, recuperating for about 15 minutes before he would be on her all over again.

By late afternoon, he would drop her back to her workplace, exhausted and slightly tipsy -where she would complete her shift, sober up before heading home by 6pm. She would feed the kids and then take her favorite position on the couch to chat her lover.

Her increased indifference to him in the last couple of months worried and raised his suspicion levels. But there was no evidence that he could use against her. Just the vibes and circumstantial events.

Like that one Saturday afternoon. While seated in the open area of a bar, he had noticed a brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser passing on a road nearby. A dark bespectacled man was behind the wheel and next to him, was a woman that looked like his wife- but in a mask. They locked eyes briefly before she looked away. He was a little shaken -but by the time he recovered enough to contemplate the next step, the car was gone. He thought maybe his paranoia was alcohol-induced. He sat there brooding, wondering what he would do if indeed it was his wife. It could also be a case of mistaken identity, he consoled himself. He called her number, but it went unanswered. She would later tell him that her phone had been charging.

He drank more than usual that day, all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts running through his head. The idea of his wife preferring another man to him pained him. Thoughts of denial though prevailed since he still had no evidence. He headed home a little earlier and found his wife seated on her usual couch - dressed all warm and engrossed on her phone. He rushed to the laundry basket looking for a black dress or top- for the lady he'd seen in that car had been wearing one- but found none. He went into the shower and noticed that she had taken a shower a few minutes earlier, which was part of her routine and which meant she had just gotten home. Resigned and in emotional anguish, with nothing to anchor his suspicions on, he retired to sleep.

While lying in bed, he contemplated on what he should do to put his suspicions to rest. Maybe mystery call her workplace to enquire about her reporting and departure times for the day? He ruled against it. She may be alerted and raise her guard. He contemplated contacting a friend of his, who worked for a mobile phone operator, to get her call records and financial statements. It sounded like a good idea, but what if he was wrong about her? His friend would no doubt share the juicy gossip with his wife, who would then share the same within their circle of friends, until it reached his wife. He wasn't ready to carry the tag of an insecure, snooping husband. But he still needed to put the matter to rest.

He had heard and read about private detectives, who had the means and time to investigate cases like his. He recalled watching numerous episodes of the 'Cheaters' show, where the investigators tailed suspected cheats and made sure that they were caught in the most compromising situation. In the wake of incontrovertible evidence, the suspect would have no option but to admit. Fist fights and public spats would follow. Sometimes reconciliations, sometimes nasty breakups. The investigators did not come cheap though, he noticed after going through a few rate cards.

He'd also seen several digital adverts promoting a novel snooping software that one could install on their spouse's phone and get copies of both texts and audio conversations. It could be bought online. However, it required installation of the software on the suspect’s device. The challenge was to access her password protected phone.

Then the idea of gifting her a new phone and preloading it with the software hit him. 

Yes! That was it!

Bingo! Or so he thought.

With the software installed, he could carry out his own investigation and avoid awkward conversations with third parties, he reasoned. He would also save a lot of money that could have gone to a private investigator. If it turned to be a false alarm, he would just carry all these events to his grave. This was his best shot.

His wife was currently using a Huawei P30 Lite. He logged onto an online shop and browsed for a befitting upgrade. He spotted a Huawei P30 Pro, a logical and affordable upgrade to what she was having. With a satisfied smirk, he purchased it. The phone was delivered within two days. He went back to the internet, shopping for the snooping software. There were many available, some looking questionable. Painstakingly he read through the reviews and narrowed down to two - a Chinese version named Mousetrap and a Russian one named, ironically, Grab 'Em! There were trial versions that lasted a week, a basic version that missed some salient features he would need and lastly a pro version that would do the job, but at a slightly higher fee. Using his credit card, he purchased for 15 dollars the pro version of Grab 'Em!, since it also promised total stealth against anti-snooping tools. He installed, as instructed on the user manual, on both the new phone and his, performed a couple of tests successfully.

For a job well done he passed by his local pub for some beers, drinking about fourteen before the curfew time.

At 9pm, he staggered home brandishing the brand-new phone, wrapped nicely as a gift for his wife. She was there slouched on her favorite couch, eyes on her phone. Just as he was about to hand it to her, he noticed she was using a brand-new iPhone 12 Pro! Unknowingly she'd beaten his scheme! How did she even afford it? Why was the cosmos conspiring to deny him the information that he had a right to? He cursed under his breath.

Disappointed, and as he made his way to the bedroom, she looked up and noticed the package and enquired, "honey did you buy me a gift? Awww!"

Forcing a smile, he responded, "no honey, this is a farewell gift we are buying a colleague at work. But I can see you don't need gifts from me, you now even have the latest iPhone.."

She ignored his sarcasm and replied, "you know I always treasure your gifts the most. This iPhone was sold to me at half the price by a friend who works at the Apple store near our office. I couldn't resist the offer! What did you guys buy your colleague…A Huawei P30 Pro! Wow! I had been meaning to upgrade to the exact same phone, until this deal came through. It really is a great phone. Your colleague will be excited". She retreated to her new phone.

He walked dejectedly to the bedroom, tossing the phone aside and disappointed that his scheme had hit a snag. He didn't buy the story his wife gave him about the deal. His suspicious were now at a morbidly elevated level. He also knew there was no current upgrade to the phone she now had in her possession - not in the next few months anyway. And had there been one, he still wouldn't afford it. His Trojan horse had been repulsed.

He went to sleep but found himself insomniac around 2am. He watched his wife's silhouette, sleeping peacefully, breathing quietly. He thought of what his reaction would have been, had he gotten the proof that she was cheating. Would he asphyxiate her in her sleep? Would he hit her with a blunt object? Or would he just walk away, wounded but determined to rebuild himself? He had no idea what his reaction would have been.

Everything appeared so grim. His peace of mind was compromised. His scheme of digging the truth had hit a dead end. 

What options did he have? He thought of his 22-year-old girlfriend, a 3rd year at the University of Nairobi. It was really a transactional relationship where he provided partly for her financial needs while getting sexual favors and drinking company. He didn't even know if she was exclusive to him or had other lovers. Maybe he needed to get another young girl. And despite his own cheating, he still couldn't fathom his wife receiving strokes from another man. He thought of his 3 children, who he loved more than anything in this world. Giving them a peaceful environment for growth was what he purposed to offer them. It would be a challenge though with all these insecurities eating him.

The demons in his head held a conference that very night, as the rest of his household slept, and agreed the best option was to not disrupt the status quo. He'd abandon his investigation. He rationalized about the financial inflows he suspected were coming in, seeing it as an opportunity to help them achieve their financial goals. For she lately appeared to be quite liquid financially. The fact that she was acting discreetly, he reasoned, showed that she still wanted the marriage to work. He had his 22-year-old university lass, and potentially several others that would take care of his emotional and physical needs. After all his wife appeared totally uninterested in any form of intimacy. He would let her be.

 He tossed around, counted a few sheep and then went into a peaceful slumber.

A few minutes later his wife woke to obey the call of nature. Sleep evaded her for a while, and she lay there listening to her husband's snoring. She thought of Malong, the only man to have seduced her since her marriage.

 She has met him in the basement parking of her workplace as she was struggling to get her car from a rather narrow parking, when he offered to help. She had thanked him profusely, and he had taken the opportunity to introduce himself to her, while handing her his business card which read:

 

Malong Kirr

Deputy Governor,

Blue Nile State

Republic of South Sudan

+21104565635

Shortly afterwards he'd gotten into a massive Land Cruiser and left. She was fascinated by his title and inherent political power but didn't really give it much thought.

It was during one of their domestic run-ins with her husband that, while seated on her usual couch, that she had contacted Malong. She had, on the previous night, found a love message in her husband's phone from a young girl - which had led to a protracted confrontation. This had left her angry and vengeful. And that is when she had remembered Malong, his act of kindness and allure of power, and decided to WhatsApp him, 'just to say hi and to thank him for being such a gentleman'

Malong had responded almost immediately birthing a ping-pong of WhatsApp conversations that went late into every night thereafter. One night, despite her weak protests, he sent her 100k shillings into her account 'as a Christmas gift'. By the time he was asking her out for coffee, she was smitten, both by his attention and financial generosity. In her account sat 900k shillings that he'd been sending her on frivolous grounds like "buy yourself some nice outfits and send me a picture" to "have lunch with your friends", from him. She'd never handled such money and found herself understandably excited.

In a moment of excitement and indiscretion she had found herself suggesting to her husband that they move to a bigger house. “Do you have the money? “He’d enquired sarcastically. Coming back to her senses she’d retracted and instead suggested that it was possible if he became more frugal in his spending – “like you could reduce your alcohol intake or” continued caustically, “cut down on the stipend you keep sending to that bitch of yours”. The conversation ended there. She was sure he had become suspicious after this conversation.

 Besides the money, she had expensive jewelry tucked in her office desk to avoid further suspicion. Malong had surprised her with the iPhone 12 Pro and she’d had to cook a story to her unbelieving husband. Things were getting risky. Everything was hurtling fast to an inevitable moment of truth. She would either get caught if she did not act fast

She recalled that day when Malong had picked her at work and they were driving towards their love nest, while passing through an area populated by open air pubs. She'd involuntarily exchanged eye contact with her husband who was seated outside one of drinking shacks facing the road. What saved her was the mask she was wearing which introduced some reasonable doubt. That was a close shave! She’d seen his call immediately thereafter and ignored it, while begging Malong to take her back to her workplace in case her husband showed up. She knew he was getting more and more suspicious and wondered what he could be plotting. Her fear was that he might act viciously and irrationally, which scared her.

 The affair and the attempts to keep appearances were taking a toll on her and she'd decided to broach the subject with Malong, apprehensive of what the endgame would be.

Malong had assured her that he intended to make her his 3rd wife and that she needed to start seeking a divorce. He taken her to meet one of his lawyers, who had given her guidance on how to initiate the divorce, and the grounds she could cite in court. 

She had so far had not gathered the courage to discuss the subject with her husband. She needed to think through what it all implied. Besides the money and their lustful romance, Malong was married to two other women - one living in Juba, another in Nairobi. She weighed her prospects in a polygamous relationship with a rich man, against her current lower-middle income earning monogamous marriage, with a few sidechics. The former freedom fighter was willing to take care of her and the kids. However, she'd be fighting for his attention with two other women, and probably several other single women that he could be dating.

Eventually, the allure of wealth took the day and she started plotting for her divorce.

Her plan was to catch her husband in one of his many trysts, after which she would ask for a divorce. Once the divorce was finalized, she would marry Malong Kirr as his third wife. She went back to sleep, with everything much clearer in her mind.

In the morning, while her husband was showering, she quickly took his phone, like she used to do before, hoping to retrieve some further incriminating texts and nudes from his girlfriends. To her surprise, it was password protected, something her husband has never been keen to do previously. Disappointed, she began to consider either hiring a private investigator to dig dirt on him that would strengthen her impending divorce case or gifting him new phone but installed with one of those snooping apps she kept seeing on online advertisements.

Smiling, she made a mental note to buy and gift him an upgrade of his current Oppo smartphone, while using the opportunity to install the snooping software.

Bingo. Or so she thought.

On the same night, Malong was also deep in his happy thoughts. Lying next to him was his new 22-year-old girlfriend in a deep drunken slumber. They’d been out on their first date and ended in one of his tastefully furnished apartments that he had dubbed ‘The Love Nest’. They had met as she was working, promoting drinks in a high-end bar that he patronized. She was young and pretty, a third-year student at the University of Nairobi. She approached his table trying to get him to buy a newly-launched drink and he took the opportunity to buy drinks and extract her mobile number in the process. A couple of WhatsApp conversations and money transfers later - as was his modus operandi- he had managed to convince her to go out with him on a date. And this was the culmination of that night of carousal, at his apartment.

He marveled at how Nairobi girls were seemingly so easily available especially if one had the resources - unlike in his homeland where the society was deeply conservative. He had had uncountable conquests in the 3 years since he made his move here, ostensibly as a political refugee, but in reality, a connected man of means looking to invest petroleum money with few questions asked. The political elite in his country, which he was part of, were having it easy as long as the right palms were greased. Nairobi also offered unfettered access to many privileges -including beautiful girls, police protection, exclusive clubs and deep connections which made everything feel like a fantasy world for this liberation veteran, when compared to his home country. A far cry from his rough days in the bush during the liberation struggle, under the venerable General Demabior.

Unbeknown to him though, they shared a lot more in common with the young, naked girl with whom he was locked in post-coital embrace.

She also happened to be the 22-year old university student mentioned earlier. And thus the paths of the three in the love triangle were crossing in more ways than one.

A RANDY ADOLESCENT'S BAPTISM BY FIRE

The midday sun did little to dampen my excitement. Though not owning watches we could easily tell the time simply by erecting a small straight twig on the ground and looking at which direction the shadow went. I’ll admit though we had, on few occasions, found ourselves trooping the flock home with only to be met with angry reprimands from my grandma.

“oyu mwavinguia indo nowo mutungite?!!!” (“how can you return the livestock after such a short time of grazing?”), she would scream, “au akooka…!!!” (when your dad comes…”). 
That sentence would be left trailing ominously and our young inventive minds would only be left to speculate on what creative retribution my dad would concoct with his famous belt. Such threats were adequate for us to take a U-turn and take the annoying livestock back to the pastures. 

I hated herding with a passion. My hatred for this occupation was magnified by one creature whose culinary delights I have come to love in my adult life. The goat. You seen, the sluggish cattle, with their dour countenance, were predictable just as was the stupid sheep whose collective brain was in the hands of an even more stupid matriarch sheep. 

But the goat- a free thinker, gluttonous, unpredictable, fast, cunning and randy- was such a pain. You only needed to get your mind preoccupied for a few minutes on the pubescent girl that you had met at the catechism last Sunday, and by the time your faraway look left your face, and your mind back to herding, would you realize that all the goats had invaded your loudmouthed neighbor’s shamba and were enjoying a buffet of choice plants-flourishing maize and beans, peas, pumpkin and generally plundering every available plant. We would race to try to salvage the damage but the terrain in Kilungu was unforgiving: It was hilly, separated by ridges and the homesteads were generally built at a vantage point, such that you could see all that was happening below as well as the hill opposite. The loudmouthed neighbor only needed to sit under a tree outside her hut masticating on some cassavas and maintaining a hawk-eyed surveillance to notice the latest transgression.

She would then loudly and liberally unleash choice insults that our young ears would ordinarily not be meant for and wrap up with a vow to kuoka in the morning. Generally kuoka is appearing at your neighbor’s homestead unusually early (against decorum) and the term carries a negative connotation, since the visitor will most likely have a bone to pick. It was on many such a mornings that we found ourselves sipping hot trunki (black tea) as we chewed on last night’s muthokoi, with fingers crossed and our hearts in our mouths. For any moment the offended neighbor would appear, seeking reparations and generally rebuking us for wanting her not to eat isyo. She never failed to appear.

My excitement on this day was of a different nature. I had, on spotting some girl during our catechism classes at the local church, felt my first rush of hormones (or was it blood?). She had passed by me while holding her younger sibling’s hand and my young mind had noted that she stood out rather conspicuously. Smooth faced, very white set of teeth with a modest gap between them, and a nice round bottom. 
I had taken a mental note of all these and it was therefore not difficult for my female cousin Mwelu to deduce who she was by my description. 

One may wonder why I could not have approached the nymph by myself. Two reasons: I was extremely shy and second, it was against the norms of our village to approach a girl so openly. You needed emissaries to do the job of checking if there are any blood relations between you and her, as well as establish if she was already being courted by a close relation. On these two my cousin answered in the negative.
It was thus hurriedly decided that my cousin would convey to her the lust I felt for her and arrange a rendezvous. I do not know how Mwelu conveyed that particular message but I got feedback that she was purportedly interested in me too. I was on cloud nine. This was easier than I had thought! Seeing how successful Mwelu had been with this assignment, I delegated the rest of the tasks to her. She was to sneak the girl into my hut later in the evening.

As we herded the animals back to the homestead, my emotions kept shifting between lustful excitement and trepidation. You see, the plan was that my cousin would bring the girl over to my hut, hang around briefly and then feign an excuse to leave. From that point on I would take charge. One little problem: I had never been with a girl in a room! Not in my adolescent life, at least. What would I tell her? It is at this point I wished I had taken lessons from my uncle Musyoka who seemed to know what to tell girls and would often be seen driving them into cackles effortlessly. A man can try, I figured. I replayed in my head all the nice things that I thought a man should tell a girl and my confidence level improved drastically.

After incarcerating the livestock and taking lunch under the kithulu tree as was the custom, I sauntered towards my hut so as to catch my afternoon nap. It was a nap filled with images of the girl, and with me charming her with my wit and humor as she hang on to my every word. I would then show her my picture album and explain to her where all those exotic looking places were and who those interesting people were. It was at this point that our eyes should meet (at least going by the few romance novels I had read) and the rest would flow. No need for structured conversation from this point.

I awoke from my musings towards evening to a cool refreshing breeze, took a quick bath and adorned my most treasured outfit in anticipation. The occasional pangs of fear would grip me but I had now taken them in stride.

Fast forward to 8pm. I have been sitting in my hut, illuminated by the powerful kerosene lantern, with freshly polished glass, trying to read through a very old edition of Readers Digest. A knock. I rush to open. No its not who I’m expecting, it’s my other cousin coming to borrow the lantern for a short while because the brooding chicken has not come home. Hurry up!, I command her sternly. Another knock. Yes, it’s my two visitors, found me putting away a rather generous mound of muthokoi. Let me get you spoons. No protests so I busy myself fetching spoons from the kitchen. My cousin and my prey are engaged in a duologue that I find hard to understand. The girl is nervous, she has not looked at me in the face since she got in.
We finish the food and I nosily gulp some rainwater from a calabash. As if on cue, my cousin starts to excuse herself, with feeble incoherent protests from both of us. Mwelu leaves. The prey is beginning to look very nervous, rubbing her hands together. No eye contact yet. I try to remember the well choreographed sequence of my plans but her nervousness had caught on me too. I clear my throat.

“so you are XXX’s sister?”

“yes”

Some uncomfortable silence.

“what class are you now?”

“form one”

“me too”

Silence. This time for a full minute. I need to take charge here.

“which school are you”

“Vyula girls secondary school”

More uncomfortable silence. 


“si we go in to that room?”, I dare

“i'm ok here”, she shoots back


More silence. Five minutes. I’m sweating. Nudging myself to be more bold.


“lets just go to that room”, as I hold her hand

“no, i’m ok here”


More silence. I’m now confused. I remain silent for 5 minutes, not knowing what to say.


“Please escort me, I want to go home”, she finally requests.


Lord! This was more difficult than I anticipated.


“so you do not want?”

“want what?”, she retorts

“you know what I mean!”

“Another day”, she replies.

It was the most torturous half hour of my adolescent life. But to save face this is the conversation I had with my cousin:

“did you….”, my cousin asked

“of course!”


“I could see the girl was into you”, She said triumphantly.

I nodded, taking stock of the events of that half hour. What a night!

BITTER SWEETS

As was his habit running back several years, Mr. Kinyua called beforehand to book 'his usual room'. The receptionist was not a bit surprised and neither feigned it, in spite of it being 1.30pm. She did not even ask for his name or credentials. Clearly she has dealt with this customer on previous countless times.

Mr. Kinyua must have selected this motel for his sexcapades for very practical reasons. It was isolated but not too removed from the town centre, where everyone knew him. He could quickly dash there, get done with his business and be back to the office or home. There was even a time he had left an ongoing political rally and managed to get back before his slot for speaking.
You see, Mr. Kinyua was not your ordinary resident and businessman -he was a wealthy man with vast business interests and connections. He could not walk for a few metres without someone acknowledging him or stopping him for small talk. He financed politicians and set the political direction for his locality. 
But he also had his primal needs and desires.
And those needs needed to be fulfilled this very afternoon.
And so he heaved his short, rotund and overfed figure into one of his less known cars and sped off in the direction of the motel.
Within 5 minutes he was in, through the back gate normally reserved for staff. And like he had done many times before, more like a force of nature, he fished from his glove compartment and popped his 2 magic pills then proceeded to wash them down with the mineral water he had been sipping.
He then climbed out of his car and took the short walk to his reserved room, at an isolated corner. At this time there was no activity here and he loved the discretion. 
He could already feel the blood rushing and summoning his tool of trade to duty. He thought of the girl he was about to meet. She had been a hard nut, that one, and it had taken 55 days to get her here. He could not even keep tabs of the money he had spent on her trying to mellow her heart. He had even had to employ her boyfriend at her insistence. Of course the boyfriend had no idea what needed to take place for him to beat 5 other candidates for the position of Fleet Supervisor. He was just too happy bringing the bacon home.
Mr. Kinyua smiled contentedly, thinking to himself that nothing comes easy. He had practically built his business empire from scratch and had put in many extra hours to learn basic spoken and written English. Simply put, he was a born hustler. It is this spirit of never giving up that saw him built an impressive list of conquests, no matter what it took.

He hustled his way into the room; got in and quickly closed it. He had expected to find his quarry waiting, having given her the address of the motel, but he was not very worried about that. She was definitely on her way. No way could she let her boyfriend lose his job.
He expeditiously stripped to his boxer shorts, lay on the bed and sent a text to his quarry "nimefika uko wapi harakisha" and continued to lay back marveling at his large boner and visualizing all the creative ways it would be put to use. 
Three minutes later a text message; he quickly rushed to pick his phone and instead knocked it down where it disintegrated into many components. Fuming at himself, he salvaged the battery, cover and main body and put it together, switched it on and waited for it to start up.

“Please enter pin: …….” It implored
He racked his old brains trying to remember the little number. He had always relied on his son to handle his phone issues.
“1234” 
“Wrong pin. 2 attempts left! Please enter the correct pin”
“2580”
“Wrong pin. 1 attempt left! Please enter the correct pin”
He was now truly worried. And the pin was the least of his worries. 
Suddenly he had started to feel drowsy and cold. Then as if on cue, a sharp pain gripped his rib cage like a vice. Clutching on to his chest, he took deep breaths and coughed loudly, remembering a pamphlet he had read on how to cope with suspected heart attacks. The pain subsided briefly but came back with the force of an angry ram.
With the pain not letting up, he lumbered towards the door, managed to open it but tumbled just outside face down and fell into nothingness…

______________________________________________________
Many days after the funeral, his son came across his father’s phone tucked away among the clothes he had been wearing. He switched it on and entered the pin - his intention being to return calls and messages from his late fathers’ friends and business partners -who may have been unaware of his demise.
As he combed through the messages he landed on this curious one:

“Xaxa, huu m2 wa 2k2k anadai hajui venye hio motel iko. Nipgie sna kredo”

IVALI

Ndambuki came home from the kamandìko hungry and slightly tipsy, after dancing vigorously to the Kativùi beat around the lantern and music player, while imbibing on kalùvù. He was however hopeful since he has left his sister Mbeke preparing ngima and nthooko, and was confident that his ration would be placed on the ùtaa, as was usually the case. 
Unbeknown to him, his brother Mbùlìli has come over with his fiance, the voluptuous and spider-shaped Mùkulu, and served her what was to be Ndambuki's dinner. 
Ndambuki groped in the dark with the familiarity of someone who had done this before, his salivary glands beginning to whet in anticipation. Indeed he did feel the warmth of the ìsilia tha had nthooko, and dipped his unwashed hand in just to be sure. He was a little startled that the contents appeared to be much less. Unfetered for now, he knew he could still compensate by eating 'economically' - eating large chunks of ngima after kùnyungiisya to the little mboka. But on reaching the ìsaani that is supposed to have ngima his jaw dropped - it had nothing except a rummaging ant that bit his finger.
Fuming he crossed over to the kasùkùù where Mbeke was sleeping screaming and demanding an explanation. His brother, on hearing the ruckus came out quickly trying to explain what transpired. Ndambuki, with hunger pangs biting hard and now enraged, grabbed an ìvali, his plan to strike his insensitive brother. 
Mbeke and Mùkulu were already out screaming and begging Ndambuki to drop the ìvali.
Mbeke offered to fix something for the famished brother and Ndambuki dropped his brick, retired to his hut to wait...

PLOT TWIST

Plot twist: Barack Obama Sr. survived that road crash but sustained some serious injuries, so serious that he now walks with the aid of two bakoras. His faculties are still in great shape even as he approaches his 80th birthday.

The elder Obama still loves his Johnny Walker served “double-double” as he loved it back in the days he patronized The Hilton, The InterCon and other social attractions of those days. Though his finances limit his partaking. Age and infirmity have mellowed him, though his shortness of temper still does manifest occasionally.

Siting outside his Simba in Kogello, and being the father a sitting American President, he looks back wistfully at that time his American son came looking for him, seeking his identity and answers - wanting to know why never made any contact since his last visit to America.

The younger Obama seemed in conflict with himself, a young man trying to get a grip of his life. He had taken his father through his sojourns in Indonesia and the life he had shared there with his mother, half-sister and step-father. The elder Obama had nodded sagely as Barry narrated his experiences, including the breakup that led him to be taken back to Hawaii to the care his maternal grandparents.

Senior’s mind had momentarily flashed back to the university days when he and Ann Dunham were in a relationship that ultimately resulted in Barry’s birth. He nostalgically remembered the famous airlifts that he was a beneficiary. His mind wandered to those many letters he had penned to several American universities, seeking a scholarship. He still kept them in a little bundle, held together by a rubber band. He recalled the last argument he had with Ann’s family on this last visit when he tried to exert paternal authority on his young son. It had not been well received. His African pride wounded, he had resolved to relinquish his nominal parental responsibilities and move on with his life.

Of course he could not tell this to his son, who now sat on the small African stool outside his father’s Simba, both jointly exorcising the demons of their past. Young Barry knew better not to ask about the domestics woes that his father and mother shared in their brief dalliance. He had heard some of it from his mother and grandmother back in America.

But he could not resist asking him about his destroyed career. Here he was a Harvard educated economist, living in Kogello without formal employment and a means of livelihood. On this one he touched a raw nerve.

Barack Senior shot up, supporting himself with his bakoras and unleashed a diatribe that had his next door neighbors surreptitiously prying between the hedge, listening and ready to intervene if necessary.  

He was heard to shout,

“Mzee Kenyatta said I would never work in any part of this country! That I would be impoverished till I could not afford shoes!”

“Mzee Kenyarra said that?, Asked the young Barry, wide-eyed wondering what could possibly drive the founding father to cast such a life changing curse on one of his subjects.

“Yes!”, shouted the old man shaking with anger, “and all because I testified to the parliamentary committee that was investigating the death of Tom!”

“Tom Mboya?”, asks Barry, “the man who helped you to come to America?”

“Yes, that one! Son, get me a double-double!”

Young Barry rushed into his father’s semi-permanent house to fetch him a drink - at this point, he could not afford  Johnny Walker, and had to make do with some a second generation drink labelled Johnny Walter.

Senior’s rants caught the ear of Sarah, his  step mother and Auma, his daughter. In native Dholuo she confers with her son, castigating his recklessness with words and warning him that the dreaded Special Branch is everywhere eavesdropping.

A defiant Senior shouts back in a mix of Dholuo and English, daring any Special Branch within earshot to arrest him. It takes some persuasion from Mama Sarah for Senior to calm down and for normal conversation to resume. This was clearly not Senior’s first double today and he’s in a mood to let the world know, through his son, the tribulation the post-independence government put him through.

A curious Barry is trying to follow the conversation is dependent on Auma  to fill him in on the Dholuo parts. Being an ardent journal-keeper, he’ll transcribe the events of that day into his diary.

With calm restored, mama Sarah sets up a small stool and serves steamy ugali, Sukumawiki and fried omena. The two famished gentlemen, together with Auma, demolish the food as their father –who has regained his humor -regales them with tales of his other marriages, kids, local politics and Auma’s VW Beetle which he thinks was not worth the money bought. Thrice it has broken down, he points out, once along the Kisumu highway and they had to send for a jua kali mechanic to fix it.

Auma is quite defensive of her treasured possession, to a point of mocking the battered pick-up that their father has permanently parked in the compound after that accident. She even jokingly threatens not to drop Barry to the airport on his departure date, if he continues to laugh at their father’s mockery of the Beetle.

Barack Senior’s thoughts drift to the present. He smiles and picks his iPhone and dials the number the Secret Service gave him. The President’s aide in charge of Kogello picks the call:

“Hallo Mr. Obama, The President is currently on Air Force One as per schedule for the GES Summit in Nairobi, Kenya but is on a conference call with president Kenyarra. He says he will talk to you once he gets there”

“Thank you son, tell the president the whole family is looking forward to meeting him tonight”

“Will do, Mr. Obama. Will you be receiving him?”

“No, Son, I’m an old man and not in the best shape health wise. Auma will represent me. Tell him to have her ride in that car…what’s the name of that car The President rides?”

“The Beast sir”

“Thank you”

Click.

PISHORI

On hitting Argwings Kodhek road, he slowed his car to avoid knocking down the bevy of twilight girls who surrounded his car, flagging him down, and noisily offering him carnal pleasures at great rates. He took a quick one over and decided there was nothing on offer that was exciting as he slowly released his clutch and brake pedals.

"Kwani ulikua unatakaje?" one of them asked, sensing his disappointment.

He paused briefly then in a drunken slur replied "nataka kubwa nyeupe"

"Shiro Kuja hapa!" she hollered.

The girls made way for the said Shiro, who strutted in dramatically in very high heels and a dress that looked like it would rip at the seams any minute. She indeed fitted the product specifications.

"Unaonaje huyu?" enquired the self proclaimed sales lady.

He nodded and opened his car door. Shiro let herself in.

"Pesa ngapi? ", he enquired matter-of-factly after moving a few metres from the pack.

"Short time ama all-night? ", she shot back.

"Short time"

"Erfu biri.. "

"Sina elfu mbili..."

"Kwani uko na ngapi?"

"Mia tatu... "

" Mia tatu perekea bibi maziwa! "

" Haya shuka basi..." This said while unlocking the doors.

"Ogeza mia biri upate short time. Twende kwa parking ya Buffet Park", she offered.

He agreed and quickly executed a 3-point turn, heading into the club's parking.

_________________________________________

James was scrolling through twitter feeds when a tweet caught his eye:
"Have you seen him? Last seen leaving Buffet Park on Saturday 2am". A picture of man not older than 30 was attached to the tweet with a hash tag‪#‎HelpFindOparanya 
He quickly recalled a young man walking over to him at the late hour and making an unusual request. The man had asked him for 500 bob in cash in exchange for swiping his bank card for an equivalent amount as as settlement for part of his (James) beer bill. He had hesitated briefly, but the clearly inebriated man had explained to him that he needed the cash to pay off a taxi driver and that he considered the effort of driving to an ATM machine too much for the amount in question. James had summoned a waiter who had executed the request. The beneficiary had been profuse with his gratitude. 
James had watched the young man jaunt towards the parking area and disappear into the cover of darkness. His attention had drifted back to his drink and company.
But here he was now, staring at the image of the same man, trending on Twitter, with rewards being offered for information leading to his whereabouts. He quickly replied to the original tweet, disclosing that indeed he had interacted with the aforementioned, and disclosing details of their odd encounter. The retweets of his reply were generous, even catching the attention of the IG of Police who quickly asked him to walk into the nearest police station to record a statement. Clearly Oparanya was a man who even the police were eager to find unharmed. James freshened up, bade a quick goodbye to his girlfriend and drove his Honda Accord to Kilimani police station. He shared whatever information he had with a bored officer who took his number "in case he needed more information"

________________________________________

It starts with a light so intense hitting the eyes that one is forced to open their eyes. An unfamiliar room with cheap bedsheets and a smell of dirty feet, cigarettes, alcohol and dust. A very unfamiliar place. All alone. 
Then three minutes synthesizing the environment and nothing gives. And there's this splitting headache. Slowly you recall your name and that of your kin. Oparanya Okalebo. You then remember that this is the 21st century, therefore you should be in possession of a cellphone. Then as you frisk yourself, you realize that you're naked. No cellphone, no wallet, no clothes. 
You walk towards the window, trying to ignore the massive headache. Looking down, you realise you're on the 4th floor of a building. From the bird's eye view, you can see that the world is moving on without you. And the world that you're seen is nothing familiar to you. Carts, porters, matatus are embroiled in a battle for the narrow space that passes off as a road. You take a seat on the bed trying to collect your thoughts. You cannot remember a thing. You walk back to the small bed, lie and blackout again. 
It will take another full day for the chain of events leading to your family finding you to kick off. And they will begin with the room you're in being allocated to another 'short time' customer, who will storm in eager to finish his business, but have to inform the management that the room is occupied by a naked man, who appears disoriented. Police will be summoned and quickly match you to the reported missing character. Your connected family will soon be reunited with you and nothing will matter to them then more than the fact you were found alive.

________________________________________

As James went through his Twitter feed on Tuesday, he noticed this tweet: #HelpFindOparanya Oparanya has been found. He's undergoing medical tests at the Aga Khan University Hospital. Thanks to all who came through.