Saturday, April 11, 2015

I don’t care if my son, whom the President of this republic wants to give condoms instead of the laptops he promised, will stumble on this diary. All I think about is telling my story, and if chronicling my trysts would make me feel better then offspring’s knowing what kind of a raunchy father I was is the least of my worries. 

I don’t know whether it’s being plain stupid, for fun, memoirs to carry down memory lane in old age, or just being like the prostitutes who keep a list of the men they sleep with. All I know is that one day I will be sorry, and I will sit my son down and give him words of wisdom on how to live this life.


My wife and I grew apart long before we were married, around the same time I gave up trying to make it work for us. Over the years, the Valley has become Rift. Though, we share the bed, the matrimonial one. I don’t know her as much as I know the beautiful one I always dream of being with who is not yet born.
My marriage is every woman’s dream – happily ever after, but on the outside. This woman whom I supposedly donated my ribs to for her rib transplant in the beginning of time has been by my side for thirteen years. Unlucky thirteen, enhe?

Men lose interest in their wives after they give birth. It’s the other way for me. She lost interest in me, as though I was the one who was flabby and overweight after the birth of our child. Postnatal PTSD had nothing to do with this. It’s as if she was angry at me for getting her pregnant, for putting her through a name calling ordeal and embarrassment while giving birth.

Dry spells akin to Turkana signature drought left me wondering when the rain started beating us. Even nuns and priests don’t malnourish themselves sexually if Vatican sex scandals and holy congress stories that abound are anything to go by. That’s when I contacted the admin of the Lavington Cougar Lounge Facebook fan page, a Rubenesque blonde wannabe who promised to pay me if I offered sex to equally sexually starved women, married and single, at a fee. Has there ever being a lucrative proposition? Talk of killing two birds with a single stone. I tried to explain to her that I was not getting into it for the money. She stopped me and clarified, these women paid for the services, and they wanted to get quality for their money.

I momentarily lost sight of what I wanted. The thought of money made it even more enticing. Isn’t money why we are all alive? I assured her that I would deliver. She laughed, sarcastically. I wondered what was funny. But she went on to clarify. Her clients had had their fair share of men. They were virgins at menopausal and postmenopausal stages of their sexually boring lives. Many man-boys had said so, how did she know I was not going to be a disappointment. It was simple, she didn’t know.

Take a chance on me, Abba says, I told her. She gave me a number. Her name was not relevant. After all discretion and anonymity mattered to these women. Fine with me. I did not want to be known either. That night, I fell asleep somewhat calm. Maybe this was the answer to my problems.

Good news was I was going to get laid for the first time in ten years, and get paid for it. Bad news was, I was going to cheat on my wife, whom I still love more than anything in this world, for the first time in our thirteen years of marriage. Did I feel bad? Hell, yes. Did I care? Heck no!

I signed a confidentiality agreement before I went to meet my date. Exclusive rendezvous. Affluent ‘hood.  I found her on a couch in the living room of the house. Her black sheer negligée hugging her curvy, flaccid body; pantless. She had in hand a glass goblet with some drink I guessed was alcohol but did not want to know. She slowly put it on the glass table at the centre of the room and smiled at me as I closed the door behind me. My heart raced, and pounded. This was the client? No wonder discretion and anonymity was of essence. She got up and made her way to me. This was it.

Then it happened, fast. In the living room. On the stairs. In the bathroom. And upstairs in the bedroom. Words to describe it lack. Or perhaps I just don’t want to go into the details of the spectacular shenanigans in a diary that my son my stumble upon and teach him tabia mbaya. It was one hell of a ride. Definitely more than I wanted to give and more than her money’s worth. Perhaps I should have cautioned I was sex-starved for a decade. She lay crumbled on the bed, battle beaten, and the bed like a warzone. I left, whistling. I was thirty thousand richer. Double what was offered.

Then reality hit me just outside the house. I had cheated. And I had prostituted myself. When I go out to look for what my wife refuses to give me it’s different. Things just turned from good to better with the money. I left the affluent house with my head in the air. If anything, I was going to be happily married thereafter.

Just as I left the front gate of the palatial house of pleasure, my phone vibrated. It was a new message. It was from her. ‘Same time, same place. Tomorrow. Can’t get enough of you.’

That was good for business, right? But it did not feel so. For some reason my hands were shaking and sweaty. I couldn’t force it into my mind that she was just another sexually starved human being who just wanted a good time, like me. This was just giving our bodies what was denied to them. It did not sink into my head.


What I felt instead was I was treading dangerous grounds. I didn’t like the feeling. It felt much as daring death. Or isn’t it when you are screwing the wife of a powerful government official, rumoured to be a drug baron?

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