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My mother thinks I live in a secluded rustic-cabin convent in the remotest part of Karen, Nairobi.
She slaughtered a chicken
for me when I was awarded a partial scholarship at an obscure Catholic-sponsored
university. The fact that even my father was not allowed to escort me to the
hostels told her that she had nothing to worry about. I was protected from
university corruption and debauchery.
“God answers prayers,” she
quipped. “God loves you.”
When I finished high
school without a scandal, and scandal here means being spotted with a boy, she
recited the rosary, prostrate before the image of the Madonna and the child.
She repeated the joyful mysteries in earnest. At times like this, she wished
for the virginity of Mary, the Mother of Jesus, but the Lord had blessed her
with open legs.
A month later, she still
called me for hours in the evening to remind me how much God loved me and that
He had told her I would be a nun. It was one of these evenings after she had
hung up when the girl next door talked to me for the first time.
“Look at you, wishing mama
was here to breastfeed you.”
“Why do you care?” I
asked. “Ever heard of ‘mind of your own fucking’ business’?” I used the lines I
had wanted to use all my life.
“Oh, she is badass, a
bitch! Kumbe it’s all meekness for
mama. Do you wanna grab a drink? It’s contraband, I know, but that’s what
smugglers are for,” she said.
That night, I met my partner in crime, my
confidant. Sharon had seen through my fakeness and called me to it. When we
drank all her two six-packs of Guarana, she didn’t complain. When I French-kissed
her, she blamed it on the alcohol.
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| Photo by VICTOR SANTOS |
The maximum security Catholic-sponsored university was not as secured as I had thought. Every night we made money exposing fake cleavages and shaking fake asses at Club Seen in downtown Nairobi. We sat on swivel chairs, uncrossing and recrossing our stockinged legs, giving men flashes of black or white G-strings, sometimes the pussy. The drinks would keep flowing, which, on most occasions, we poured when the drunken sods left for the washrooms. In their state of intoxication, the money was easy to get by making them believe they would have the night of their lives only for us to disappear on them or lie we were on menses.
Downtown Nairobi was not
ideal for the life I craved. Sharon was just comfortable in the gutter, but I
wanted more. When I suggested we try clubs in Westlands, she did not approve or
disapprove. Club Galileo’s was the perfect place for the middle class, but I
still wanted more. You know the saying, ‘You date whom you interact with?’ I
wanted the crème de la crème.
That’s how I found my way
to the international franchise Billion Club (B-Club), where the media said
champagne washed hands and Lamborghinis dropped guests home. Once, social media
was awash with receipt photos of bills of five million Kenya shillings spent on
drinks only by the president’s son.
“Sorry, Madam, you can not
enter dressed like that,” said a muscular, friendly bouncer. No, scratch that.
In these places, they are not bouncers. They are security.
Against Sharon’s advice,
whom I had thought had the grit to do what it takes to live this life, I raided
my meagre savings and upgraded our wardrobes. Investments are about taking
risks. Next time, we were granted entry without a fuss.
When you enter the
compound, you would be forgiven for thinking aliens live amongst humans, what
with machines and gizmos brimming with futuristic allure you only see in sci-fi
movies—a stretch Lincoln limousine, a Tron bike rumoured to cost over 50
million Kenya shillings, Ferrari, Lamborghini, and Rolls Royce Phantom. A long
stretching red carpet, which gives a sense of importance to everyone visiting
the club, welcomes you.
I, we, felt out of place,
like a nun who has stumbled into a brothel. A smartly dressed server spotted us
and saved us the embarrassment. She showed us around, asking us whether we had
booked in advance.
“That’s the VVIP section,”
she said with syllables falling in place like magnets. “Victor Wanyama, and his
brother McDonald Mariga, had booked it for a party with family and friends.”
The Kenyan international professional football stars were in Kenya to celebrate
their signing with Tottenham Hotspurs.
“And that’s the VIP
section,” she pointed. “The Cabinet Secretary for Foreign Affairs has booked it
for the evening. He will be coming in any time.”
In the regular area, men
looked sharp in their designer suits, their women Barbie dolls. I spotted the
youths who had made it to the new government, keen on pushing the youth agenda.
The just-appointed Youth Fund chairman was at the VIP upper area. Four of the
10 nominated youthful members of parliament were in the regular area. Gawd? The regular section is the VVIP of
most clubs in Nairobi. And the buggers were all about representing the
youth? Wajinga sisi!
From where we sat, we had
an unobstructed view of the guests entering and leaving. Cashless, I, the
brains behind this endeavour, was still figuring out how to proceed when the CS
for Foreign Affairs entered, accompanied by the grossest man I had only seen on
TV. His vast belly swung into the room, draped in a smock-like garment that
only extraordinarily talented tailors could make and fail at. Folds swagged
over his neck, and his feet seemed forced into his shoes. He scanned the room,
and the mottled curtains of his cheeks swished back as he nodded and smiled at
us. No, me.
I knew what that meant; he
had chosen me. But no, thanks. He was a well-known serial polygamist. Do I look like I could be a seventh wife?
I did not move.
“He wants you,” Sharon
nudged.
“If he wants me,” I
retorted, “he should come for me.” I know beggars are not choosers, but I did
not want to appear desperate.
He seemed to read the mood
and crossed over to where we were. He thumped down on the banquette opposite
us, removed his handkerchief, and mopped his face.
“I suppose you would love
someone to buy you a drink,” he said when he had settled.
“Thank you, that would be
lovely.” I still had manners.
“What’s the most expensive
champagne?” he asked the waiter.
“It’s—” she began to say.
“Just get it,” he said. “For
the ladies, and Macallan No.6 for me.”
I avoided his eyes just in
case he saw the hunger in my eyes and changed his mind. The Macallan was an
obscene six hundred thousand shillings. When our champagne was brought, it was Armand De Brignac Ace of Spades Brut Gold
Champagne, a staggering Ksh.70,000. Okay,
Uncle Awiti. Wanna spend that National Social Security Fund (NSSF) money, I
will help you. I don’t think there is a woman who isn’t prepared to hawk it
when she spots a certified billionaire. I wasn’t about to let the womenfolk
down.
“Take it to the VIP,” he
told the waiter. “Let’s go,” he said, heaved himself up, and waddled ahead.
He was physically
repellent, yes, but there was something about his confidence that got to me. He
believed in himself, or rather, in what the NSSF squandered money could get
him.
When wealth courses
through your bloodstream, it becomes poison. It changes you, your posture, your
walking style, and the way you talk. From the moment we stepped into the VIP
section, there were handsome uniformed men and porcelain-skin beautiful women
to do everything for me, even holding a napkin to sneeze in.
All the men, no matter how
ugly, fat, foul-smelling, or unsightly, had a beautiful girl by their side, the
girls draping their arms around the men’s shoulders or pregnant bellies. It
seemed B-Club wasn’t the place men took their wives.
A fast learner, I read the
ambience. The girls laughed coquettishly at the men’s humourless jokes, and touched
them inappropriately on occasion, but the men didn’t mind the fake public
displays of affection, creating a force field around their man so no other girl
would penetrate.
That night, when Awiti
called it a night, he left me with a wad of cash. ‘You never count your money,
when you’re sittin’ at the table, there’ll be time enough for countin’, when
the dealin’s done’, Kenny Rodgers sang. Back at our filthy hostels, I found out
he had left me with Ksh.100,000. So did he the subsequent nights, without ever
asking for the value of his money.
The saying goes, ‘There is
nothing like free lunch, especially from men’. I wondered what this old sod
wanted with me. He never indicated he wanted to pop my cherry, or perhaps he
just wanted someone to talk to, which I was good at as I created my force field
around him, so no other girl dared think of attempting to penetrate. The more I
received his money, which I used to upgrade my life and save the rest for the
inevitable rainy day, the more anxious I became. Why was he not hitting it?
Sexual satisfaction was not my concern, but the concern of what he would ask me
to do when he came collecting his debts. So, I decided to be upfront with him
one day.
I let the alcohol sink in
and gave me the guts I needed, then asked, “Awiti, how much would you pay me
before you fuck me?”
He was astounded and
glimmered with disgust like I was his daughter suggesting incest.
“Stella, I don’t pay for
sex.” He said and looked at me.
Instead of asking why he
was giving all that money, I apologised. “Sorry for thinking ….”
“It’s okay. I get that a
lot,” he said and continued drinking his favourite Macallan, laughing
boisterously with his friends, spittle flying all over the place. Before
leaving, he asked me how I felt about shopping in Dubai and left a bundle of
Ksh.300,000. I will take Sharon with me.
With his signature slob
look, he was waiting for us at Dubai International Airport. We went to the upscale
DoubleTree Hotel by Hilton Dubai on Jumeirah Beach.
“This is lovely,” I said.
He had booked two separate
rooms, with doors opening to balconies overlooking the grand private beach. Whatever
he had in mind, I hoped he knew I had no intention of sharing a bed with him.
“Do you like it, my dear?”
he said, reaching for my hand.
My dear? Here we go now.
“It’s beautiful,” I said,
avoiding being touchy-touchy.
“I bought you this.” He
produced a package, which, when I opened, was a sheer negligee. “For later,” he
added.
Gawd! No matter.
When I exited the bathroom
that night, he was spread out on the bed, looking like an inflated toddler, his
weight a challenge for the mattress and bed. For the first time, I had used mchele on him. Sharon had ground eight
tablets of Midazolam, just in case his
big body did not feel the effect immediately, and I had poured the powder into
his drink during dinner when he took a bathroom break. The drugs were taking
long to take effect.
I looked at his streaked hairy
belly. I’ll have to lift a skirt of flesh
to get to his dick. Does he even have it?
“Come to daddy, darlin’,”
he said. I forced myself not to chuck.
I removed the negligee and
played with the nipples of my tits for him, climbed on the bed, and put my
hands on the flaps of fat around his body. I had massaged my vagina with Fatush
Miski oil. The perfume wafted like smoke all over the room. I tried to go 69, not
for simultaneous cunnilingus and fellatio, but so he could see my pussy split
into two by the G-string. His dick was a two-inch stub poking jauntily from a
thatched cushion of flesh. Try as he may, there was no way it could get into me.
Hardly had I taken his
dick in my mouth when I heard an unmistakable locomotive roar. Thank God. The drugs had taken effect. I
dashed to the other bedroom, took a long shower to wash away the memories, and
climbed into bed into the arms of Sharon. When she flipped her tongue on the
inner lips of my pussy, I screamed.
When Awiti did not appear
for breakfast, Sharon looked at me with a wink. “Last night must have been
awesome,” she said.
I gave her a disgusted
look, and she raised her hands in surrender.
I knew something was wrong
when he had not woken up by noon. At 2:00 p.m., I started to worry. What if he
was sick and couldn’t get up? I decided to go and check on him.
His body was immobile,
with hollow features and no sign of vitality. Though he could have been in
slow-wave-sleep (SWS), where you are almost as dead, he didn’t appear as though
he was sleeping. He just looked dead. If there are any skills I ignored
learning, it’s first aid. But I had watched enough movies to know how to check
if someone was dead.
I shook him—nothing. “My
love, wake up. Babe, wake up. You have not eaten—”
Nothing.
I placed two fingers,
index and middle, on the side of his neck. Nothing.
“Fred,” I hissed, trying
to control the thumping of my heart. “Fred!”
Nothing.
And I knew.
I went to the bedside
table and picked up the telephone to call reception. Perhaps they have an in-house
doctor or medic. No sooner had I thought of it than I stopped in my tracks. He
had booked the two rooms in his name, using his passport. He had not mentioned
us anywhere. No one knew about us.
I would have to be there, oversee
his body shipped back to Kenya, and answer questions from the media and his
family. The Kenya government pathologist will conduct a post-mortem and find the
mchele we, I, had put in his drink. That’s
manslaughter. I will go to prison for a long time. If I’m lucky, my sentence
might be commuted; if not, I die in prison.
I froze and sat down at
the foot of the bed beside his thick-nailed feet sticking out of the sheets. Think, Stella, think.
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