WAINANA'S WIFE
He pulls you in some dark abandoned street for a quickie. He is the kind
that haggle and bargain a lot. You settle at 1,800. It’s undoubtedly his
whole month’s savings from his Mkototeni pulling in Marikiti. You can
feel some painful lines drawing as he runs his rough scaly palms on you.
He is sweaty and the street smelly too. He likes asking for you any
time he needs to drain his gonads. Your other business partners don’t
like him since he has poor appetite for protected coitus, he is extra
rough and never pulls out.
“I don’t want this bastard any more, he never withdraws” your friend Mueni had told you the other day.
She is afraid of these broke guys, they are very fertile. At least you are on a pill. Mueni had attended him since you were absent following a medication for itchiness and sore groins. The nurse at the private hospital had humiliated you at the packed patient waiting area. She had loudly called your file name and informed you that Gonorrhea patients are waiting in the next room.
You slide his hand down your neon pink bandage mini skirt, it rolls up. Seconds later, you feel him fully into you. He is breathing hard with some moisture from his tobacco clogged nostrils hitting the back of your ears. He presses a button of your phone tucked in your bra as he unsuccessfully tries to grope for your right breast. A small light hits your face. He grunts as he pulls you further into him. You give out a mourn. Your recruiters had taught you that this is key for the going concern of your career. You feel his body contract and relax as he empties himself into you. Once you are sure he’s done, you pull yourself off him and wipe with a creased toilet paper from the triangle of your left breast formed by the hard Mtumba bra. A small odour fills your new space. You realize you hadn’t finished your infection dose. But it’s not a deadly one so you blush it off…you will start off again.
A feeling of guilt wallows down your conscience as you slide yourself in your “Child’s of destiny” uniform. Earlier this month you were commissioned by the District Vicar to be the regional young couple’s coordinator. You are therefore in charge of organizing young couple’s fellowships and seminars. In your church you have a reserved seat close to the altar and you always make announcements after the sermon. Wainana- who you never fail to introduce as loving and caring husband- recently joined the church after a long period of your evangelism and persistence. Your 5 years old daughter recites memory verses each Sunday at the awe of the elderly church Wazees. You occasionally present a hymn as a family which saw the church brand you “The Wainanas”. In the house you are the woman who would never let the husband rinse the mop leave alone cleaning their own clothes. You are an embodiment of a true African woman.
You pick a 200 hundred note from your pulse and receive two old one thousand notes. You grab your heels by your right hand, your pulse by the armpit and dash past him. He is still looking for his underwear. As you hit the main street under the bright street lighting, you receive a call from Wekesa. He is the fellowship secretary. You are late and you were supposed to be the one to welcome the preacher of the night. It’s end of month fellowship at your city sanctuary across the street. You therefore rush to the plaza via the backstreet. Your phone vibrates as you are taking the stairs to the sanctuary. You think its Wainana wishing you a blessed fellowship. It’s Biko. He is an illiterate rich old owner of a garage along Kirinyaga road. He has a reckless way of asking sex of you.
“Kuja unipatie hiyo kitu ama niendee Latema”, he will always text.
But the old bastard pays well. He pays in kind especially if you don’t make him feel embarrassed of his minute penile endowment. He prefers to be called daddy.
“Nakam” you text back as you open the church’s washroom.
A brethren forgot to flush the toilet. You run the tap and moisten your kerchief. You wipe the manly sweat and filth of your neck, breasts and between the legs. You get a bottle of almost empty perfume from your pulse and roll it onto your neck, armpits and in your cleavage. You take off the dangling earrings that were today tangled in a shabby man’s fingers and beards. You put back your wedding ring, adjust something under your skirt, swing into the church, murmur a little prayer and join the rest of praise and worshipers at the stage to welcome the mighty man of God.
“I don’t want this bastard any more, he never withdraws” your friend Mueni had told you the other day.
She is afraid of these broke guys, they are very fertile. At least you are on a pill. Mueni had attended him since you were absent following a medication for itchiness and sore groins. The nurse at the private hospital had humiliated you at the packed patient waiting area. She had loudly called your file name and informed you that Gonorrhea patients are waiting in the next room.
You slide his hand down your neon pink bandage mini skirt, it rolls up. Seconds later, you feel him fully into you. He is breathing hard with some moisture from his tobacco clogged nostrils hitting the back of your ears. He presses a button of your phone tucked in your bra as he unsuccessfully tries to grope for your right breast. A small light hits your face. He grunts as he pulls you further into him. You give out a mourn. Your recruiters had taught you that this is key for the going concern of your career. You feel his body contract and relax as he empties himself into you. Once you are sure he’s done, you pull yourself off him and wipe with a creased toilet paper from the triangle of your left breast formed by the hard Mtumba bra. A small odour fills your new space. You realize you hadn’t finished your infection dose. But it’s not a deadly one so you blush it off…you will start off again.
A feeling of guilt wallows down your conscience as you slide yourself in your “Child’s of destiny” uniform. Earlier this month you were commissioned by the District Vicar to be the regional young couple’s coordinator. You are therefore in charge of organizing young couple’s fellowships and seminars. In your church you have a reserved seat close to the altar and you always make announcements after the sermon. Wainana- who you never fail to introduce as loving and caring husband- recently joined the church after a long period of your evangelism and persistence. Your 5 years old daughter recites memory verses each Sunday at the awe of the elderly church Wazees. You occasionally present a hymn as a family which saw the church brand you “The Wainanas”. In the house you are the woman who would never let the husband rinse the mop leave alone cleaning their own clothes. You are an embodiment of a true African woman.
You pick a 200 hundred note from your pulse and receive two old one thousand notes. You grab your heels by your right hand, your pulse by the armpit and dash past him. He is still looking for his underwear. As you hit the main street under the bright street lighting, you receive a call from Wekesa. He is the fellowship secretary. You are late and you were supposed to be the one to welcome the preacher of the night. It’s end of month fellowship at your city sanctuary across the street. You therefore rush to the plaza via the backstreet. Your phone vibrates as you are taking the stairs to the sanctuary. You think its Wainana wishing you a blessed fellowship. It’s Biko. He is an illiterate rich old owner of a garage along Kirinyaga road. He has a reckless way of asking sex of you.
“Kuja unipatie hiyo kitu ama niendee Latema”, he will always text.
But the old bastard pays well. He pays in kind especially if you don’t make him feel embarrassed of his minute penile endowment. He prefers to be called daddy.
“Nakam” you text back as you open the church’s washroom.
A brethren forgot to flush the toilet. You run the tap and moisten your kerchief. You wipe the manly sweat and filth of your neck, breasts and between the legs. You get a bottle of almost empty perfume from your pulse and roll it onto your neck, armpits and in your cleavage. You take off the dangling earrings that were today tangled in a shabby man’s fingers and beards. You put back your wedding ring, adjust something under your skirt, swing into the church, murmur a little prayer and join the rest of praise and worshipers at the stage to welcome the mighty man of God.
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