You will see her in Nakumatt Junction while at the checkout counter. An over-the-top beautiful woman with delicate features. On her head she has short hair dyed brown and slightly shaved on the sides. Beside her will be a bulking man pushing an equally bulky trolley. You can’t put your finger on it but you can’t say he’s her husband. There’s something about the way he carries himself; his movements and manner say servant more than they say head of the family.
The bulky man will start emptying the trolley with shopping that can pay rent in a high-rise apartment for six months and the over-the-top beautiful woman in a tight moon-white top that kisses her, shy off her belly button will remove a card from her handbag. That same handbag that has the initials “MK”. You will thumb the initials into Google and get results of an extravagant clothing brand going by the name, “Michael Kors” and you will wonder how many dollars were sunk into that project. She will proceed to give the cashier the card and as she leans over the counter the slit on her silk, grey maxi will split open and like a dagger it will cut across her inner thighs, one bare long leg slewing out in a statement of defiance. You will try not to look but you will look all the same and wonder if you saw a glimpse of red knickers up the defiant leg. She will hand over the card with her long manicured nails and on her left wrist will be a gold bracelet and a thin silver watch with crystal rocks that match the design of her necklace and hula-hoop earrings.
Your suspicions about the bulky man will be confirmed because after the cashier finishes punching in their shopping, he will say thank you berry much in a deep Luhya accent and look at the missus with seeking eyes. The same eyes a boy gives his dad; imploring eyes, eyes looking for validation. And you will wonder if teaching the man English is another one of the woman’s expensive projects.
They will leave and as the bulky man pushes the trolley, the excessively beautiful young woman will run after him. Her round firm ass bobbing up and down in that maxi that hugs her like a second skin while her long slit cuts across her inner thighs. She will talk to him in a staccato of beep beeps like the roadrunner while making a flurry of hand gestures. From where you are you can’t hear a word she’s saying but you can imagine she’s reprimanding him. Telling him, it’s “very” not berry. “How long do I need to tell you not to insult the queen’s language Wafula, eh?”
They will get into the parking lot and memsahib will enter the back left of the long, dark Mercedes while Wafula puts the shopping in the boot of the car. Wafula will then get in the driver’s seat and look at the rear view mirror and look at madam who has her snotty nose in the air looking angry with her hands folded across her breasts, those same breasts he knows all too well. Those same breasts he can’t have enough of. He will look at her seated on the car’s leather seats her slit on the sides and her long bare legs crossed and he will push down a gallon of saliva, look at her with puppy dog eyes and ask, “everything ok medam?” Blood will go rushing into memsahibs nipples and she will smile, having forgotten their earlier kerfuffle and tell him to kill the engine, roll up the tinted windows and join her in the backseat.
Her husband is a businessman involved in a bit of everything. He is into real estate and agriculture and owns a club in the boroughs of Nairobi but his favorite job is advertising. He’s a top honcho in one of the leading ad agencies in the country. He doesn’t know what makes him love the job more, the inflated paycheck or the young cute customer service things who walk the corridors in hand towel size clothes who keep throwing themselves at him and he keeps breaking their fall with pleasure. Sometimes he will fly his Cessna to Naivasha, a fresh intern with wide hips and round breasts in the cockpit as his copilot, her eyes wide as saucers because it’s her first time on a plane and her two equally beautiful and awestricken friends in the cabin smiling and giggling in excitement. He will drink the status like a cold glass of water and later while they’re all curled up in bed in the presidential suite in Enashipai after snorting a line or two of cocaine, he will remove his Glock G29 pistol and dance it around the girls emptying the magazine and showing off the 10mm bullets then putting it back together and the young girls will worship him for it and because he’s an insecure man. He will love every minute of it.
Memsahib will get home somewhere in the quaint Kileleshwa, while still trying to straighten her top and fix her maxi. She will reach for her phone and dial her husband and he will pick on the third ring.
“What are you up to Dave?” She only calls him Dave when he’s up to no good. Damn women and their sixth sense.
“Hi honey, nothing much I’m just in this cold hotel waiting for room service, can you imagine they pushed the meeting all the way to Monday. Looks like I won’t be home for another weekend.”
“Yes, I thought I told you this. We have a new client coming in, big account, very demanding and like doormats we have to see to their every whim.”
“How was your flight?”
Dave will wonder if she already knows that he was taking the Cessna down to Naivasha. Or maybe, God forbid, one of the bimbos he’s with did a snapchat story on the life of the rich and dysfunctional and now it’s a trending topic on the interwebs.
“Dave aren’t you going to answer me?”
“Uneventful.” He will quickly blurt out calculating whether to say he’s in Mombasa, Kisumu or even Kigali for his little nonexistent big account meeting.
Memsahib won’t respond for some time as if waiting for him to crack under the weight of her silence.
“Oh? How is the Cessna, does it still have that wing problem you were going on about? And did your lover, the one with big tits who laughs at everything you say, the one you insist is just a work colleague, did she accompany you to your big account trip as well?” She will pause. “Come on, you can tell me I won’t get jealous.”
“No, No, No, the Cessna is fine. And like I said it was just me and our boring pilot. I actually slept most of the way. Dreamt of you the entire time.”
Dave will realize he needs to end the conversation because he knows his trophy wife. She always starts with the easy questions before plunging into the tough ones. Those ones that tie him up in his own web of lies.
“Honey, I need to go, someone is knocking at the door. I think it’s room service, you know how much I hate cold food don’t ya?” Dave will chime and hang up as one of the girls, the one with a laborious smile puts her long chocolate leg on top of his lap and he will proceed to suck her neatly filed toes.
After the call Memsahib will call Wafula and she will lead him to their master bedroom and while there they will continue where they had left off in the dark Mercedes. And because Mr. won’t be around for another week, Wafula will continue sleeping in the master bedroom. It’s another one of her many projects, to teach Wafula how to maneuver the delicate landscape that is her body.
Work will come knocking and Dave will have to cut his trip short. He will land his Cessna in Wilson airport from Naivasha in less than forty five minutes and because he knows he has a trophy wife who would leave him faster than he can pronounce sugar daddy if he ever got broke, he will call a guy who knows a guy and a bouquet of flowers and a flashy watch will be delivered at Wilson in less than thirty minutes. He will then think of calling his driver Wafula but then he will look at his watch, the hour hand striking 9pm and the airport will arrange transport for him and within the hour he will be in Kileleshwa turning the lock on the door of his chateau-style mansion.
He will switch on the lights and place his briefcase, the one with the Glock G29 on the table and proceed up the spiral staircase to the bedroom with the flowers, a smile cutting across his face like a ray of sunlight only to find Wafula sleeping on his matrimonial bed. He will feel stupid and get angry and without thinking about the consequences of his actions he will run downstairs with his flowers, open his briefcase and pick up his Glock G29. But while he’s downstairs Wafula will wake up because of bathroom urges and memsahib will have finished freshening up and from the bathroom she will go straight to bed and pull the duvet all the way to her head. Frustrated and breathing like an ox, Dave will rush into the master bedroom, point his Glock G29 pistol at the duvet and pull the trigger.
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I like to think of myself as a reader who writes, a Pan-African who thinks with the tips of his fingers, but when I'm not molesting the keyboard I'm usually destroying yogurt (not Frusion) or staring into the vastness of space.