Masquerade Reveal

Ciiru

Ciiru is having an argument with her husband, Kioko. They haven’t been intimate for over a month. They have been having these arguments about their sex life every other morning, and Ciiru is fed up. “Fed up!” she says, frustrated, and Kioko gets even angrier. When he becomes angry or excited, he mixes his L’s with his R’s. Ciiru finds it endearing; other times, it throws her off.

“My body is rejecting penetlation,” he says.

Penetration in general, or just when I’m involved? Ciiru wants to ask. “Then let us go to the clinic, Kioko,” she finds herself offering instead.

“Crinic? Ciilu, you learry know nothing,” Kioko says. “I need a dlink,” he mumbles, banging the bathroom door in Ciiru’s face. Ciiru remembers a time when they used to shower together; now, they wait for the other to finish, and use the bathroom separately, as if they are roommates.

Kioko finishes his shower, and Ciiru enters the bathroom. She comes out with a towel wrapped around her chest and finds Kioko already dressed. He has taken to wearing crisp suits and leather shoes lately. He is a tall man with lean muscles, and with the dapper outfit, he looks like he could model for GQ. Ciiru wants to tell him he looks handsome, but she remembers they are fighting, and furrows her brows and flares her nostrils even harder.

“Wirr you dlop me at work, ol shourd I take an Uber?” Kioko asks the mirror while struggling to tie his charcoal grey tie.

“It’s fine, I’ll drop you,” Ciiru chirps while helping him with his tie, and Kioko looks the other way, as if he can’t wait for it to be over. Ciiru knows that if he took the Uber like he’s suggesting, it would just add petrol to the already growing fire—ice, seeing there hasn’t been any fire in their relationship to speak of lately, or is it ratery? She thinks and smiles.

They walk down the stairs of their third-floor one-bedroom apartment in Kikuyu and enter Ciiru’s Mazda Axela. There was a time Kioko enjoyed driving Ciiru everywhere, but recently, out of the blue, he threw the key at Ciiru, “It’s your car, you dlive it,” and she has been behind the wheel ever since. 

Kioko stares out the window, and Ciiru stares through the windshield until they arrive at his job along Valley Road. After dropping him off, Ciiru sees a poster with a half-naked, muscled man wearing a masquerade mask, offering a massage. She gazes at it for a while and wonders what clandestine activities the mask is hiding, before she drives off.

Kioko 

Kioko has a bad habit; the problem is that he has been indulging it too much lately, and when he does, he has no appetite for his Wife. He puts his backpack on his desk and begins having small talk with his colleagues, lingering a little bit longer with the female staff.

“Sara, you look so nice, nani anakupeleka out leo?” he remarks at their accountant.

“We wacha! I look nice every day,” Sara says, all teeth.

He goes into Lisa’s office. She is the Head of Marketing and his office wife. She is also the kind of woman who has thriving relationships with Ben 10s. “Risa, if you continue wealing these yummy dlesses, utavunja ndoa za yenyewe,” Kioko says, excited by Lisa’s mini dress, which exposes most of her dark chocolate legs.

“Sasa kama dress inakubamba, na nikiitoa je?” Lisa says, and they both laugh as Kioko walks back to his desk and begins doing his public relations job.

As the Crisis Manager, he goes through posts and articles before they go up on social media, radio, and television. Organizes CSR events, media briefings, and puts together weekly reports on areas that need improvement. Today, there isn’t much work, and he finds himself looking at his laptop absentmindedly. On the screen is an image of a half-naked, muscled man, wearing a masquerade mask.

He needs to get a handle on his habit before Ciiru gets to the bottom of it, or becomes sick from her sexual frustration. The thought makes him grin, and he gets up from his desk and heads back into Lisa’s office, the door closing behind him with a click.

Lisa sits on her desk, her dress climbs up and exposes her thighs as Kioko sits on her chair. “Who tied this tie for you? It’s mathogothanio,” she remarks as she undoes it and begins retying it.

“Honey among locks, where were you before I got mallied?” Kioko asks excitedly, while eating Lisa up with his eyes.

“Nilikuwa huku tu, you’re just blind as a bat,” Lisa teases as she continues retying his tie.

“I shourd visit an optician so I never make that mistake again,” Kioko says, widening his eyes while staring into Lisa’s cleavage.

“Much better,” Lisa whispers in his ear, after finishing tying his tie.

“Thank you Risa. I’d be rost without you,” Kioko whispers back.

The only thing that stops their interaction is Lisa’s out-of-office sales meeting. Kioko finds himself back at his desk, on his phone, wondering when evening will get here. As a way to pass the time, he challenges himself to scroll to the bottom of TikTok, and in no time, it’s lunch time, and then, it’s time to clock out.

After work, Kioko and Ciiru usually find their way home separately, but lately Kioko has been stopping elsewhere, and today is no different.

Ciiru

Ciiru’s sexual frustration is making her lose her mind. She even thinks the old man with a bent back who delivers her food looks strong this morning. She is just from asking him how his wife is doing, fishing to know if he is single, and she only catches herself after he responds, saying his wife died in the 80s from chicken pox. 

She sits in her shop in CBD with her tea and mandazi and opens up her phone: ‘Why men’s bodies reject penetration?’ she types into her phone’s browser. She reads article after article without getting anything relatable to her situation, and only puts her phone away after a client interrupts her. 

The client is inquiring about the Samsung Galaxy S25 Ultra. After she tells him the price, he goes silent for a while and asks for the iPhone 19 Pro Max instead. “That isn’t out yet,” Ciiru says with a smile, but really, she’s irritated. She could have gotten to the bottom of men’s bodies by now, she thinks, as another client walks in, just as she is about to pick up her phone again.

She sells power banks, phone cases, chargers, and a Tecno phone before it clocks noon, and the old man with the bent back is back delivering her lunch, a meal of chicken stew and ugali. She’s about to ask him if he has been lifting weights lately, but she catches herself and stops. 

Her afternoon is filled with inquiries about phone repairs, and she makes a mental note to add the service to her shop, as evening comes around and she calls it a day.

As she drives back home, Ciiru sees the poster with the half-naked, muscled man with a masquerade mask offering a massage. She has always suspected that these places are brothels, not massage parlors, full of gigolos, not decent men, but now, she finds herself calling the phone number provided and turning her car around. In no time, she is in the suburbs of Kileleshwa, driving through a white gate with a sign that reads, PRIVATE.

She meets a cheerful, half-naked, muscled man wearing a masquerade mask at the reception desk, who asks her if she will drink anything. She decides to take two shots of gin to loosen up, because she is already thinking of leaving.

After finishing her drink, she is taken to the massage room, which has a massage bed, a chair, and a shower. “Feel free to get comfortable. When you’re ready, press the bell on the wall, and the masseurs will come out in line, and you can choose the one you want the massage from,” the receptionist says while handing her a masquerade mask and a menu full of suggestive offerings and exorbitant prices. Ciiru picks the regular massage, which is also the cheapest one on the list.

She removes her clothes and remains in her bra and panties. She immediately feels exposed and reaches for her mask. She presses the bell on the wall and sits in her chair. One by one, the masseurs walk in, in their masquerade masks and half-naked muscled bodies just as advertised, and line up in front of her. Ciiru picks the tallest and leanest one, and the others leave. After the door closes, she lies on her back on the massage bed, ready for the service she’s paying for.

The masseur leans in to massage her shoulders, and she catches the whiskey in his breath and gets a certain comfort knowing they are both intoxicated. After the first touch, she realizes she wants more.

“I love the magic your hands are working,” she finds herself droning while tracing a hand up the masseur’s arm and squeezing his bicep.

“You’le so hot. I rove it,” the masseur responds while moving his hand up her bra.

Ciiru sits up quickly, removes her masquerade mask and that of the masseur, because, even when tipsy, she can recognize the mixing of L’s and R’s from her husband’s excited voice. They come face to face with each other, and Ciiru finally gets her answer to why her husband hasn’t been intimate with her, and Kioko realizes that no amount of public relations can fix his crisis.

*

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