The odor of sweating bodies and musky scents surrounded me as I labored to listen to the old and tired voice that blared through the speakers. In such events it was always good to cover one’s eyes with the blackest sunglasses ever, just in case the powerful arm of sleep overtook you. My neighbor, the Minister of Development, was coughing weirdly into his fist, an attempt to hide his cries of joy. His eyes were glued to his phone in augmented impatience, and his right foot was dancing uncontrollably.
He coughed again, this time more loudly, and his trousers nearly burst with sudden resource expansion. I caught a glimpse of his screen, and there, in all glory was a petite caramel girl with a sparkling blue gem in her navel, and short red hair which reminded me of Queen Sheba in her more exciting years. The girl, who didn’t look a day older than seventeen, had contorted herself in some strange acrobatic position, giving the beholder a virtual tour of her wells and towers, her golden streets and all the beauty of a young and succulent damsel.
I quickly looked away as the Minister coughed and coughed until he stood up and literally ran to the washrooms, holding a newspaper firmly in front of his crotch. I had to stop myself laughing so hard, as I imagined the possible reaction that very exaggerated cough would have caused fifteen years ago. Everyone would have stood up and scattered in all directions, and thousands of calls would have been made to evacuate a suspected Covid case. And then everyone would fret and fret, praying and fasting that they tested negative at the end of their quarantine.
Quarantine. The word resounded in my head.
Everyone around me clapped enthusiastically as the old voice on the microphone concluded his speech, and I joined in half-haphazardly, wishing the meeting would end and I munch on certain sweet memories in peace. “Thank you so much, Mr, Mukwaya, for that wonderful presentation. Now we shall have the Minister of Development…”
As everyone raised their heads above their seats and stretched their necks to locate Mr. Developed Muscles, I quickly gathered my bag and made straight for the door. Some of these memories needed to be revisited in the comfort of one’s home. But as the Prime Minister was about to give his speech, my standing up attracted a lot of attention and I saw cameras looking my way. Being a media favorite as one of the most outstanding legislators, I didn’t want to appear in every forwarded WhatsApp message, holding my bag, and confidently walking out of an international conference.
I sat back down and fixed my sunglasses over my eyes.
Oh how silly a human can get.
One ‘hey, how are you, are you back message’ popped up on my screen some days after I had landed in the country from Europe fifteen years ago. From a writer friend of mine who had been warming our brains with his very stimulating stories. From the word go I knew it would be fire, but as I said, humans do get silly.
I replied enthusiastically, knowing the boredom of the lockdown had probably gotten him looking through his contacts and landing on some exciting girl who always had something to say.
I am well, fine, confined, alive, and all the possible responses that could come out of a ‘how are you’` message. Before long we were locked in a 24/7 texting spree. The imagined laughter, the imagined facial expressions at reception of funny messages, the imagined body reactions, became a daily drug. A drug not to be missed.
When the compliments started flowing, and some words provoked a nether throb, or a faster heartbeat, I knew it was getting hotter. But a drug is a drug. If it has been prescribed then it must be taken. So we took our drug without complaining, and enjoyed each other’s e – company as much as possible. I sent him songs, recommended movies, re – recommended Jilly Cooper, and for a time things were sane.
At some point he must have started imagining what it’s like seeing me in HD, and he soon voiced his imaginations. Immediately my Alter Ego was awakened. Alter Ego is wild and excited, and can do the stupidest of things for no reason. She is not to be flirted with, she is to be kept asleep, fully sedated. But here we were, someone knocking at her door and pleading with her to please come out. He was dangling a big carrot in her face, using smooth words, alluding to the fiery possibilities and ground-shaking wonders that could happen.
A mini virtual expo was granted. Just this once.
He was hooked. Immediately. There wasn’t anything like just this once. He kept demanding for more and more expos. Alter Ego said yes. Let’s do it right away. I said no. We fought a battle so fierce it might have reached the magnitude of a world war. Daily I took the most provocative photos, the most provocative videos, and rubbed the “send” button over and over, but no, I would say. This is madness.
The “trash” in my phone must have celebrated at the sight of such glories. I left no chances, I would clean the trash every minute. Then it became a cycle, make a pose, take a shot, send. Wait! You can’t be that stupid, can you? At least crop out your face! Alright. You know what, don’t send at all! Don’t take any such stupid photos ever again!
And just like that I never took any such photos again, I gave Alter Ego a very big sedative and off she was. Not to be disturbed again. The quarantine ended peacefully and life moved on normally.
Until one day.
I was on my couch re-watching “The Three Idiots” when my phone rung. Our dear Bruce was in Kampala. A supposed business trip.
Nothing is as dangerous as prolonged horn that has been kept on ice and is now in the microwave, almost ready to be served.
I almost told him I’m abroad, but I was like what the heck, let me just meet the guy. We shall at least say that we’ve ever met in person. So I agreed to meet him, my 200 – page book on good behavior sitting comfortably in my bag. Don’t cross your legs, don’t lick your lips, and don’t stare too intensely, all the things that are supposed to relax sexual tension.
But Alter Ego was very awake and very alive.
Our Bruce is a lover of bosoms, so I got a dress that exalts mine beyond its real boundary, and I made sure the cleavage is generously visible. This was the time to get to his head and fully confuse him with Ugandan beauty. There was a national reputation to keep. Who knew, maybe he would marry a Ugandan girl and bring us some of that foreign currency.
My dress was floral and multi-colored, so that I looked more friendly than sexy. But it was tight in the right places and long enough to cover the essentials. The trick was to arrive earlier than him, that way he wouldn’t see how dangerously hot I looked down. Then when we are leaving and I stood it would hit him like a bomb, and I would enjoy watching him struggle to not stare. As I earlier said this was our chance as a nation to roam free in this potential investor’s mind. Our turn to dangle the carrot.
We had late lunch at Karveli, telling silly jokes and laughing on top of our voices. He said I looked better in person, and was a perfect gentleman throughout the lunch. We talked about our countries, music, food, and literature. I did my best to speak proper Swahili. The elephant in the room was successfully ignored.
Until later in the evening.
We took a matatu to my home in Muyenga. He was surprised to see the order and cleanliness in the matatu, and kept making comparisons of almost everything he saw. When we reached I let him in, but lingered briefly in the door with him right behind me, so that our bodies rubbed against each other. I could smell his desire for me from miles away, but he was acting cool, like as if he expected nothing much. In my head I was like he don’t know what’s coming he way (In Steve Harvey’s voice).
Once he was settled on the couch, I suddenly started looking for my hair pin that might have fallen under the table, picking the remote control that probably fell under the carpet, doing anything that got me bending right in his face, and after looking all innocent as if I’m not up to something.
I gave him a cold Tusker and the wi-fi code, then left some Winnie Nwagi songs on the playlist on my computer as I went to take a quick shower. This was going to be one evening to remember.
Lavender or rose? Or maybe chocolate? I wasn’t sure which scent to choose, but a thought told me that chocolate would be ideal. I soaked myself in the sweet vapor as I imagined everything that he was going to do to me, how his tongue was going to roll over my skin, how his strength would feel swallowed deep within me. His hands had appeared firm, promising steady grips that would hold me in place as I gushed my love on him. Did he prefer calm and collected, or wild and limitless?
The habit of going to the bathroom with my phone has been mine for a long time, whenever the music plays I rub my skin sensuously, my eyes closed, imagining I’m the girl in a Shane Ward video. Other times I feel like John Rose is right there in the bathroom with me, watching me in awe as he sings about his undying love for me.
If you’ve decided to love me, love me very well, if you’ve decided to touch me, touch me very well… King Saha sang sweetly as I slowly rubbed my finger up and down my very wet petals. I picked up the phone and texted Bruce “In the Bathroom”
He replied with laughing emojis, and as expected asked for a picture.
“Come see for yourself”, I replied, and I soon heard light footsteps approaching the bathroom door. I pushed the door open with my bubble-wrapped leg and stood in front of him. His jaw dropped at once as he stared at my bosom, and he stretched his hand to touch one of my golden fruits.
“Not before you wash your hands,” I said playfully as I pulled away.
“They look exactly as in the picture!” he said, coming closer and closer to me, until I was on the wall, staring right up into his eyes with such intensity. His warm hands gently slid around my soapy waist and I felt all strength leave me. I was sure my knees were about to give way, when he lowered his lips to lock with mine. His hot tongue shot inside my mouth and started teasing my own with expertise, and I felt my whole body stiffen with desire. I wanted him. Now.
As his tongue continued to probe I reached for his belt and undid it, quickly lowering his jeans to the floor. He raised his arms and I helped him out of his T.shirt. Once in Adam’s suit his calmness evaporated. He was coming at me with a fierce look in his eyes, his Assegai fully awake and ready for duty. His arms held my waist firmly, in search of a perfect positon to discover the oil wells. I slipped from him, grabbed the bubble bath bottle and smeared him with soap. He laughed as he wiped it away, and I just heaped more and more soap on him.
Ten minutes later, when we had washed the day’s sweat down the drain, I led him to the bed, putting some pillows under his back. Before he knew what was happening I got his desperately hard Assegai and holding it firmly by the base, slid it into my warm mouth. He let out a loud moan as I made round motions at the tip with my tongue, while firmly rubbing my hand up and down the stem. His hands rubbed my head as he begged me not to stop. I took him in deeper, tightened my cheek muscles around him as I increased the cadence.
Before he knew it I shifted my body upwards, and took him into the oil wells. The sudden change made him attempt to sit up but I pushed him back and made myself comfortable onto his cock. I began with slow short movements, rocking slowly, teasingly. I continued doing this until he couldn’t take it anymore. He summoned his energy and sat up, holding me by the waist and pinning me strongly under him. His breath was hot on my chest.
“Now I’m gonna dominate you” he said as he took on the relay. If you remember your South African History, you remember the Assegai. Short stabbing spear. This rather long stabbing spear stabbed me to the uttermost, fiercely, mercilessly. My cries were met with his groans of pleasure, and I soon wrapped my legs around his waist to keep him as in as possible. From the living room Winnie Nwagi sung song after song, as we got drunker and higher on our exploits ad portions.
I wriggled from under him and ran to the bathroom. He followed me immediately and as soon as he got back inside me my floodgates broke and I gushed onto him, panting like a tigress on the hunt and sinking my newly done peach nails into his back. Soon after, his own release came, and he held me so tight I had to grasp for breath.
“I think I love you” he said
“I think you’re drunk” I shrieked with laughter as I opened the shower. He held me tight as the cold water hit our bodies and made us shiver with satiated excitement.
He showered me with compliments and heaped all manner of praises on me, and even asked why I didn’t move to Nairobi. This couldn’t be the last time he saw me like this. I just laughed and laughed, only happy to have served well and satisfied. After that we watched some Trevor Noah lying next to each other, and I later made chicken soup and chapo. You cannot fully satisfy an African man without food.
In the night we made love again, this time calmer, and after slept like two lovebirds who had known each other for years.
The following morning he was supposed to wake up at six am and be at his hotel by seven, because he had a meeting with prospective clients at nine am. He needed to put final touches to his presentation. He had mentioned this before sleeping. In fact he had wanted to sleep at his hotel, but at that moment he was my prisoner. All I needed was to smile slyly and say, “Alright, you can go”. Exactly as I expected, he didn’t have the strength to walk away.
None of us heard the alarm, so at a quarter past eight the golden sun rays piercing through the curtains painted the room yellow, and my sleepy head was lured out of sleep. I woke Bruce up and he was all lovey-dovey, until he saw the time. Suddenly he jumped out of bed and looked around frantically for his phone. I made him a quick coffee which he was to swallow as fast as possible, and maybe eat the omelet I was going to start working on, as we waited for my boda boda man to come and pick him. That’s when we realized that his clothes, which we had carelessly thrown on the bathroom floor in the heat of the passion, were very wet and very unwearable.
My first reaction was to laugh so hard, which didn’t please him so much, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t have a tumble drier. We tried drying the clothes with my blow-dryer, but the more we attempted to dry the jeans, the more they dripped. The whole thing was just too funny, but Bruce was getting upset and we weren’t yet sure what to do.
“You can go in my towel” I offered, and he shot me an evil look that made me want to call the police.
I called Samson, one of my friends who didn’t live so far away, and explained to him that I needed a trouser, a shirt and if possible a tie right away. And he could as well forget I exist and never call me again if he couldn’t deliver those clothes in the next two minutes.
Samson arrived on a boda boda ten minutes later, bearing the clothes, and also anxious to meet the cause of this sudden strange request. I sent him away as soon as he had arrived, giving him the transport fare.
Bruce nearly got a heart attack when he saw the clothes, saying they were not at all his style. Plus the trouser was two sizes bigger and longer than him so he had to sustain it with a belt until he met a tailor, if he met one anyway. The shirt was a bright orange, like the ones our grandparents wore when our countries were receiving their independence. Samson was going to get a serious beating from me.
With a few kisses, unhappy, panicking, village-looking Bruce got onto the boda and off they went. He called later to say the meeting had gone well despite him showing up late and looking like a Teacher from Karamoja Secondary School. He got the gig.
A rough nudge shook me to life, and I heard distant voices asking, “Is she okay?”
I sat up straight and removed my sunglasses. The hall was nearly empty. People were walking out one by one, Ministers holding briefcases, personal assistants holding printed speeches of the different dignitaries who had spoken, social connections and acquaintances being made.
“Are you okay, honorable?” a voice asked next to me. It was Mr. Developed Muscles.
I cleared my voice and straightened my skirt. I looked at him straight in the eye. He had a silly loopsided smile on his face.
“What is happening? Where is everyone?” I asked
“The conference is over. You slept through the biggest part of it.” Then he lowered his voice and whispered in my ear, “and you were making strange sounds. Who were you dreaming about?”
And then he started walking away, but stopped suddenly and made a U-turn. He said “Oh by the way, I would prefer if you didn’t tell anyone about what you saw on my phone.” And with that he walked away, no doubt to find the golden damsel and whisk her off to some fancy hotel.
At that point I noticed a moisture between my legs. I was so wet the juice was literally sliding down my thighs. I ran to my car and drove straight home, my heart pounding like a bakisimba drum. As I drove I called my travel agent and asked her to book me a flight to Nairobi first thing tomorrow morning. It was high time I retuned certain jeans and a T.shirt to their rightful owner.
From the gig he got with FireFax Marketing in Kampala the time he visited me, Bruce had gone on to work with Clost Marketing, and was now a well-established writer and business man. His wife, Lydia, unknown to him, was my cousin and she constantly updated me on how he was. I always welcomed her updates with joy, and constantly encouraged her to do her best to see to it that he was happy. She was so far doing a good job caring for my Bruce, and if I had a way of paying her for it, I would.
His two daughters Amani and Zawadi, were at Naisula School. He had a son, Karl, whom he didn’t know about.
Once the travel agent booked the flight I called Lydia and told her we were arriving tomorrow. Karl and I. It was high time we opened certain cupboards and told certain truths. I just hoped he would, at least on the basis of the good memories we shared, forgive me for keeping a secret this big.