IN LOVE WITH TWO WOMEN

Chapter 1

Tembo Bar

It is drizzling as I make my way to town. Traffic is fast. Matatus are honking incessantly as motorbikes zoom wildly, leaving one bewildered as to why they are always in such a mad rush. I cross the road briskly. I glance at my phone. It's 6.30 p.m. A tad dark. Many traders are lined up on either side of the road selling their wares.

Tembo Bar. I walk in, pause briefly at the doorway and throw a sweeping glance across the room trying to locate a convenient place to sit. Soft music greets my ears. Unmistakably, Madilu System- Frére Edouard. A few patrons are scattered here and there. It's a small pub. I smile timidly and nod then wave at no one in particular. I sit. I take out my phone unconsciously and stare at the screen absentmindedly.

A woman walks to where I'm seated and stares at me blankly, her hand outstretched. I look up and shake her hand, smiling. Her face is expressionless. No need to milk a stone. I capitulate.

"Guinness," that comes out curtly.

"Warm ama ... ?"

"Yes, please." 

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She lumbers away. I gaze into space, pondering. Our bundle of joy had turned out to be a source of untold misery. Since the birth of my second born child, my wife has changed drastically. She has become increasingly possessive and nagging. Ever suspicious. Barking at me at the slightest provocation. All her attention is shifted to Amani, our new born baby.

The warm, charming woman I had married just two years ago has become cold as a stone. I haven't slept on my bed for a few nights now. After an hour of being shouted at by a psychotic woman, laying next to her is the last thing on your mind. Most of the time I was awakened by annoying mosquitoes buzzing around my ears. Fell asleep on the couch, again. The TV is still on. As are the lights. I switch off both and collapse back on the chair. I lie there feeling tormented, listening to the irregular and utterly unbearable snoring of my wife from the next room.

I didn't even notice that my drink was already on the table. A bottle and a glass. The bar is steadily filling up. It's not as tranquil as it was when I came in. You can hear the characteristically loud chatter and boisterous laughter from the tipsy revellers. The music is a bit too loud for my liking but that's the least of my worries.

My marriage is crumbling, slowly but surely. The thought of going home to my wife nauseates me, yet I obviously miss the innocent giggles and regular wails of my kids. The older one is three, while her brother is slightly over a year old. Did I mention how annoying it is when his mother insists on telling everyone who cares to listen that the baby is 13 months old? Well, there goes.

I take a long sip of the frothy drink and relax. The pub is almost full now. Mostly patronised by old and middle aged men, it seems. You can barely see any females save for the resident bartenders. Some inebriated geezers are now dancing or trying to, while struggling to grab the worked up bartenders every time they walk by.

Loneliness and hollowness

I'm not a regular drinker. I'm more of a reserved family man. However, my home has become uninhabitable. My wife has become hostile.  My heart is filled with loneliness and hollowness that needs to be filled. I couldn't talk to any my friends about my predicaments. A man has to be a man. Besides, they would simply dismiss it bemusedly as a trivial family feud.

Most of them were heavily involved in my wedding plans 2 years ago. I had protested the idea of a church wedding profusely. My wife, however, gave a spirited fight and needless to say won the battle. The budget was a whooping 1 million shillings. I could only raise a paltry 250, 000 shillings.  Eventually we managed to raise about 829, 000 shillings most of which came from hapless friends and relatives, who had no choice.

Most of them did it halfheartedly, of course. They didn't see any sense in throwing a lavish wedding when as matter of fact the groom was not well to do anyway. Punishing friends who are also struggling with their own burdens ranging from hefty school fees to inflated power bills. At last after numerous WhatsApp steered committee meetings and endless fundraisers we were done with it. Sigh! Good riddance. What a waste of time. On the contrary, my wife was besides herself. A huge milestone conquered.

Now, imagine telling my friends that after sleepless nights helping us to arrange the wedding, the match made in heaven was having rifts. Unsalvageable cracks. Till death do us part was slowly becoming a pipe dream. The parting was becoming imminent with every passing day. In the likely event that it happens, my friend Onyi in particular would show no ounce of sympathy whatsoever. I can picture him roaring with laughter and screaming at my face about how many times he'd dissuaded me against a grand wedding. He is happily married with four boys and a girl, and didn't have his union officiated before a man of the cloth.

The noise in the pub is now deafening. A few drunkards stagger out as more wobble in. It's around 8.30 p.m. I beckon the bartender to bring me another drink. The fourth one I think. Everyone has to shout as the music is so loud, chatting merrily and animatedly. Some are dancing. Others are glued to the large TV screen that's mounted on one of the walls. You can hardly discern people's faces as the pub is poorly lit with multicoloured neon bulbs.

My phone rings. I rush out to pick it. It's Juma. He's in town too. He tells me where he is. Company. At last that's good news. I clear my bill and leave. It's really dark outside. I'm not bothered by the biting cold. I hop to avoid stepping in pools of murky water that dotted the entire road.I pace briskly along Masinde Muliro Avenue. The traffic has reduced. A few civil servants are rushing home from town while others are just arriving. Pulp Night Club is about 200 metres away from Tembo bar and soon I'm here. 

His only brother 

It's quite early and the night club is far from packed. As I walk in a tall, burly man grabs gadget and scans me for any contraband before letting me proceed with a forced smile, and a nod. I smile back awkwardly. I look around and finally spot Juma. I join him. He's already so drunk his speech is slurred. Every time a song comes on, he dances vigorously and sings along the lyrics, so loudly that other revellers turn in our direction disapprovingly.

Long story short, I have to get him a taxi home as he's become a bit of an embarrassment. As I support him into the car he swears that I'm his only brother, and that he loves me so much. I pay the cab guy and ask him to drop him at Mlimani Phase 2. Meanwhile, Juma is on the phone with his wife I guess, reiterating that she should acknowledge me as his only brother. As the taxi skids off, I can hear him explode into a thunderous laughter fit to startle the dead. He then hangs out through the window and waves at me as the vehicle speeds off. Quite a guy.

It's about ten. When I get back into the club I notice that some two ladies who had been sitting at the counter had moved closer to my table and  were dancing gracefully to the Rumba tunes belting out of the huge speakers inside the club. I sit and order a drink. I notice that an English Premier League match is underway. Liverpool FC is playing Newcastle FC who are one goal to the good.

3 bottles later, I have become friends with the two affable ladies. We spend the next hour or so chatting and dancing as the deejay continues to serenade us with timeless Rumba and Benga tunes. Leila is tall, chocolate with flowing jet black hair while her friend Sasha is  light skinned, short and plump. 

Image: balleralert.com

Sasha seems a bit uneasy. She spends most of her time bent on her phone. Leila on the other hand is upbeat. Dancing wildly and taking a crap load of selfies. In between the texting, dancing and taking photos, we have lighthearted chit chats and alcohol-fuelled laughter. They tell me that they are 2nd year students at the University. Leila looks a tad too classy for your average campus girl. She speaks really good English and is capable of holding a mature intercourse unlike her friend who looks every inch your typical campus. She wears long, brightly-coloured braids, big, horn-rimmed glasses with a thick dark frame, a short polka dot dress that barely cover her thighs but that is thankfully countered by a pair of red stockings. I watch her as she makes her back and forth trips out of the club. This time she leaves and comes back promptly. She’s smiling broadly.

“Guys ...,” she pauses “I’m afraid I have to leave.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Leila says sweetly.

“Mike is here,” turning to me “It was nice meeting you. Take good care of her.”

I smile stoically. She grabs her pouch and hurries off balancing precariously on her unnecessarily high-heeled shoes.

“Guess it’s just you and me now,” Leila quips when I turn in her direction.

“Well ... ” I shrug. 

I’m more of an introvert around strangers so naturally she takes the driver’s seat and steers the conversation. We hit it off really well. The fast paced Dancehall music has now paved way for Rumba. The soothing rhythm of Franco’s Celio conjures up a mixture of sweet and poignant feelings. Leila is now resting her head on my shoulder as she taps her foot rhythmically in sync with the music. It’s getting pretty late. I don’t remember the last time I sat in a nightclub this long. Strangely, it seems a way better idea than to going back home to Jezebel.

“I bet you’re married so I guess I’m bringing you to my place tonight,” Leila says without looking up.

“Yes!” I blurt out rather too excitedly, and immediately regret. I wish I could take that back.

“That’s if you don’t mind, "

“Yes ... I mean no. ”

“Are you okay?” she asks after staring at me for a while, ‘ you seem nervous.” 

I was nervous.

“Never been better ..”

Expensive set of furniture

I offer to pay the bill, needless to say. We leave. A few eyes follow us out. Leila in far from bothered. She walks closely behind me. Outside, it’s still dark but you can feel the  biting early morning breeze. It’s 3.45 a.m. Leila is on her phone talking to her “cab guy” and soon he pulls up promptly in a black Toyota Fielder. We board the vehicle but not before grabbing some bitings from a nearby eatery. Before long, we’re on our way. We drive off the main road and soon the car comes to a halt in front of a black gate. We alight. The driver, Oscar, drives off after wishing us a nice time.

‘Here we are” Leila says as she rummages her bag for the gate keys.

It’s a big block of flats. Leila’s own is well furnished. I’m utterly taken aback. She has an expensive set of furniture and electronics. The house is simply beautiful.  The curtains match the fluffy, floor rag and the seats. Everything is fastidiously arranged. I collapse into one of the comfy seats with puffy cushions as my eyes dart around in awe. Her Sony TV must be 55 inches. Beautiful paintings hang on the wall. A cracking house for a campus girl. Must be from a very well to do home, I conclude.

Leila returns with two wine glasses. She fetches a bottle of wine from the shelf that’s dotted with assorted brands of alcoholic and non-alcohol drinks. I take a sip. Sweet. She then serves well-done lamb chops which we take with hot rice straight out of the microwave oven. We don’t talk much. We’re both quite exhausted. After a while she leads me to the bedroom. I sit on the bed as she takes a quick shower. As she jumps in her nighties I also take a shower.

When I return she’s already in bed. In sit on the edge of the bed and think for a second. My phone rings. Oh, this is just perfect! It’s the Mrs. I stare at it and let it ring. She calls incessantly until she gives up. This is the first time I have spent a night away from my family without bothering to inform her. She must be worried sick. I immediately feel like a pile of dog turd. It’s unfair. I make up my mind to return home at the crack of dawn. Leila has a drifted into a gentle slumber. I sit motionlessly as I get sucked into a daze of sad, nostalgic feelings about our earlier days as a young, inseparable couple that was madly in love. Life is full of twists and turns, I conclude.

I take a matatu back home, a disturbed man. I didn’t cheat on my wife, but I feel like a letdown. This is a moment of reflection. I’m suddenly gripped by an epiphany-I need to be a man and take charge of my affairs. A real man rises in the face of predicament and takes the bull by the horns. Life is not a straight line. Ultimately, we are bound to face ups and downs and we have to do so with the courage of a lion. Burying your head in the sand won’t make the problems go away. Alcohol and having casual flings are not my cup of tea. I miss my little angels. Though hard to admit, I also miss my wife. 

The old van screeches to a halt and I alight after a 20-minute bumpy ride, eardrums severely battered by a series of loud Demakufu music. The vehicle swerves dangerously back onto the road and speeds off. I sigh heavily and head to my house which is a few meters away from the main road. I’m now standing aghast in front of the gate. I walk in with unsure steps, my heart fluttering. I rap at the door nervously. I turn the knob slowly and walk into the house wearing a sheepish grin. 

The living room is empty but I can here Pendo chattering in the next room. The mother yells at her to stop making noise, but instead she continues now at the top of her lungs. Moraa, my wife, berates her so angrily that she scampers for safety into the living room. She’s so pleasantly surprised to see me here. She dashes in my direction with open arms at the speed of a baby cheetah. She trips, falls, picks herself up bravely and hops on to my lap. She gives me a broad, angelic smile. Her mother peeps from the other room, with an evil smirk on her face. The short awkward silence is broken by wails as the baby awakens in the next room. Her mother duly disappears to attend to him.

“How have you been?” she asks from the other room.

“Fine ... And you?”

“Let me run you a warm bath. Your breakfast will be ready as soon as you’re washed and changed,” 

She unsurprisingly ignores my question.

“Thank you,”

I’m surprised. I expected her to castigate me. Instead she seems undisturbed. She is the type to grouse endlessly at the slightest displeasure. In the bathroom, many questions run through my mind.

I hear a car pull up. A female voice calls from the front door, unmistakably Awino’s. That’s my wife’s best friend.I can hear them exchanging pleasantries. Like all women, whenever they meet they hoot the breeze for hours on end. Awino is unmarried. She’s always a phone call away whenever her friend is in distress. I remember that one time Moraa invited her over and she talked to me for hours probing to try and find out the reasons why I no longer finish the food my wife cooks. The two suspected that I was eating at another woman’s house on my way home. I found it odd but brushed it aside. Women! 

 

Image: happierabroad.com

I sit in the living room playing with my older kid. The women are in the kitchen conversing in low tones, in between giggles. After a few minutes later two more women arrive. They seem familiar. I think they go to Moraa’s church. I’m a bit uneasy. As time drags by, more of Moraa’s friends arrive.

After a sumptuous meal, the oldest-looking woman in the lot speaks. A hefty woman with short greying hair. It now occurs to me that Moraa has invited them to lecture me on how to be a good husband. The woman speaks with maturity and decorum. After setting the ball rolling, she allows the others to take a swipe as well. The next one was a little less sensitive. Her tone is openly sarcastic and full of snide remarks. Speaker after speaker, they take turns to throw hurtful jibes at me. I sit quietly. I know better than to argue with a mob of angry women. You never know what some of them carry in their large handbags. Hell, they say, hath no wrath like a woman scorned .

“No one is perfect. To err is human.” The wise woman says in a soft, assured voice.

The rest nod their heads in agreement.

“Marriage is not a bed of roses,” she continues “It’s a like a road that is both smooth and and bumpy.”

After the loathsome lecture, my wife serves her friends tea with queen cakes. I’m infuriated but I conceal the feeling with a deceptive smile. I even try to engage the women in some chit chat but they seem repulsed by me. Even the magic line of how they all looked glam isn’t working for me. Running the risk of setting the cat among the pigeons, I keep silent. After the tea, they leave one after the other. My wife shows them out. She returns. I gaze firmly at her.

“Really?” I pose. She is silent.

“One night out and what do I know, the great convention of Jezebels, dressing me down in my own house.”

Well, in all honesty that conversation doesn’t happen. I only say these words in my head. That’s one can of worms I wouldn’t have dared to open. It’s a weekend so I don’t have to go to work. I walk to the bedroom and collapse on the bed. I am awakened at around 3 p.m. when Amani breaks into an ear splitting, sustained colic. 

To be continued ...

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Read Chapter 2 here. 

Wafula Wekati