IN LOVE WITH TWO WOMEN CHAPTER 2

Chapter 2

I wake up at the crack of dawn. Monday. Everybody else is still fast asleep. As has been the norm for a few days now I slept on the couch. I'm half awake. I feel throbbing pain in my head. The aftermath of the previous weekend. Heavy drinking with campus girls and the irksome lecture by a group of angry women, who also happen to be my wife's best friends. I can hear the sound of regular breathing from my wife and the kids sleeping in the next room.

I drag myself to the bathroom. For a few minutes, I stand under the running water. My mind is blank. I feel numb. Powerless. I'm gazing at the hazy bathroom window. Now my mind feels a like a stadium full of thoughts rushing in all directions. I turn off the shower and grab a towel. Wrapping it around my waist, I walk back to the living room and sit for a couple of minutes. I stand up and walk slowly towards the bedroom. Amani sleeps in a cot in her own room while Pendo sleeps with his mother in our bedroom-which has become her bedroom. The regular fights have wedged us apart so much that the couch feels warmer and more inviting than the bed. 

It doesn't make any sense now. I remember the first day I met Moraa. I knew she was the woman I would eventually marry. The first few months of our relationship were magical. We spend long hours on the phone talking and laughing like fools. We were inseparable. Whenever I saw her name on my phone's caller I.D. my heart would be filled with an inexplicable warmness and my eyes would water with joy. 

Any man that tried to woo Moraa saw his efforts thwarted unabashedly. One day she almost pulled off the braids of a campus girl who kept throwing flirtatious glances at me during one of my regular visits to her campus. That should have been a red flag. I did not see it. I was madly in love. Love bloats out logic.

I'm fully dressed. Standing at the sink in front of a mirror, staring blankly. My reflection stares back, as if to say, "fight your own battles". My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pick it with my left hand as I brush my teeth with the other. A text message. A short one that simply reads, "Honey". It was from Leila. For a brief moment, I seem to forget my present predicament. I look up from the phone back to the mirror. The sullen, long face has been replaced by a smiling one. The thought of  a shoulder to lean on seems to lift a load off my heart. 

I open the fridge and pour myself a glass of cold juice, which I empty in a gulp. I glance at my wrist watch. Fifteen minutes to six.

 Outside the house, the weather is chilly. It looks like it rained last night. Most school children are rushing to school. When I get to the bus stage, I see a few matatus, with touts beckoning passenger to board their vehicles. The otherwise tranquil morning air is rented with shouts of "Tao, tao, tao ..." or "Mbao, mbao, mbao ..." and hooting of cars.

I board one of the matatus. I quickly scan around and realize that it is almost full. A young lady gets in, followed by an old man and soon we're on our way. Smooth reggae music is playing in the vehicle. Glen Washington-Strangers in the Night. In moments of sadness one tends to listen to a song's lyrics. "I just can't let you go/ Oh, no, no, not my baby/" .We live in a strange world. In a blink of an eye, inseparable lovers can turn into venom-filled strangers.At this moment, Pendo and Amani are the only adhesive holding my troubled marriage together. 

I get to work in good time.Sitting at my desk, I can't stop thinking about Leila. Then it hits me that I haven't returned her text yet. Looking at my phone, I find out that she has texted again asking whether I was okay and wishing me a good day. I stare at the phone for a few minutes. 

"Are you okay?" Masika, who is standing right at my desk, asks. Her voice is full of concern.

"Good morning to you too, Masika. Have these low lives told you how beautiful you look this morning?" I say this with gusto, trying to conceal my true feelings. 

"You look like shit bro," she remains resolute.

"Wait a second. You're saying that metaphorically, right?"

"If you need anyone to talk to, I'll be at my desk"

Masika is the our new receptionist. A charming lady who can brighten the dullest of days with her good cheer and infectious laughter. Since she started working here, we have grown fond of each other. She is a chatter box that won't let you talk. I, on the other hand, am the quiet type. We are naturally attracted to each other because of our different personalities. She is also very observant. I hate the fact that she can read me like a magazine. 

I text Leila telling her that I am fine and that I would like to see her. She texts back promptly saying she doesn't mind. I feel a bit relaxed. I go about the usual work stuff mechanically since it's what I do day in day out. I take a lunch break and head downstairs to grab something to eat. Maggy, the HR lady, has already had  her lunch and is heading back upstairs. She is sweating. She is fond of reminding us that she only loves two things in this world. Her son and food. Breathing with difficulty, she struggles to ascend the stairs. I like her. She is quite personable. 

"I hope you didn't eat all the food by yourself,"

"Actually, I did. This body is not built by bricks," she says laughing heartily. 

I eat very little today. After lunch I find it quite difficult to concentrate. I leave the office fifteen minutes after two. I walk swiftly down Wamalwa Kijana Avenue. Traffic is light. The wind is blowing briskly. I walk straight to Nyumbani Bar and Restaurant. It is virtually empty. I sit on one of those long bar stools next to the counter. Giving me a knowing smile, Musa the barman swings the fridge door open and brings out a bottle of beer. 

"You're early," He sounds curious.

I signal him to put the beer back.

"May I have a glass of water please?" that comes out almost as a whisper.

I call Leila. She tells me that she will be in town in an hour or so. I order a bottle of whiskey. Musa is baffled since he knows that I hardly ever take hard liqour. I had read about people who try to escape their problems by drinking. It all seemed so unrealistic and unreasonable. Now here I am. I have this strong urge to drink until my problems go away. Whiskey on the rocks will do. For the last couple of minutes I was the only patron here. A second one walks in. A tall man in a blue suit. He sits a few stools away from mine. He nods at me and shakes Musa's hand silently. Musa pours him some brandy which he gulps down in a flash and the smashes the glass back on the table. This goes on for a while and he only stops after the fourth glass. He looks very disturbed. Strangely, this gives me a glimmer of hope. I am not the only one sailing on troubled waters. 

My mind wanders back to my wife. I find it hard to wrap my head around the fact that the birth our son had polarized us so much and our marriage was on the brink of collapsing. Moraa had become so attached to him. After he arrived, I ceased to exist in her world. She expected me to shower him with the same undivided attention and would become irrationally exasperated when she felt I did not. She becomes mad whenever I arrive home late-that is 5 p.m. She would wear a sulky face and give me the silent treatment. I would be forced to warm my own food or sometimes cook it all together.

There has to be other underlying issues. Our future together looks dark like midnight. It seems like a candle flickering feebly struggling to stay alight and that can  be extinguished with a single blow. My only hope is the kids. Maybe we will patch things up for their sake. The innocent little angels.It is amazing how the source of our joy had turned out to be a thorn in the flesh. Our differences are becoming apparent. Close friends and a few relatives are asking questions. My performance at work has taken a nose dive and my social life is in shambles. I can't picture a lasting solution in the foreseeable future. I have opted for a stop gap measure. Alcohol. I hope Leila can fill the vacuum in my heart. She is almost half my age but her maturity and level-headed nature has struck a cord with me. We have only met once before but that's what problems do to a man. They make you vulnerable. 

I notice that a tipsy looking man has come in with a woman whom you would be forgiven to mistake for a prostitute. She is wearing heavy make up and strong perfume. She is dressed in a tight, white miniskirt. A buxom woman. Her bosom seems to be threatening to escape from her fitting, lacy blouse that you can almost see through. She almost catches me staring. My phone screen lights up. Leila has texted asking where I am. She is fifteen minutes away from town. We agree to meet at The Gibson's a fancy, upmarket restaurant in town. I feel a bit intoxicated myself. I pay and leave. Of course I did not finish the whole bottle by myself, I saved the rest for later. 

The Gibson's is not far off. It takes me about ten minutes to get here. The lady is not here yet. It's a posh little restaurant. The interior is predominantly white. The lighting and decor scream "ambiance". There is smooth, old school, jazzy music playing in the background.  A lazy looking waitress saunters to where I am seated. She looks bored but tries to seem cordial, but fails. A young woman. In her early twenties I presume. Medium height and slender build. She seems like one who doesn't like her job. Maybe she's only here for the money. 

"Hello,"

"Hello,"

"You look good ..."

"Would you like to order anything?" she asks trying to sound polite.

Silence.

"Thank you," she adds that as an afterthought.  

"No, I'm waiting for ... Oh! here she comes .."

Leila walks in looking glamorous as usual. She walks with the demeanour of a model. She's dressed in a navy blue crop top that flashes her navel, a white fur coat and a tight fitting pair of jeans that flaunts her slender, but curvy figure. Her sweet fragrance wafts in the evening air. She's a natural beauty. I notice a hint of mascara, foundation, lip balm and blusher as our eyes meet. She doesn't look away like most women would do. Her pouch matches her fur coat and her heels, which make her a tad taller than she actually is. I notice this when I stand up to greet her. She kisses me gently on my lips. I pull a seat for her. The music sums up the mood perfectly.

 "I wanna be the one you believe in your heart is sent from ... sent from heaven." Keisha Cole. 

Hours later 

I am awakened by the chime of an alarm clock on the night stand. The room is partially dark save for some light sneaking in through the crack of the slightly open door. The surrounding seems vaguely familiar. A woman is sleeping soundly next to me. I get a dim recollection of last night's events. After a romantic dinner at The Gibson's we headed to Pulp Night Club where we had a couple of drinks before heading to Leila's. I check my phone. Seven o'clock. Two missed calls and a text message. All from Moraa, my wife. It dawns on me. I cheated on my wife last night. My heart pounds angrily against my chest like how an energetic local drummer beats drums during a spirit-filled traditional African church session. I am suddenly engulfed by untold guilt. I feel filthy. Tears well up in my eyes. What am I doing? I have hit rock bottom. 

Back at home you could cut the tension with a knife. Moraa is her usual sulky self. The kids are unaware of the monstrous rift between their parents. My colleagues at work notice a change in me. As much as I feel revolted by the thought of the illicit affair between Leila and me, I just can't help myself. I think about her all the time. She is so mesmerizing .Her amiable personality has a magnetic effect on me. The more I try to end our fling, the more attached to her I become. Moraa's constant bleating about how badly I treat her only serves to compound the situation. I have never laid a finger on her. I always provide all the necessities and some luxuries to the best of my ability.  I am always there for her and the kids.

It's a Tuesday evening. At Five p.m. I head to Tembo to unwind. I find my friend Juma here. He is upbeat and jolly as usual. He doesn't notice my aloofness until I tell him about Leila.

"Women are like smokies, one is never enough," that's what Juma tells me, when I confide in him that I am having an affair. He takes life so casually. I regret involving him in such a  grave matter. He tells me that to him that's not an issue to make a grown man lack sleep.

"Muhudumu" Juma screams at a plump waitress that is walking past our table. " Give my man here a bottle of whiskey. He has grown from a timid, little girl into a man of honour"

I don't see any honour in what I did. I betrayed my family. I betrayed my manhood. Instead of fighting my problems, I simply pushed them away albeit temporarily. I should have fought hard like a lion, but what do you know? I bury my head in the sand like a stupid ostrich. I lacked patience. I ran away like  a coward when my wife needed me most. My innocent kids are too little to comprehend the predicament which their parents are in but I know, in the long run it will affect their growth and development. What I don't know now is that this is just the beginning. I have just opened up a Pandora's box and the events set to follow are bound to change my life forever.

You wouldn't believe this but I soon start spending more time with Leila. It started with a few regular dates at The Gibson's and nights out in and out of town. I have on more than one occasion ran into some of Moraa's friends while with her and I couldn't help but notice their scornful glances. Obviously she has already told them that I barely spend any time at home. I have grown quite indifferent. I am not bothered so much about whether or not I go home. I do not even care much about what Moraa and her evil friends think.

I wake up  at about 6 a.m. An appetizing aroma of fried eggs wafts from the kitchen. Leila is an adept cook. If her geniality won't charm your pants off then most definitely her cooking will. I can hear her set the breakfast table as I step out of the shower. My clothes are pressed and shoes polished. From the living room, she instructs me to get my socks from the lowest drawer in the cabinet. Soon, I'm done getting dressed. As I sink into the couch to have breakfast, she plants a gentle peck on my right cheek. Then she adjust my tie and brushes my hair with her palm. She then blots my brow with a napkin. I dart a glance at the clock. A quarter to seven. I scoff the scrumptious breakfast with a view of beating the morning traffic to work. Fried eggs, freshly baked pancakes and a banana. Soon after I finish my meal, I kiss Leila goodbye and leave. 

The first person I meet as I enter the elevator is Masika, the bubbly receptionist. A comely, chubby woman. She takes a hard, long look at me. 

"You are glowing!" she exclaims. 

"Stop it," I say smiling wryly.  

Luckily enough, She does. She walks away smiling. 

While at work Leila texts me a few times just to see how my day is. It's been a week since I went home. I haven't talked to Moraa on the phone for over a month. It's like we're finally giving up on our troubled marriage. It does not worry me anymore. My estranged wife does not seem concerned either.

At 6 p.m. that evening Leila calls and tells me to meet her in town. She says that she does not intend to cook but promises to buy me dinner. It seems strange that a female university student can offer a man who is employed dinner and even allow him to move in with her. Most of them run after big-bellied  old men only for their money. Leila is quite different from the pack. Come to think of it, she has never asked for my money and even when I offer her some she declines politely. The only time I spend money on her is when I buy household goods to replenish stuff that she's run out of and when I pay for food and drinks at restaurants. I assume that she gets all this money from her rich parents, who she never talks about. 

I wait for thirty minutes before Leila arrives. She apologizes and blames the traffic. She seems a bit preoccupied. I ask her if everything is okay and she affirms that. Throughout the evening she speaks less than she usually does. The meal is tasty. I eat ugali with fish while she opts for chicken and French fries which she barely touches. However, she swigs her glass of strawberry yoghurt in a few gulps. I try to pick up the tab but Leila insists on paying.  I oblige.

We take a cab home. Traffic is light. In about fifteen minutes we're here. This time round I insist on paying the taxi driver. Leila does not protest although I had seen her reach for her purse.  Leila seems anxious-I wonder what's eating her? 

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Inside the house the atmosphere is rather fraught. 

"You seem tense," I break the silence.

"Sweetheart," she smiles, "You worry too much."

"I care about you, and your mood worries me."

"I'm feeling a bit under the weather," she says, "It's trivial."

"If you say so."

"You're a such a darling. Thanks for the concern."

I sit up and watch television. Leila excuses herself and disappears to the bedroom. There is nothing catchy on TV. Mostly it is just the usual stuff about corrupt politicians who only care about their bottomless stomachs. However, one story catches my attention. A news item carries a story about worrying trends among university students-alcoholism, crime, money laundering, drug trafficking, prostitution rings among other ills. It's blood-cuddling but I brush it aside. It's fifteen minutes past ten when I retire to bed. I'm surprised to find Leila still awake. She is lying motionlessly on the bed facing the ceiling. Her face lights up when she sees me.  I join her in bed. Fifteen minutes later, she is fast asleep.

I wake up in the middle of the night. I notice that Leila's side of the bed is empty. I squint to look at my phone screen as the bright light it emits attacks my poor eyes. It is about a quarter to one. I walk to the bathroom door and knock. After a short, anxious while I open it and peep in. It's empty. The guestroom is empty as well. She's not on the couch. I check all the other rooms. She is not in the house. The discovery sends a chill up my spine. Her phone is switched off. I call her friend Sasha. It goes unanswered. I keep trying until her drowsy voice comes in from the other end of the line. She asks me to relax and that Leila is fine. She does not tell me whether or not they are together. I hear a disgruntled male voice in the background. Sasha hangs up promptly. I am worried sick. I sit on the bed, staring at the wall. The house seems hollow and empty like a grave. The ominous silence is sickening.    

I leave the house at 5 a.m. feeling utterly dazed. I had barely left the compound when the loud ringing of my phone flung me from my fuddled state.

"Hey ... "

"Hey, I hope you're fine .. "

"You bet I'm fine! You left in the middle of the night to God  knows where-after a mind-numbing evening!"

"Calm down"

"CALM DOWN?" I yell "I'm perfectly calm. Where the hell are you?"

"I'm on my way over there. Are you in the house?"

"You must be kidding me... "

My mind is immediately clouded with uncertainties. An air of doubt engulfs me.  I feel like  a child who makes a mistake and immediately regrets it. I stand transfixed on the spot like  a frightened prey in the face of imminent death. I then muster the strength to walk back to the house. Barely ten minutes later Leila arrives. The gate squeals as she enters.  Sitting nervously on the couch in the living room, I hear her unbolt the front metallic door. She walks in looking somewhat beat. I feel evil rage building up inside me. I try to push the thought that she might have been with another man to the back of my mind.

Leila sits right next to me and wraps her arm firmly round my shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she says ... 

To be continued ...

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Read chapter 3 here.

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Khalayi PT 2.

Khalayi
It seems like a dream even to you. There are many women in the village but you managed to get the best. Khalayi, the good one. If you knew how to count you would know that she has lived for 19 years. Her lips part into a bewitching smile, revealing a set of snow white teeth. Up to this day, she is still shy. Besides it's bad manners to look your husband straight in the eyes. Her eyes, that seem to be dancing in their sockets, dart everywhere but at you as she lays the food carefully on the wooden stool. As shy as she maybe, she still seems mature and assured.

The next day you pick up your hunting gear and set off for the forest. On the way you meet a big woman. That's the polite word for fat women in the village. She looks like she has just swallowed a small calf. You have to give way as the footpath is narrow. She lumbers past you laboriously. Her heavy breathing is intense. Leaves shake with her every gasp. This one can blow away a small child when she sneezes. You can't help but chuckle. Her king size  buttocks dance vigorously to the rhythm of her laboured walk.

She eats like an elephant

You think of Wanyonyi the poor man that married her. You feel sorry for him. You remember the day Mandari told you that she eats like an elephant. Sometimes she forces her husband to cook. Abomination! He can't dare utter a word. The thought of a man in the kitchen is unheard of. It's not only shameful but also punishable by public flogging. Although you have never witnessed such a punishment, it's a law that everyone knows but never talks about. Normal women don't let their men near a ningilo.

Along the way you see a young woman with a pot on the head heading for the river. She greets you coyly like all the young women in the village do. Apart from her waist beads the only other thing she's wearing is piece of goat skin tied around her waist barely covering her thighs, and a smile.

A group of four young men suddenly emerge from a nearby bush and grab the girl. Her pot crashes against the red soil and is smashed into little pieces. The girl lets out a horrified cry. She is then whisked away shoulder high still wailing and throwing feeble kicks. You go on your way. She's not in any danger. She was being taken to a suitor's hut. Perhaps she's one of those stubborn types that needed motivation before leaving her father's home. You think of Wanyonyi's wife. It would have taken fifteen strong men to lift the hippo an inch off the ground.

Talk of the devil and you meet her husband. You see Wanyonyi in his farm weeding. His bare back glistens in the scorching sun. His small farm has all sorts of foodstuff. He has to work twice as hard as any man to produce enough food for his wife. On a good day they say, she can eat all the sweet potatoes in the farm in a sitting without breaking a sweat. Begs the question, does she eat so much because she's huge or is she huge because she eats so much? One day she fell with a thud trying to catch a child who had whispered rather too loudly that she eats a lot because she has three layers of stomachs like a cow. The other kids burst into a roar of laughter that floated in the otherwise boring humid afternoon air much to the the dismay of the victim. She fell and stayed there for a while because picking herself up was another tasking job in itself.

You exchange pleasantries.

"Mlembe swa omwami, wateka"

"Swa swa wandase, ne nawe wesi... "

"We thank God for life "

" The rains have delayed but you cannot nag the gods or question their schedule "

He asks you about Khalayi. You say she's fine. He asks when to expect a little one. You laugh and say that you're working round the clock but children come from the gods. He nods in agreement. Wiping the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, he sits down. You bid him goodbye and leave.

You walk past Wekesa's compound. A young child is yelling at the top of his voice. He is receiving a thorough beating from his mother.

"Why are you crying yet no one has touched you? " the mother screams at the boy, after whipping him three times on the legs and once on his bare back. 

A puddle of warm urine

The boy attempts to plead his case but the words barely leave his throat after he unexpectedly receives a resounding right handed slap that lands squarely on his ear. The one that leaves your ear ringing the whole evening. A second slap zooms in this time from the left side. Soon the little boy was standing in a puddle of warm urine that flowed down his legs inadvertently.

"How many times have I asked you not to climb trees and scale walls? " the angry woman barks. "Yesterday you almost broke your arm and here you are again."

The boy sobs, and blows his nose noisily, standing nervously , wary of another sudden slap.

" Ewe! Are you deaf..., "

" I am sorry mayi, I won't repeat... "

" Shut up, who told you to speak? "

This words are escorted by a slap which misses the target as the boy ducks and bolts away crying. Other kids who were watching from a safe distance scamper away lest they are caught up in the ripple effect.  
When she turns and sees you the scowl on her face gives way to  a warm smile. She waves at you and says something about "these kids nowadays." She asks you to pass her regards to your wife. 
The narrow path to the forest is full of undergrowth crawling onto the path. You still nearer the village than the forest so you meet many people. Bare chested rascals running along the path and giggling girls rushing to and from the stream, exchanging rumours about pretty much everything that goes on in the village. They say that if you want news to spread faster than a rabbit running away from danger then tell it to a woman and ask her not to tell anyone. A story is told of a man who told his wife a secret and asked her to keep mum, but when he arrived at the drinking joint in the village just moments later the lively drinkers who had been carousing all afternoon were already talking about it.
 As you approach the forest you meet fewer people. A few hunters coming from the forest with a kill or two. The path becomes narrower and lined with dense vegetation. The chatter of humans starts fading into an indistinct buzz that seems to float lazily on the afternoon wind. Soon all you can hear is chirps and croaks of birds and toads.  

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 You hope to catch something today. You know your wife is out gathering fruits and vegetables. You see some wild rabbits. The ones referred to as wanakhamuna in stories told by women to children. They are usually very hard to catch. Stealthily, you creep up on them and hide behind a tree. You try as much as possible not rustle the dry leaves under your feet. You grab your bow and arrow and take an aim. Perfect. You target a specific one that has isolated itself away from the rest of the drove. Your prey is totally unwary of the danger and impending death. It raises its head taking a break from nibbling on some nuts and places it's nose in the air as if trying to smell danger. You hold your breath. Soon it's nibbling away furiously. Just when you're about to take a shot, you are suddenly gripped by a strong urge to sneeze. You try to fight it with all your might. It's futile. You inexorably let out a loud sneeze that obviously scares away all the hares and you stand there cursing and kicking stuff. You hit your toe on outgrowing root of a tree, and the pain stings like a bee. You hop up and down on one foot while holding the injured toe. 

You sit under the tree. Another fruitless day. You already feel tired, yet you have just arrived in the forest. They have to understand though that you have just married a young wife. That means you spend much of your night time on your bamboo bed as opposed to being in Kukhu Namukuru's hut. But everybody knows that very little sleeping goes on there. No wonder you feel so tired without doing much. As the old men like to say so often, if you don't weed your cassavas, a neighbour will do it for you. A warm, fuzzy feeling massages your heart, when you think about your young wife back at home. You almost spring to your feet with the thought of rushing home just to see her beautiful face and hear her angelic voice but then you remember that your role as a man is to provide and here you're planning to trudge back to the village empty handed. You stand up dejectedly and walk farther into the forest. Weary, but motivated. 

Annoying singer 

The vegetation becomes denser with every step into the forest. Thick thickets give way to large, natural trees and all sorts of undergrowth. The soft ground is moist and the air is humid. The trees whistle in the wind. The birds seem to be in a competition  to find the loudest and the most annoying singer. The long grass slaps dew on to your feet. 

The gods answer your prayer even before you say it. A large impala is grazing peacefully a few meters away. It doesn't spot you. Your arrow sticks into it's neck. It doesn't give a fight. It limps weakly and collapses, its pitiful large eyes wide open. You are proud of yourself. This is the largest animal you have ever managed to kill. You don't even feel its weight on the way back to the village. You hope to meet many people on the way back just to show off your kill. You can't wait to see Khalayi. She will be proud of her man. Master hunter. The girls you meet on the path to the stream watch in awe. You grin. They don't know that it was simply your lucky day. You closed your eyes and released the arrow. The gods were wide awake and they favoured you. You notice that Wanyonyi is still in his farm. He is not the most hardworking man in the village. He is just scared to go home and meet his wife. 

The children scream as you walk into the massive compound in which you live with almost everyone else in your extended family. They run towards you at top speed each one trying to touch the dead animal. Some of the smaller ones fall but no one cares. The women stand in their doorways and stare in admiration. Khalayi, who was peeling some potatoes, stops and stands up, smiling with her eyes. She wipes her hands on her bottom. She does not make her excitement obvious. She conceals everything behind that smile. You don't mind it. Besides she is a woman. Smiling and laughing is a preserve for women and silly children. You remember one day when your grandfather Kaikai was counselling his grandchildren and one boy kept giggling. The old man barked angrily at him, 

"Stop laughing or join your fellow women in the kitchen" and everyone else was now fighting to hold back their laughter. Laughter, like everything else, is always sweeter when you're not allowed to do it. Khalayi walks towards you with calculated steps and offers a hand. You acknowledge her with a nod of appreciation but decline her offer. The animal is way too heavy for her.  

She helps you to put the load down. You sigh. She takes your bow and quiver and disappears into the hut. She emerges promptly with a three-legged stool on which you sit. She quickly runs you a bath. It's cold and the water is cold but old men discourage young men with new wives from bathing using warm water. Nobody knows why. One young man once said that if you keep washing yourself with warm water you will wake up one day and find that you have turned into a woman. Everybody laughed at his stupid reasoning but when he whispered that he heard it from his grandfather people took him seriously. 

Your buttocks will become flat

You feel refreshed after the bath. Your meal is ready. Busuma, chisaka and smoked chicken, peppered with finely ground, hot, red chilies. You eat outside your hut facing the gate lest people call you selfish. Anyone is welcome to join you. Khalayi is busy in the hut as usual. She never sits down, this woman. An old man once suggested that you should always send your woman up and down running errands or else she will spend the whole day running her mouth with lazy women in the village. Small girls were encourage to always be on their feet carrying out chores because "if you sit all the all the time your buttocks will become flat and people will think that you are a man". This one is different. She has no time for small talk. She has many friends but whenever women her age are talking about their husbands and other men she is always busy either in the farm or looking after her animals. And how do you know? It's because the other women lamented to their husbands and one of them told you. 

Toxic farts
 A drunk uncle joins you and helps himself to your food. He talks too much. Khalayi greets him from afar. She is not allowed to shake his hand. It's a taboo. She then begins nursing your injured toe as you eat. You wince but when she looks up your grimace gives way to a brave, manly face. When she leaves, your uncle reminds you, in between loud painful hiccups, of a saying by your neighbours from the lake, "He who has a wife, is a chief."  

He asks you if you know Wanyonyi.

"I know several ..."

"The one one who married an elephant,"

"I do,"

"He's the unluckiest man on earth. His wife treats him like a doormat,"

"That's sad,"

"She can eat a whole goat alone in one sitting," His voice is so loud that you would think he is speaking to people in the next compound. 

"That can't be true,"

"And her toxic farts can linger in the air for a week," he says and bursts into a thunderous laughter that rips through the quiet evening air that the kids stop playing and stare at him "Wanyonyi has to fix his bed everyday because every morning it is broken."

"Please stop uncle, people will call us women"

"This is not gossip. This is wisdom."

You are relieved when leaves after what seems like an eternity but not before Khalayi gives him more food and some traditional beer to take home. She pours you some beer in your drinking horn, which you sip gladly.  
That evening your home is a beehive of activities. Many neighbours visit in order to get a glimpse of your marvelous kill and get a share. Among them is Wanyonyi and his wife. The wife arrives ahead of him. He walks in later, his shoulders drooping and with a grumpy face like one who had been dragged here. Knowing his wife, and unfortunately you do, she's capable of doing that, quite literally.
She walks straight to where the women are without greeting anyone. She rips off a large chunk of the roasted meat and digs her teeth into the flesh. With her mouth full and still chewing, she turns and bows to greet you. Wanyonyi stands transfixed to the ground like a tree, his face pale with embarrassment.  
Soon Mr. Drunk Uncle is back. He seems even more inebriated. He takes a step forward and two backwards. He almost falls down but he miraculously regains his balance. He smiles broadly, obviously proud of his achievement. He walks straight to where you are standing with Wanyonyi.
"Oh!" he exclaims, "My son here is the conqueror of Impalas, but you my young friend conquered an elephant."
Wanyonyi lets out a forced laugh. 
There is nothing harder than holding a conversation with a drunkard when you're sober. 
"Mandari told me that in bed you need help from two neighbours to lift her leg up, is it true?"
"No, Mandari is a joker. Everyone knows that"
"I know, it would take at least five men to lift that leg," he laughs at his own joke, " You should not accept to be treated like a woman."
"I will not"
"Do you wash yourself with hot water?"
"No, I don't"
"It seems you do," he says sternly, "You have turned into a woman."
Luckily, Wanyonyi's wife has had enough. She packs a hefty chunk of meat for her children, bids everyone goodbye and painfully struggles to walk away. Wanyonyi follows her promptly like a shadow. 
"Your little kill has created so much buzz," your uncle says noticing a frenzy of activities with young men and women streaming in and out.
"Not quite," you reply, "They are readying themselves for the midnight dance"
It's the best time of the year for the zealous youths. Youths from several villages always converge in one village for the midnight dance. The dance is usually fuelled by adrenaline and  the zest of youth. A bull will shed blood. Beer will flow freely like River Nzoia. Waists will rotate and bottoms will vibrate. Drums will be hit so hard that they will burst. Young women with skins as black as coal and bodies shaped like wasps will dance, and sing and scream all night long. Men will let out yells. Dust will rise, and when it settles everyone will go back home and normalcy will return. The hunters will hunt. The farmers will dig. The women will cook. The little girls will fetch water from the streams and talk about the dance, which they only managed to witness through the cracks of their bedroom mud walls, as they are too young to attend. Old men will drink beer reminiscing about the good old days. 

gettyimages

You can't help but have a vivid flashback yourself back when you were younger and unmarried. When you sneaked out of your simba to attend your first dance with your older brothers. It was a night to forget ... 

To be continued ...
  
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Khalayi PT 3-The Midnight Dance loading ... 

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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." 

Image: colourbox.com

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