I wouldn’t say she was aesthetically challenged yet the monotonous stare she always had on me was rather creepy. Under the mango tree, you’d find her, and here she stood unperturbed by the mangoes rediscovering gravity around her. I don’t think she liked mangoes that much. I personally liked mangoes (okay, anything that can be eaten). I therefore found this nonchalance with mangoes quite non-human like on her part. Their homestead was adjacent ours, overflew with opulence so that even our goats preferred to spend the whole day on the other side of the fence.
She had her titties hanging, already motherly at such a tender age. Occasionally shot her tongue upwards to lick her then mucous nostrils. I did not like this female. She never joined other children of this homestead whenever they played football, or even when other girls played kati or uki. She was despondent, and at times I pitied her whenever my cousins and I came around to play a match against the children of this home where she belonged. From under the tree she would just watch, not a yield to changing emotions in the pitch as I scored loads of goals tandem. Perhaps she didn’t like it that I was scoring against her own team. But why didn’t she explode with delight when her team scored? I do not know, and trust me its hard that am even describing her now. And here under this tree, she would seek solace, to escape the cruelty of the world beyond what our ordinary eyes saw during the day. I wanted to pity her but I couldn’t.
I do not recall the exact day she decided that under this tree, she would take guard. She only left the position to go and eat lunch after which she would return adequately resurged, and take position. It is her stare that I still bemoan. Whichever way I took when I entered their compound she always had her eyes on me, and I felt them pierce through. It is alright if she had a crush on me but for heavens’ sake I was busy sorting my own esteem issues back at school. I had no time to stare back, not when I had Hellen and Trufosa to think about. Who’s lunch I’d eat the following day and who’s pencil I’d use the following day. So I ignored this female. And her affection for me grew with every sheer indifference I poured onto her.
Now our goats didn’t really love where they were born (read ‘our homestead’). The kind of kid that leaves his mother splitting firewood and disappears into kwa kina Johnny’s to watch Billy Blanks or Sinbad for a whole day only to make a return in the dead of the night. That kid who needs a good spanking from king-sized hands (like mine). Our goats. They never liked our homestead and upon release in the morning would leave the compound and hit the streets. It was those days they had just discovered that mandazi comes from flour which rightly is their God-given meal. If you entered the market n the evening and heard mandazi women sneers greet you, you’d know Osama committed crimes in the morning, or maybe it was Stallone. Our goats had names, and those two were the most vicious and stubborn of the lot. This is rural Kisumu, and nowadays I even hear goats pry on mituras. I honestly don’t know what kind of defense they can put up there.
Osama has since died. With the woman of the homestead’s demise, he had to be sent to his ancestors too. Stallone’s case was quite complicated. He was used to pay Auma’s dowry some time back, 20 kilometers from home. He however found his way back home on his own, and the in laws refused compensation, said it was a taboo. So Auma went back to Ahero. My eldest cousin is still single and searching. If you are a lady who comes thirty or more kilometers from Kisumu kindly contact me after reading this, Stallone is still there to sort your dowry issues and my cousin is still strong and healthy (and fishing).
Our goats used to spend the whole day at this female’s homestead and in the evenings we would go and fetch them from there. The female from this adjacent homestead decides that on this day she would unleash thunder on me. All those years of sorrow I have sent her to will be compensated for today. Today is the d-day (I don’t like that phrase).
Now to get the goats back to our home was never a problem, not when you can simply use Osama and Stallone’s immense influence on the rest. Where they go the crowd follows. I have just hit Osama on the head and he’s taken off from his voracious attack on the grass over here. He should have done this during the day, not at six thirty in the evening. It’s bed time.
The whole flock takes to their heels after him and they only do a sprint till they believe they are at a safe distance I cannot knock anyone at will. Today I am alone, my cousins haven’t made it home yet.(I know they are at Githinji’s catching up with the latest Asian movies but you shouldn’t tell anyone this, they might simply get punished when they present they innocent faces to our parents in a few minutes to come). I pick up a stone and hurl it towards Stallone’s direction. He jumps and misses, continues nibbling on the grass. I hope now you know how this goat travelled twenty kilometers on its own. This is not a goat. So I personally advance towards them and before reaching they all take off towards our main gate. I do not know whether to be surprised or proud, such authority! I didn’t even throw anything and look, they’re nearing our gate! Should I pat myself on the back? I will, when I get home.
There’s some noise from behind. A look at my back is all I need to take off and follow my goats. She’s coming, in slow motion, maybe I’m the one seeing it this way. The female. I do not know why I should run but I’m running, towards the gate. I think she is possessed, and that’s not my worry now, I must run. The gate has all of a sudden become too far from where I thought it should be. I see Osama and Stallone, now safe in our compound nibbling on the grass there. They seem far. I can’t help but wonder why Stallone in all his wisdom couldn’t just whisper to me that an offensive was in the offing from behind. I look back and these eyes that I’ve always claimed to pity simply won’t let go of me. The female has covered the gap and is almost getting me. Those titties that I claimed sagged are that swift. That saliva dripping speaks only of one out to abate a lifelong thirst. She has found me. And today she’ll let go of all those passions she has always suppressed inside of her. Indeed she does, she sends the opposite of pleasure searing through my spine up to my fore head. She has my behinds in her mouth now and we are headed for the ground (Thank God I was an overweight kid). The grip has loosened and we both roll on the sand like lovers who’ve decided to pour out emotions in the sun’s glare. We are now in between their gate and our gate.
One of my drunkard uncles has been watching this romance movie unfold and has come upon realizing it could tragically end, like those Shakespearen sketches. The bitch has gotten up first and made a run back to their compound when my uncle advanced. My buttocks now rub against the sand and the pain is unbearable. My mum will stitch up my pair of shorts yes but who’ll stitch up my torn behinds? I do not want to imagine that too.
I am still looking for that person who said a dog is man’s best friend.