CHRONICLES OF A NEW WRITER_09

Photo: photopin.com

You may like to discover what betided me on that night we attended Eve Apondi’s housewarming party there at Umoja estate. You may like to know if this Jane Shish, my host’s girlfriend (or somebody else in that gang of friends), performed anything on me, while I napped. I would also like to know; if that night, any hand, any body part, felt me. Beyond the words, “Tonight, it is me and you…” that Jane Shish she hissed into my ear that night in point, I recall darkness. Fred, this my host, he revealed no quenching information when, the following morning, I said, “Kwani jana kuliandaje?” How did yesterday go? On Shish’s part, she said I shouldn’t overthink, since nothing grim occurred. This recount, this blog will record.

Hello reader. This blog has recorded 8 recounts so far, a-chronicling the experiences of a recent writer. Taifa Mkenya, the chronicler, he published this novella, Tom James. And he determined he’d share with you, not only the book, but also the motivation behind the publication. As well as what he engaged in before he scribbled this book, I say.

Taifa Mkenya (who is me, as I am him), he concluded college some time in 2014. Migrating to Nairobi, this city of his country, he expected to locate some principal employment upon which his expertise in soil technology, would find significance. One month passed. Two months followed. Then three months ended. Throughout this period, Fred Sang Fredo, he hosted this boy in his rented Kawangware house. A-during the day, this boy Taifa, he sat, stretched, slept, in that house; and evening, he fixed food, throughout that period. His desires, equivalent to a many boys’ of his maturity, hounded his mind. Money, he wanted, as soon as the first month post graduation turned. Riches, he craved, like a boy dog tracks the female. Property business in this Nairobi, he sought, in his visions.  However, how to fulfill these fantasies, he didn’t know.

In this life of want, other characters, of comparable age set and constitution, existed too. Alex Matano, Taifa’s buddy, stayed with his parents in Buruburu. Somewhere else in this city, Anne Mogendi, she lived with her daughter. Further details of other requisite persons, the writer he will disclose in the next recounts.

In this life of want, the blog recorded, that after some more weeks of waiting and wishing, Taifa, he settled to try a-freelancing. This online occupation of writing and all, he attempted. Should we contend that knowledge in soil technology¸ this course that Taifa he studied in college, bears no association with digital occupation in that space of cyber? After the first attempt, Ken Onyango, who’d assigned this online work to Taifa, he rejected to pay the latter on account of incompetence.

With this quality of circumstances, Taifa, he despaired. And his weeks elongated themselves and fatigued him so. On this basis, on the last recount, Taifa he said: “Sun set, and sun soar, the day to see Apondi approached. Not that I’d anticipated that visitation or anything, but it would, at least for me, striate, albeit for a single evening, my time.” This blog recorded as much.

I, (who is Taifa, and he me), don’t remember much of what transpired in that party effectuated at Eve’s house that Friday. That evening, before I drank myself into senseless state, I think, Joe Litsusa, he said he offered me a job (I never troubled to confirm as I supposed I hallucinated at that party—with my monkeys and all; furthermore, this Joe he possessed a temperament that unnerved me—if I remember) and that I would toil under Ken Onyango, the former’s associate, I supposed. If truth be told, this Ken Onyango, he called me Tuesday of the following week after that party at Eve’s house. In that call, Ken he said, “Come to River Road on Monday.”

What that Ken’s occupation entailed or required, I didn’t know. But what, why would I mind? At long length, I had met employment. Whatever the pay would amount, I knew I’d rent my own house—and vacate that Fred’s house in Kawangware. I’d purchase my own cloths. I’d purchase some domestic items for myself. I’d buy Joan (the youngest of Uncle’s 7 daughters) a phone, and so forth. Saving, I’d also practice, so that in as a few years as practical, I’d career towards my vision—this vision of a-becoming a property mogul in this my city in the sun. You see, reader, a boy must dream, or attempt to dream, in the least. So it happened; and this blog records.

While this tide of fortune hovered around me, another a-gripping development began. Jane Shish, this Fred’s girlfriend, warmed towards me. Remember reader, at first, a-during that initial week I visited Nairobi, Jane, she detested me—or so I believed. And if she did, I wouldn’t condemn her much. I’d intruded into her privacy, with this Fred of hers. Their plates, I had dirtied, when cleansing them.  Their rug, I had soiled. Their movies, I had watched—like the owner, and denied her (them) freedom and convenience. These situations, reader, I didn’t propagate with malice aforethought. Heaven knows I own a few flaws, which I can’t help. Anyway, as I said, Jane, she warmed towards me. Next week on Wednesday, a-following that Friday party, I recall, Jane she appeared at the house. This day, her black locks she secured behind her small head.  When I opened the door for her, the first words, I issued:

“Oh, hi…come in—but Fred isn’t around…”

Reader, you never spotted radiant eyes. Jane she eyed me and said, in a level, a-booming voice, “It’s ok, Taifa.” I let her happen by, as I looked. Her taut, little blue dress, her blue nails, her purple eyelids, her a-glossing lips, and the fragrance that followed her, overshadowed the status of this our house—which boasted of some dirty cloths I’d strewn all over the place, and a-smelling socks laid on the couch’s arm, and breakfast remnants scattered on the table and on the rug.

“Ah, don’t mind this so much, I…I was about to clean the house—”

This girl she place her left hand on my chest, like she did back at the party that last Friday. She said, “Relax.”

“—oh, ok. Welcome. What can I get you?” I said, much as I knew she owned the house and felt at ease any time, a-serving herself is she needed.

“Relax.”

She perched on the table, and I, on the couch. Each, we faced. How her little dress retreated up her brown thighs. Crossing and fiddling with her fingers, she said, “So, how have you been?” as I prepared a response, she added, a-wagging a finger before me, “And don’t lie.”

“Yap. I’ve been good. Yap,” I said, a-nodding.

“Good to know,” she said, now a-stroking my knee with that blue-nailed finger of hers.

I intercepted her hand. Warm, it felt. Said I, “Fred won’t like it.” Her hand I released, but hers she now placed over my thigh.

“Like what?”

“What you are doing.”

“What am I doing?”

Photo: photopin.com

Photo: photopin.com

To the left of the couch, I shifted. She shifted as well. Again, we faced each.

“What am I doing, Taifa?” she repeated, a-continuing with her little finger engagement.

In consequence, I began to sweat, from secret places. “Listen,” said I, “I know we’ll cross with Fred.”

“So what? This is not the first time I’m doing this, you should know.”

I concluded, she performed something on my body that night I drank myself unconscious.

“It is not good. It is not brotherhood.”

She held my hands with both of hers, and swayed them up and down, a-saying, “How well do you know Fred?”

“Well enough. He is my village mate.”

“Mnh,” she shifted on the table and her breasts jiggled, and her cleavage it looked squashy. A-proceeding, she said, “look. There’s one thing you should know. You are a good guy, and that is all that matters. So don’t worry.”

She tugged at my right arm but I steadied myself, a-gripping the couch’s arm by my left hand. Then she let out a frail smile. And I spotted her diastema, a-separating her upper dazzling teeth right in half. Reader, I remember I told you, women with this kind of dental design, I love. I swear. My monkey, now he reappeared. I last interacted with him at the party that Friday, when he convinced me to taste a beer. You will find out soon what he planned for me on this second encounter. Mr. Monkey he perched on my left shoulder, and said, “Are you blind, Taifa?” and I saw he made mighty sense. A-grabbing this soft Shish by her waist, I pulled her to me. Only one confirmation did I need. So I asked Shish, “Does Fred know?”

“Unless you tell him,” she said, with heavy a-breathing.

“Good!”

Our lips tussled. Our mouths tussled. Our hands tussled. Our cloths flew. Our exhalation intensified. Oh, universe hand me a rubber! Taifa alive. Taifa is alive!

Into my ears, Shish she hissed, “A boy must be prepared,” and into my palm, placed a packet.

So it developed. This much, The Recount records today.

#To be continued…

A week goes and languages grow; my stories so.

[The typer of these words is a breaker of English. Creator of words. Attempter of waggish things. Marveler of nature. Enjoyer of life.  Lover of strangers. Taster of cultures. Author of Tom James. Editor. Snap-shooter. Storyteller. Future husband. Teacher. Learner. Soon a traveler]

 

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About Dennis Chiedo

Author of TOM JAMES. Editor.

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