……She is the light in the dark

She breeds confusion among the men of the road in the dark, this light. Her presence on the roadside stands out, even glows.  She didn`t come to Nairobi to be what she is, not in the least, but her favorite quote is ` sometimes ukifika Nairobi ya maisha you do what you have to do to survive.’ Her English, on those occasions when she is not staggering from copious amounts of Hennessey, bought off lusting prey, is accented, lilting even, stunning. Her voice sings melodies to men. It stokes the fires of lust with dry embers of grass, like a wind in the Narok plains, it hashes, it rises, it hisses through the blind of want, and your loins have to jump to her will, your pockets unfurl at her touch. It`s light, light in the dark.

Her real name might be Waitherero, or Wangui, or even Wambui, one of those many Kikuyu names that you forget as soon as you hear, those names that parents give you in an effort to forget that they didn`t have such campaigns as Juliani`s “form ni gani` to eradicate the potency of their seeds. See, she even believes it was wrong to call her those ubiquitous `ushago` names. In town, she has taken so many names that she wouldn’t remember half of them. Her clientele call her ` sweetheart`, `babe` or something along such endearing lines. The less illustrious ones, like you, those who roll up the windows of their cars all the way when you stop to pick at her normal premises just call her Melody. Her mpesa, the one you used last week when the wells of your pockets had run dry reads `Grace Waithera` or something. You don’t know whether he too is a fellow client, it would be a shame if so. You don’t even know how many clients she deals with in the same night, how many like you have travelled the thin road to a sinner`s heaven. But it doesn`t matter, not in the least to your raving loins, those denied the joys of this earth by `dry spell` and Bible totting `wife materials.` But man shall not thrive in a bed alone.

Whenever a car slows down where the Limuru road seems to tire and bend schlep into Ruaka, she sashays off the posts, her short skirt struggling to keep up with the pace of her heeled shoes, the well-endowed set of bottoms bouncing with every stride, straight onto the driver`s windows. Her voice, like a flute calls to a man`s loins, especially one plagued by such bitter cold as is wont to be in Nairobi in July, it sings to your ears, a melody of sorts that defies every rule of Music. In your blood rush you won’t hear it, not at all. For once your lower head will nod in earnest, and your higher one will respect the call of the lower one more vociferously to her “sweetheart unadai tuende home ama?’. As if in a dream your car door will open, and you will flash one of those “lotto si ndoto” grins, both in shame and joy.  Your loins will grin, your hard-pressed pockets will cringe as the enchanting smile tatters apart your house budgets, but you wouldn’t really mind about it. The grace of her hands on your knees, the glow of her thighs that seem to stretch from here to forever, the tiny little peeps of the coveted and barely covered `thighland` when the skirt riders up a little as the car hits the bump at Peppino`s with a jolt is enough for you. After all, sin is to all mankind what the bible is to Christians.

The dark is her day, the men, like you her prey.

Sometimes you take her home, sometimes home is where your body is. On those days that you decide not to take the road home, you take the roads that really lead nowhere, skirting around the edges of the small town until your loins tell you “it is safe to stop” with a little jump of the eager head. More often, the safest of places for your nocturnal activities is some dark shadowy corner, spaces where your car can wedge into and melt into. Yes, corners with bushes like the on next to Kianjama, where everybody is in the business of selling some form of meat, and no one really minds a car ubiquitously parked by the road for a few hours, are good, or City Park, bathed in the soothing dark that covers all sinners, but you have had tales of people being shot by policemen in the park, and Kianjama is now famous for day robberies. For today, the roadside darkness will do, where your glowing bodies will revel in the lights of oncoming comes. And right there, in the middle of nowhere, her work begins.

Your contractual agreement has never ever involved talking terms. In fact, you wouldn`t even remember the ring of her voice if you were asked to.  You are the typical “Hii Nairobi mtu ni kuchukua kenye umenunua na kuchomoka” person. She will produce a `GOK MOH, NOT FOR SALE` condom from the pouch on her side, in silence and offer it to you in as if it’s a sacrament. No questions asked about it. Sometimes, when the GOK MOH runs out, or some Ministry official eats them, it will be one of those cheap ‘DUREX`or ‘TRUST.’ Even the classy person in you does not understand why people have to invest in the scented ones. That was a most misplaced marketing technique. After all, what is there to smell?

The services you get from Melody are not romantic at the least. You don’t have to start talking about how `deep you love her` to hit the cookie. You don’t have to pretend to love her Bible totting mother, who more than often shows up at town houses to school you on the art of marriage, or to poison your girl. You don’t have to flatter her dimples, when her pimples are more impressive and pronounced, or even treat every other attractive girl on the street like a Leprosy invalid when you are walking hand in hand as couples have to. You don’t have to take her little self to Kempinski; when you could make her Villa Rosa her at a cheaper cost .You just ask “Leo ni ngapi? To check whether the price of oil, or the rising cost of sugar in the supermarket has led her to asport the “added cost to the customer”. On those days that she starts her statement with ”biashara imekua mbaya hii masiku” you instinctively have to mentally check your pockets to ensure that you have a little more cash than the usual.

Sometimes she makes you think you are the Luanda Magere of bed hidden car activities. You never die even when the arrows have left the bow for the third time running.  On some occasions, you fight so hard that you come out dry like Germany at the world cup. And when the battle is tough, and long, her moans will rise in a crescendo, muffled  by biting the car seats to avoid attracting the  roaming eyes of Kenya`s many `witnessers`. On some other occasions, when your spear can`t jump anymore, and you have agreed on a certain number of wars, she will take it in her hands and bring it back into the fight.  You have to get value for money, right?  She is not like those Luthuli street TV salesmen who sell you air, no, she makes you fight to the end of the race, when your head can`t even afford to nod anymore, when you have drained your body of all the water you can well.

When your bucket runs dry, she rubs her thumb to the her middle finger and the pointing finger, our universally accepted sign language for money, puts on back her bra and the other clothes no sane man talks about, powders her face using your driving mirror, and melts into the darkness when the deed is done.  And right then, your head jumps again.

Should you follow the  dawning dark to her? Or follow the dark to your home, and dawn in it?

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