Although I don't feel entirely comfortable with Sera's proposition, at times, I want to give it a try. Over the past couple of weeks, Dru has been crashing at my home; which he's paying for, quite regularly, which is at least five days a week. It's just a matter of time before he fully moves in.
He and his girlfriend don’t seem to be in good terms anymore. Theirs must have been a relationship of convenience, and, if he's to have a relationship with me, we too will have another bizarre kind of relationship, probably a relationship of sustenance.
Right now, I would give anything to get mama's advice, but, she still won't talk to me. Auntie on the other hand would give anything to advise me, but as usual, her kind of advice would be like;
'A man gets you pregnant and instead of denying being the father or running away, chooses to stay with you, and now you’re complaining? Do you have any idea how many women fast every day and go to church every Sunday to pray to God to bring in their life such a man?'
She would never understand. She is another of those women who believe that marriage is all about bearing a man’s last name and naming your kids after his parents.
I don’t want to become that woman; the kind of woman whose work is to give birth, clean, wash, absorb insults, take instructions, be disrespected, abused and tossed when he's done. I want to be the wife whom he respects and out of that respect, he will find it impossible to not just love me, but to also fall in love with, feel proud of and brag about to his friends.
Money can never make you happy, but it can make your life stress free.
It’s the first day of the final exams and unlike all the other exams days, I didn’t have to spend the better hours of my morning begging the registrar to let me sit the exams. I bet father is also relieved for it’s been a while since I called him to nag the little money he makes out of him.
I join in the queue to the exam hall but the other students let me pass. Apparently, pregnancy has its own privileges; such as people letting you through the front of the queue without complaining. I always prefer sitting at the far end corner of the hall, for my own personal reasons. There's this one time I sat at the middle, but it got odd when everyone finished before me and left me there, sitted all by myself like the lost sheep as I struggled to remember answers to questions I swear I had never come across in my life. Since then, I decided to always sit at the back so I could get comfortable around my own territory, and not miss out on the unfolding drama; students scratching their heads till sweaty white dandruff start falling down their answer sheets, watching as they whisper and beg for answers from each other, do hilarious sign language, exchange answer sheets, get caught with mwakenya's and as the smart ones literally fight with the supervising lecturers over the small piece of evidence they so much want to get rid of by chewing, or swallowing it.
Cheating in exams is among the worst of academic crimes. Though a first offender only gets their exam results cancelled, a second offender gets suspended for two semesters and with a third offender getting expelled. Last semester, some guy in his final year was caught for the third time with a mwakenya written all over his body. That was daring! Smart cheaters always use written paper mwakenyas to cheat, so that if caught, they can chew them and get rid of the evidence. But with his whole body tattooed with answers, he had no way out, and couldn’t risk an expulsion. The exam hall was on the second floor, and since there was only one audacious way out to save his future, the guy risked to jump throw the window and break a few bones rather than get caught and expelled. With blood oozing all over his body and him writhing in pain, no one dared bring up the cheating. Instead, he was immediately rushed to the hospital without anyone taking a photo of his temporary tattoos. Two weeks later, he was as fit as a fiddle and allowed to re-sit his exams.
Today, my back spot feels different. Maybe it’s because I have grown bigger and can longer squeeze the whole me into this tiny space. I’m too busy adjusting myself in an effort to get comfortable when one of my least loved lecturers’ approaches my desk. She asks why I’m I sitting at the back when there is so much unoccupied space in front.
I tell her that I prefer sitting at the back; I always sit at the back.
Why she asks. Do I have something to hide?
“No I don’t. I like keeping to myself so that I can concentrate.”
Another lecturer hears her more than loud whispers from a distance and comes over to enquire what the problem is.
“She doesn’t want to sit in front, isn’t that suspicious?”
“Yes, I've also noticed that. She always sits at the back, but not today.” She demands that I move to the front of which I refuse. Now, all of the attention is turned on us.
“Well, if you aren’t ready to move, you’ll have to leave and get a permit from the academic dean to be allowed to sit at the back.” The mean lecturer adds.
Were it on a normal day, I would have consoled myself that these two are jealous for I am more beautiful and sexier than they are. But as for today, I try to convince myself that they're jealous because I am fertile, and they may be barren, or into their menopause; of which I can’t attest.
“There is no such a rule in the code of conduct.” I tell them as I take my stuff and start walking towards the front. To make their day, I move to the very first row, just next to the exit and where the supervising lecturers’ usually sit.
I feel abused and disrespected; that today, and possibly for the next couple of days, I will be denied the great opportunity to enjoy free entertainment from my cheating compadres’, especially since this is the last time I will be in college.
An hour has passed since the exam started and it’s at this time that free entertainment usually starts. In a strange way, I feel as though I have been denied a basic human right.
Seconds later, someone’s phone starts to buzz. We all hear it, but we all ignore it. A minute later, it buzzes again. The supervising lecturer sitted in front of me and who has been gazing at the naked walls and ceiling for the past hour asks me whether it's my phone.
“No.” I answer.
“Are you sure?”
I’m I sure? Why would I carry a phone in the exam hall when it’s against the exam policy? I may not be the perfect example of a law abiding citizen, but I sure aren't that stupid to break them.
I can sense some excitement in some of the students’ sitted next to me. This is a scene I have always watched from the back; one student creating some distraction so that as the lecturers give the student their full attention, other students get a chance to cheat.
“Empty your pockets.” She tells me as she walks from the front desk and stands beside mine.
“I beg your pardon?” I'm not sure if I've heard her right. She however doesn’t repeat herself, and as I put my hand on my jacket pocket that’s hanging by the side of the chair, I feel the phone, now vibrating on my hand.
I take it out and hand it to her. How I'm I going to get myself out of this? Should I say something? I try to explain but she hushes me.
“Hey, it’s okay. Continue with whatever you were doing.” She tells me. Maybe this should make me feel much at ease, but how can I concentrate when I'm not even sure whether my paper will be graded or not.
It doesn’t take long before the mean lecturer; the one who had a while back alleged that my reason for sitting at the back is so that I can cheat approaches the front desk. She whispers something to the other lecturer, they whisper to each other’s ears for another minute while throwing gazes at me before Dr. Mean tosses her hands on air and walks away. I steal a glance at my saviour and she's now making herself busy by arranging the many students' phones left on her desk based on their makes and models.
Two hours later, there is just but a few of us remaining in the hall. This includes the lot that barely has anything to write and hopes to remember something if they stay longer, and my kind of lot which has more than enough to write and three hours is never enough.
r /> The nice lecturer stops me as I head out, handing me back my phone.
“Thanks so much.” I express my sincere gratitude towards her.
“Don't forget to leave it behind during the next session.” She reminds me, unconcerned about my appreciation for saving my ass.
I’m eager to know who was texting and calling me then. Maybe it’s a response regarding my internship, or could it be mama?
It’s Dru.
I hit the Call button and he picks on first ring.
“We have a problem.” He says.
“What kind of problem?”
“A big problem! You need to come in the house right now.”
“I can’t, I have another paper in the afternoon.”
“And I should have reported to work over three hours ago.”
“I am a farmer, my father was a farmer and so were my ancestors. As a farmer, you may one evening realize that one of your goats has failed to return home with the rest of the herd. So, what does a farmer do when something like that happens? Does he raise an alarm? Of course not! He patiently waits till morning to see if it’ll return, for it should know its way back home. If it doesn’t return by morning, or the next evening, then he has to start getting worried. He has to go out there into the grazing fields, the bushes and the forest in search of his animal. If he's not fortunate enough to find it, he asks his fellow farmers to lend a hand, and see whether his goat may have gotten lost among their herds. When nothing prevails, then that's the moment he starts praying, and begging for God's intervention. So one day, when the farmer is getting used to the idea of no longer having his goat around, one of the young herd boys comes to report that he saw the lost goat grazing in a foreign land. Tell me my brothers, if that was your goat, would you let the stranger keep it, or would you travel to that foreign land and demand for an explanation?"
This is my father, narrating the story of a lost goat to Dru, who like myself I’m sure is clueless about what he is up to. I’m still trying to digest how he found out where I live. Has he ever had a GPS micro-chip implanted inside me, or did he use that animal; wakamumui, that our ancestors used as their compass to enable them navigate with ease?
“You go to the foreign land and demand for an explanation.” His two ‘brothers' respond in unison.
“That’s why we have come here today. We have heard that our long lost goat was found grazing within your home and now all we want to know is; why did you take it away from us, are you willing to return it, or do you intend to keep it?”
So I am the lost goat? It sounds real funny, and very insulting.
I have read so many books, watched so many films, listened to too many narrations; both boring and interesting, and from this weird conversation, I can predict what is about to happen.
It's now Dru's turn to explain, using his own figurative language, why he stole the goat. His narration is also quite captivating:
“It was already dark when our herd-boys came across your goat wondering by herself in the bushes. They rescued her in time before the wild animals could trace her scent. They brought her home; fed her and gave her shelter. We planned on tracing her owners the next morning but we realised that she was unwell and needed some time to rest. By the time she got better; she had already become a part of our family hence couldn’t let go. Since then, we've been trying to trace her family and tell them to stop worrying for their goat has found another home where it's being taken good care of.”
I can no longer withstand this kind of talk. The more I continue eavesdropping at this 'man-talk', the more I'll end up getting irritated, and hating these men more than I already do. I head to the bedroom, plug in my earphones and start revising for my afternoon paper.
It's clear that father and his men are here to demand compensation. Before their wishes are fulfilled, Dru will request that the talks be rescheduled so that he can consult with his kin. They will open his eyes by informing him that the lost goat has already lost its value, for it wasn't as pure as all young female goats should be, and by getting pregnant before it was officially handed over, its worth had decreased. This is one of the oldest tricks young lovers would pull off whenever the girl's family started taking them in circles regarding the dowry and bride price. If the girl's family demanded for far too much than their future in-law would afford, the young lovers would plan to officiate their relationship by sleeping together while the negotiations were still taking place. As soon as the girl started getting morning sickness, her parents would drastically reduce the dowry and rush the wedding, for if the community got to get wind of the news, that family would have a rough time finding suitors for the rest of their daughters.
This team of the three wise men had indeed dragged their feet over a hundred kilometres to come negotiate my worth. I have no issue about dowry, but I know they aren’t after no dowry; they are aching to squeeze a heavy bride price from this man. If there should be anyone with the right to demand for my dowry, it has to be mama. She carried me in her womb for 9 months; those are exactly 270 days, or 6,480 hours which are equivalent to 388,880 minutes of a hard tough pregnancy, not counting the 15 hours of labour, a whole year of sleepless nights and many more hard times when she would cuddle me to sleep, stay by side when I was sick, help me with homework, teach me everything, build me, mould me and prepare me for the cold and hostile future, such as this.
But what did he do? Nothing but enjoy another one of those love making sessions and didn't even feel it when half of him was swimming to co-join with half of her. Yet here he is demanding to be compensated for bringing me up. Does mama have any idea where he is right now, and what decisions he's making behind her back? I shouldn't be blaming him though for he's just another victim of irresponsible upbringing that taught boys that women and children should be deemed as one's property, and although male children soon grow to make their own decisions, women have to this very day never known what they want, and so these foolish men have to think and make decisions for us.
Father calls me from the bedroom. He asks that I prepare something for the MEN. He must have some guts to think that he can command me around in my own home. I leave, head for the kitchen, bang some sufurias and cups before making up my mind that I am done being this man’s slave.
Dru enquires on where I am heading.
“We have run out of milk.” I tell him while still walking towards the door.
As usual, the man who thinks he has all the rights over me just because I carry a fraction of his genes is fast to correct me,
“He asked where you are going, not what you have run out of.” His brothers break into a chuckle. I want to curse them or throw something heavy and sharp to their faces, but stupid enough, I don’t.
I take one final look at them, staring at each one of their faces, then continue walking towards the door and back to campus to continue revising for my afternoon exam.
#8
He is my Kenyan man
Six feet tall, dark chocolate skin, handsome
He is looking for love; love from a woman, warmth from a female, companionship from his lover
To his friends he'll say, he hasn't found the right one yet, he never will, for the good ones are all taken, dead, or unborn
What about me
I'm no lady enough, he will say
I'm either too plumb; he doesn’t want to sink underneath my flesh
Or, I'm too skinny; I may not handle him
I'm too dark; I can't reflect the love enough
Or, I'm too light skinned, I'm not African enough
I'm not pretty enough to be introduced to his friends, because I may embarrass him
Or, I'm too beautiful, he doesn't want them flirting with me
I'm too serious; we can't have real fun together
Or, I'm too social; I can only be a girlfriend, not a wife, or a mother to his kids
I'm too lousy in bed; that's why he is getting a substitute
Or, I'm
too kinky; he can't get serious with a slut
I'm too damn conservative; I should be flaunting some of that skin
Or, I'm showing far too much skin; he can't take a whore to his mama
My boobs are too huge, I may suffocate him; if he wanted to own KCC (Kenya Cooperative Creameries), he would have bought the shares
Or, they are too mosquito bite; I should get an enlargement
My booty is too big and round, he can't stand walking beside a pig on the streets
Or, it's too small; it makes him feel like he’s dating a dude
I got to look good, fresh, smooth and silky; for him
Because he's from dust, and I, from his rib
I got to hush when he is having a man-talk with the boys, because that, that is business
But I can't enjoy a chit-chat with the girls, because that is gossip
I talk too much, too often and too fast; it's time I stopped being unbearably nagging
Or, I'm too quiet; I don't know how to express myself
I've gained too much weight that I'm running out of shape, I should hit the gym
Him, he has always been out of shape; ever expectant, but, how else will you know he got a good job, drives a big car, lives a large life
It's time for football, that's what real men watch
But, my love for telenovelas proves him right; I'm far too naive
He has to cheat a bit, after all, women outdo men in number, and he is just but playing the Good Samaritan
He got to have a 'mpango wa kando' since, age is fast catching up with me, and I'm getting all creased up
But he's a man, and men never age. Like good wine, they get better with age
He tells me that I slept my way to the top; yet, he is the one who coerced me, in the board room, in exchange for my promotion
I've slept with too many men, and he would rather be with someone fresh; a virgin