I enquire if it has to do with my not finishing my plate of food, which I promise to finish as soon as I feel hungry again.
"Of course not! You have a nice figure, that's commendable. It's very rare to come across a girl who knows how to manage and take care of her weight these days." He says.
"You don't like plus size girls?"
He says that it depends on whether the weight is manageable.
"We men prefer women who are flexible and easy to handle, not ones that make you feel like you are from running a marathon." He adds. I want to correct him and let him know that I know lots of men, especially men from back home who would never be caught talking to or even showing interest in slim girls. This though may divert the whole conversation into a totally new direction, so I let it pass.
In no time, I feel like I have become a totally different person. He smells so good, his naked skin looking so smooth and well built. But this isn’t love. I am not a believer in love at first sight, or second sight. He must have overdosed his clothes with some of those expensive pheromones perfumes.
'Or could he have added some kamuti in my food?'
I know that Dru wants to sleep with me, and though I am not for the idea, I am not 100% against it.
He has proven to care more than any man ever has, and if he really wants me to return the favour, there is no use fighting him. All these years, I have been a virgin; despite my father alleging that I dress and behave like a whore. I have been waiting for the right guy for so long, not necessarily a husband, for getting married as a virgin makes a man think he can control you, and play all kinds of games on you.
I had wanted my first time to be with Joel; my Joel. He however had broken my heart so many times. Every single time I saw him with another girl, heard disturbing rumours about him, or be rude to me, I spent weeks, at times months picking up the pieces. That though wasn't fully his fault, for he barely knew that I was into him.
At one time I thought that the feeling was mutual, but then I found out that he had just been interested in sharing his cold bed with one of my close friends. I hated myself for not being confident or sexually appealing enough for him to take notice of me.
I had opened up to Caro who had talked me into sleeping with someone else in order to forget all about Joel the loser; as she called him.
"Take it from me. Everytime I want to get over a guy, I find another for rebound sex. Always works." She had told me.
So here was he, a good looking man, smelling all good, looking all fine, and acting all gentlemanly. Maybe, just maybe, we could not only ignite a spark, but also build a great future together.
'Don't fool yourself; there is no good man on earth. They are either dead or yet to be born.' My inner voice warns me. This good guy right here could be having lots of skeletons in his closet. Maybe he's a serial killer who likes lurking for young, intelligent but hungry girls like me. Or he could be a pauper who has borrowed all this new him from a friend for the sake of pleasing a girl. I should look around and see if there is any trace of another woman, or women; for he could be a married man who has invited me over because his wife is away on a business trip, bedridden in a hospital or visiting her elderly parents.
His big arms start feeling the back of my neck, fondly caressing it, relaxing all my stress muscles, digging further into my shoulders and then into my back, and slowly finding their way into my front. This is the first time that I am having a massage, a sensational massage, somewhat erotic, and it feels so great!
His arms finally rest on my small but firm breasts that have now become as hard as when I take a cold shower in the morning. He lets go the first button, then the second, and slips his hand down to my right hand breast and starts caressing it while still underneath the prison walls of my black see through bra. He slips his arm to my back and starts searching for the bra’s clasp. He's kissing me hard around the neck and my left ear while breathing out hot flames of air that sink all the way into my stomach, leaving it all knitted up with a million butterflies trying to find their way out. My groin starts to burn with lust as my naughty alter ego urges me to say Amen and let the miracle happen. But then, the small voice once again takes over,
‘No, I can’t be another statistic.’
“I’m on a period…” I say to him as I roughly try to pull back.
He doesn’t stop. This time he manages to pop open my bra and starts feeling my naked breasts with his bare hands. It feels so good, so good than I had ever imagined. I want to give in and finish this passionate adventure that we have started. But the conservative voices keep getting louder, warning me against being another one of the girls I watch in the movies who sleep with a man during the first night and end up being dumped the next morning.
I push him away: he looks like an angry hungry lion that has just been fought over by its prey.
“I’m sorry…” I apologise, though I have no idea why.
He doesn’t say a word. He looks at me with very evil and mad red eyes before he wipes his mouth with the palm of his hand and dashes to the bedroom. I have no idea what I am supposed to do. I run after him but he bangs the door behind him and leaves me standing there like a zombie. I walk back to the sitting room and start buttoning my blouse while looking over at the bedroom door every other second to see if he’ll come out.
I hear the shower running. I guess that he is cleansing himself off my filth. If only I had some cash with me I would dash out and board a matatu to take me back to my peaceful hovel.
He comes back a few minutes’ later, smelling so good and fresh. He is only dressed in some boxers and a sleeveless round-necked t-shirt. He clears the dishes from the table, takes them to the kitchen, comes back, turns on a video game and starts playing. I am hating every second of this.
Though I have long forgotten about the hunger that brought me here, I am wishing that I would be in my tiny one roomed house than be in his presence. Is this the moment where I should run before he jumps on top of me and rapes me, or kills me and disposes my cadaver with the rest of his kitchen garbage?
“You wanna play?” He later asks me, smiling, handing me a game controller.
It’s Wednesday at dawn. Dru wakes me up asking me to take a shower and get ready for the day. Though it’s been a very long while before I last took a hot shower, bathed with some sweet smelling shower gel and spoiled my skin with luxurious lotion, I give it a pass.
“You don’t want to shower?”
“I’ll shower at my place.”
“Aren’t you uncomfortable…?”
I want to smell myself; I hope that I am not smelly. I think I smell alright.
“Ohh…I now get it. You lied about being on your period, didn’t you?”
I had already forgotten about that. My mind can’t generate any other lie to cover up the first.
“Fine… I lied. I was scared…”
“Scared of what? Me? What did you think I was going to do to you?”
I’ve learnt that whenever a guy asks what you assumed he would do to you, it’s because he had something already planned in his mind.
“It’s not like that. I don’t want to end up pregnant or…”
He shrugs off and heads to the kitchen.
'What do you think this is, the 17th Century…?' I hear him talking to himself in the kitchen.
Later he shouts,
“Mind making yourself useful in here?”
I am more than glad that he is a heavy eater, and with this share of breakfast in my stomach, I can go for another two days without being sickly hungry.
I can’t wait to floss about Dru to my friends. He is such a gentleman and we seem to have so much in common. Just like he had said, ‘We had indeed clicked.’ He is 7 years older than I am, has a small nice place of his own, a car, knows how to treat a lady, got a good job going and is currently pursuing his post graduate studies. In him, I see a lot of promising potential. What else would a
smart girl want from a man?
He is nothing compared to any of my male college mates of whom definition of a relationship is going out to parties, drinking some cheap diluted spirits, having sex with random people without using protection and making it the subject of discussion for the entire week. Right now I am feeling grateful that I dismissed their being interested in me for I would have ended up becoming like other girls who start merry-go-round support groups to help them collect enough money to pay for an almost safe abortion.
As a college girl, the only guy worth dating would be a lecturer. Dating a lecturer is more of a conditional relationship. Due to my constant financial problems, I would be lying if I said that the thought of dating one had never crossed my mind. I know of a couple of lecturers who would fight each other in order to win me over. Most of these conditional relationships however adopt a barter kind of trade; the exchange of good sex with exceptional grades. Since I had always been an intelligent girl, taking up such an offer would have be an insult to my intelligence. So I had thought about going into the same business but getting involved with a more appropriate person, like any of the male accountants or finance officers working in campus. Too bad, every student loves money. Everytime one of these lucky girls' graduated, the offer would get auctioned and the winning bid announced long before girls like me found out that there had been a vacancy.
It’s 6.30 am, I am almost done with my breakfast and so is Dru. I can hear some noises from outside indicating that the neighbours have also woken up. I don’t want anyone to see me do a walk of shame, though there’s definitely nothing to be shameful about.
“You mentioned that you don't have classes today right?” Dru asks.
“Yes…why?”
“Since you are not much in a hurry, and there's isn't much to do in the office, how about I call in late for work?”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Why…?” He asks half grinning and half pissed. He comes and sits next to me, takes away my almost empty cup of coffee from my hand and puts it on the table, wipes the bread crumbs off my lips and pulls me closer to him as he draws his lips closer to mine. I try to push him away but he's too strong to feel the impact of my resistance. He is now all over my face barely leaving any more space for me to breathe. Unlike last night, this morning I feel less in the mood. I hate the smell of coffee in his breath and his body odour is suffocating me. I try to push him off my face with all my might but he now gets aggressive and pins me down the sofa.
He takes off his t-shirt. I can smell where this is going, but this is never what I expected from a guy like him. I want to scream, but I have never screamed before. I do not know how to scream. If I try, I’m scared that his neighbours may come to my rescue and upon finding me naked, may use their camera phones to record a reality show that they'll share with their fake friends on social networks. I try pushing him with my legs but he sits on them and I can feel them getting numb and number by the second. The caffeine in the coffee must have destabilized his feelings. His face looks like that of an animal. His whole body looks like an animal. Finally, I manage to scream. He tries shutting my mouth but I scream even louder, begging for help. It’s still early in the morning and I know enough people are already awake, and for those who haven’t, they will be awakened by my screams.
He slaps me really hard across my cheek and pins my head upside down as he tears off my top. I feel all of my energy diminish as I lay there helpless and trembling, with barely any energy to scream. Then I hear a knock at the door. It must be one of the neighbours who has come to my rescue. Dru stops whatever he was doing and becomes still. I too become still. Then there’s another knock, and another, followed by small whispers coming from outside the front door. He looks scared!
“See what you have done?” He hits me harder again on the other side of the face and I can feel wet fluid oozing out of my mouth. He grabs a bread knife from the table and shoves it on my face,
“If you dare make any noise…you have no idea what I’m going to do to you. Go to the bedroom and dress up.” He walks to the door while still holding the knife, behind his back.
I don’t know what kind of lies he feeds the caring neighbours but it barely takes a minute before he comes back. He sits on the edge of the bed and says nothing, then leans over supporting his head with his arms.
“I’m sorry…I…I…”
He stands and walks to his closet, opens one of the drawers and throws me a first aid kit. "Take care of that wound before it gets infected."
He walks to the bathroom and the shower start to run.
#2
Been so long since I last sat, listened to myself, thought of me…looked at me, wrote about it
But today, I sat, sat, and sat…listened to me, thought of me, looked at me, and now, I’ll write about it
I’m tired of this:-the fake smile, the hidden tear, the hypocritical laughter, the cold hug
Tonight, I’m letting go the fake smile…I’m ready for a frown
That hidden tear; finally, I’ll shed it…and not feel ashamed about it
I don’t have to laugh…to hell with hypocrisy
And no, no more hugs, no holding hands, no more kisses…no more of anything
I admit that tonight, it’ll be hard to fall asleep
Coz I’m still scared-scared that I’ll have you next to me in my dreams
So I’ll have to sit…sit all night long…with this frown on my pretty face; tears begging to be shed, letting the laughter die, and hugging myself…As I hug goodbye to my yesterday, and await for a better tomorrow
'I don’t screw my protégées.'
At the time I had no clue what he meant by ‘screw’, but the more Andre kept talking about it, the more I got to understand what he was talking about. Andre is one of the few students at the University who comes from a foreign country. Almost all foreign students enjoy a little celebrity status here in campus, especially the ones from West Africa, for they always have a funny and interesting accent, wear strange clothes and are very arrogant. Some people speculate that Andre is from Ivory Coast although there have been less reliable rumours that claim he has several fake citizenships from a number of Western African countries, as well as Kenya.
I have never come across or even known any other Ivorian, other than the English footballer Didier Drogba. From Drogba’s character, I had assumed that all Ivorian men were tall, lean, masculine and liked to perm their hair. Andre too had some of my presumed Ivorian looks apart from him being much shorter, darker, stouter and with less than 10 huge dreadlocks on his head. He doesn’t do girlfriends, dating or courtships. Instead, he prefers the hit and run chips funga of whom he pays KSh. 10,000 per night. The few girls who have been lucky enough to get hired for the job are said to have spent at least a week in the hospital and another week recuperating at home after rendering their bedroom services.
I ask him what he means by 'I don't screw my protégées'.
“Well, you seem to be a nice girl. Keep it that way, and you don’t have to worry about our relationship; our professional relationship.”
He has asked me over to his tiny studio apartment to pick up some documents for a research I am helping him with. Being my first day at work, I was ready to lick even the sole of his boots to make me an extra shilling.
His place is expensively furnished but with litter scattered everywhere. I notice that he has all of his windows closed hence explaining the source of the pungent odour all over the place. I fear that sticking around for an extra second will easily send me into another episode of unconsciousness, and only God knows what his method of administering first aid will be like.
“Make yourself comfortable.” He tells me as he starts going through loads of files creating more mess on the floor. I spot some custom-made weights at one corner of the room which I guess he hopes will one day help him build and tone his muscles. But, judging from his physique, the guy has a
lways been too lazy to lift them.
A couple of minutes later, he opens the windows and tidies up a small desk with a 19th Century desktop computer for me to work from. Though I had hoped that he would have a small office somewhere else, I am not complaining. From this small desk I could make something small to bring to an end the many dramas I have had to deal with the landlady, the torturous behavior I have had to put my stomach through and maybe, get me a new wardrobe. It's been a whole four years in this college but, I still wear the very same clothes I brought with me during my first year of campus. The few additional ones I have are the ones my good friends have chosen to donate to me, or rather dump on me. Initially I had felt embarrassed about accepting their left overs but with time, I got used to being embarrassed, and assuring myself that they actually looked better on me than they ever did on them.
There is a new rumour going from one student’s mouth to another student's ear that I am the new sex slave of Andre.
It’s one of those lazy afternoons when I'm from taking a heavy 50 shillings meal and would rather miss lecturers that attend one and end up dozing all through. I walk into the library and sneak at one of the corners on the top floor to take a nap. The weather outside is so hot but sitting near the window allows me to enjoy a cool breeze before it gets contaminated with others students’ expensive perfumes, sweat and snacks they've sneak in.
The reason I would rather nap in the library than in my room is because like every other day, I can’t let myself see eye to eye with the landlady. She has such a loud mouth that everyone has come to know about how big of a debt I owe her: I would rather have her embarrass me when I’m away that when I’m around.
It’s long since I slept well, and dreamt a real dream.
Almost all of my dreams are full of fantasies: fantasies about my successful future as a bestseller writer and film maker. The number of books I have written, and the number of blockbuster films I have produced, in my head, are unmatched. Someday, I'll share them with the rest of the world.
Now that I am working for Andre, I’ve occasionally thought about making use of his computer and start doing some creative writing. But everytime I try to, I keep writing, deleting and rewriting the first sentence. I have so many storylines in my head but composing them in to words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters is extremely hard. Maybe I wasn’t born to write after all.