The night was young as we sat around the huge log fire conversing in low tones as the village beauties and young wives slithered in our midst serving steaming cups of a distant cousin of modern day tea to barnish the cold . The air hung heavy and oftentimes we had to adjust our sitting angle to either cool the nurning limbs or warm the freezing backs. Presently, Rozi, my ngalofredi, forced her way to our group and handed me a tray of Mukimo to share with my buddies. It wasnt uncommon for my group to be favoured in food ration in most night vigil for a departed villager, otherwise called maombolezi. It was very common. For one reason. After the elders and the very young retired for the night, my group and i would be left in charge for songs and general brouhaha to entertain till dawn. We were the live of maombolezi, and our services, though paid for in mukimo and sweetend murky water for tea, were highly sought and gratefully acknowledged. (Say what, why dont we drop this feeble attempt at novel writting and just hear how i climbed a girl with one too few a boil.)
We were at a maombolezi. That much you know. You are also aware that Rozi, my girlfriend was there. What you are not aware of is that she, Rozi, came in tow of a fellow skirt wearer . Her name, as i learnt many years later, was Ngendo. She was also from my village but had left for the city many years earlier to work as "a girl of the house " she knew me quite well though i could not recall ever meeting her. We spoke briefly, and , when Rozi went to pick a serving tray from another group, i flirtered her much to her amusement. Then Rozi came back and they disapeared towards the kitchen.
Later that night when most people had retired, my singing group took the floor and the drum. The night passed swiftly as we belted hit after hit of the latest singalong music of the slopes. At daybreak, we dispersed , each to his cube to sleap and recharge for another night of praise. It was day four of the maombolezi that mostly lasted seven days, so we had two more nights to render the invaluable service.
I went home, jumped in bed and didint stir till about two in the after noon when i invaded my grand ma’s kitchen in pursuit of any edible. Only 123Githeri was in the offing. I scooped a good bowl, dashed some salt, jumped it thrice and perched myself atop the wall of a stalled stone house in center of the compound to enjoy my meal and reminisce.
From my perch, i had a clear view of the road, a hundred odd meters south of my “Twenty” . Though i could not tell who exactly was passing, i could tell male from female, young, old and my agemates. Several people passed by. Then, a lonely girl , slowly went up the road. Being a gal, my eyes by default stayed with her. She went up as far as the road forks to our neighbour Kagiri, stopped then turned back. She went down the road slowly swinging her handbag around like one swatting fries. By this, my antenae was so high up i needed brackets to earth me. Just as she passed our road gate, i let out a well calcurated whistle. She didnt stop. She just kept on walking, swinging her sling bag.
Then she disapeared behind the trees hapo kwa mzee Njuki. I dismissed her and my attention i gave to the Githeri. Barely two minutes later, she reappeared walking up the road. Uka jesu. I left the githeri bowl where i sat, drooped off the wall like a tiger, crouched behind the granary and made a mad rush. By the time she reached our road gate, i was there lazily adjusting the gate poles. She approached grinning. It was the lady from last night. Afew greetings and silly jokes, i jokingly invited her home. Her only objection was that she would be seen by my folks were she to use the official gate. That problem i had solved eons past. I gave her instructions to follow a route that would take her to the water pond, and approach from the forest side.
I was eagerly wauting for her behind my cube when she leapt from the undergrowth. I scanned around, made sure cucu was in the big house and then i half dragged her almost violently into the now open cube. I then closed the door behind us. Not much was spoken. She resisted long enough to preserve her dignity but when i finaly to relieve her of the laced Gathara mwaki aka panty, she grabbed at it , hid it under the matress and cocked her head wall side and spread them as i bid. I tore my clothes sideways, jumped on her under the dusty blanket and, boy oh boy, it was on. She was slow in keeping pace but by and by, she cought on, matched yhe rhythm and , to my sueprise, she met me more than halfway. She was a wils one that one.
We did, rested, did rested and did. Four wents. It was dark evening when we emerged headed to the maombolezi. I never saw her again for a long time. Next i saw her, she was a married woman. It was romoured that although she was mostly fine, from her childhood, when the moon was full, she had the uncanny habit of losing timber. I didnt know that, or even her name when i made her call me “oh mavenda yangu”
Am too exited to think of the moral of the story. Do me the honours and think of one for me.
