It’s many seasons past so I must of necessity be excused should some details escape my now fading Ken. See, it wàs the year after we ‘finished’ school, and at the time I was teaching at a local school to make ends meet. The year past had seen a terrible draught sweep across the foothill of the god mountain, and, as expected, across the laikipia waste lands, things were exceptionally out of joint. The herders had lost most of their herds and the few that remained were moved to ‘greener’ pastures. In this case the greener pastures were hundreds of miles away. Only men could move that far, so the women and children, in whose charge were left the young calves, moved into our neighborhood, desperate to fend and water their almost disappearing wealth.
Such was the fate of a young mother of three who landed on my grandpas land, The very Mabenda, one fateful Sunday. Besides the three ematiated kids, she was accompanied by her young sister, and eight Njaus(calves). They were from The Maa dialect, and spoke very little swahili. The attempt to explain their woes to the old Man Mabenda was BBI-ish, and having gone to school in Maralal, and in the process picked up a fair speak of the samburu subtribe, I was called in to translate. Long story, they needed a place to crush, and the Patriarch afforded them a corrapsing hut in the homestead that was not in use. They moved in , Njaus and all.
Let’s dispense with the three months after, for time. By May, they had regained their health, them and their animals. The young sister , named Judy, slightly older than I, had grown so very much fond of me, and and although I couldn’t speak much Samburu, we got along very fine, thank you. One afternoon, seeing that I had no classes , I sneeked from school and went home. Now, my “Cube”, or Simba if you will, was at furthest conner of the compound, but within the confines of the homestead. Mostly, at this time of the year, folks spend most of the days in the shambas weeding.
Such was the day. No one was home, except, only the corrapsing hut was smoking. So I ventured there in the hope of securing some Posho. We don’t much knock in the slopes, so I just pushed the door and entered the dimly lit room. A startled scream drew my eyes. It was Judy, stark raving nude, bent over a basin, lathered in soap, taking a bath…Sweet mother of the prophet!..
Her legs spread for maximum traction in the mud floor, bent over a Karai ya chuma. The shafts of light that wafted across the now open door fell on her dark toned posterior, reflecting her butt in a way that clearly represented what heaven meant to me at the time, and ever since.
She sprang around, awed, took in the scene, realised that the intruder was me and her first words were “funga mlango”. Admittedly, all this happened in almost equal time that it took my Mjulabeng to rocket from sleep mode to 10inch rock hard homing missile, with authenticated bearings reading 00Ntudy00. (get a Maa to translate)
After what appeared to be eternity, and many insults, she asked…utasimama tu hapo, am unataka kuoga… Friends, I have done stuff in hurry in my desolate life, but none comes close to how fast I relieved my self of my clothes at that point. We embraced in sweet slippery nudity, slipped, and fell headlong across their sleeping cow hide, and after a moment of seeing stars…I found my place, and she spread them, spread them from here to there. And the torpedo, armed, homed in to the warmest Ntudy this side of Laikipia. Even then, I lasted, and she kept pace. She moaned in Samburu, I poured libations in Greek. Sweet sweet Samburu damsel.
After it was over, we held on to each other, and only let go when it got cold, coz on the slopes of the god mountain, wet bodies devoid of bodily fluids can get cold pretty fast. We finished bathing and I left, hungry but satisfied, to my cube.
That evening, she brought me supper, and spent the night. She spent a few nights over the next month…and it was a teary separation when their Moran’s came for them in June…
Blessed day Talkers