In this land and site of so-called alpha males, it is difficult to find a man who admits weakness or tears. May be I am a zeta man for opening up, for the first time, about a gal I once loved, and tragically lost. You be the judge. I don’t care.
I remember the day I met her 22 years ago like yesterday. It was 1997.
It was a sunny Saturday morning and I had left my humble residence at Southlands to buy the paper. I had been redeployed to the city abruptly, and had not quite settled down with family.
What struck me about her was her figure – full African without any of the bizarre exaggerations of modern-day socialites - and then her dark super-smooth skin. The latter alone was intoxicating and rather bewitching. And she didn’t even have a speck of make-up.
Me: “Hi there”.
Her: “Halloo”.
And just like that it started. She had the whitiest teeth I had seen on a girl, very nice dark lips and a killer smile. Her simple cotton dress that day did not do her figure justice, and I am not ashamed to say that her perky boobs raised my passions almost instantly. She lived a few houses away, in an SQ and worked for a private firm in town.
She was Millicent, the most beautiful Luo girl I had the privilege of meeting until then. Deep down I knew I was lost.
Many, many days and evenings spent at Psys later, I decided to take it to the next level. By this time we were inseparable, spending virtually every weekend doing some crazy things, like dancing to mugithi at Kimani’s Rim Club, opposite Psys. Or shooting pool at Cockpit, fighting off junior pilots from Wilson Airport who wanted to grope her.
That evening, years ago, when she decided to spend the night with me I knew I would see heaven and experience paradise. Fear, anticipation and longing almost grounded me. It helped of course that she had all through been very reluctant to share a bed with me – no man likes a loose woman. As they say, good things have their owners, and mine was Nyar Migori.
We cooked and laughed and kissed and touched and enjoyed each other, and then we entered bed.
And then she begun to weep. And not your ordinary weeping – hers was a deep, mournful silent cry that came from somewhere in the pit of her heart, almost drawing my tears too. I held her, confused, perplexed and bewildered. And then her dams broke and she cried so openly, little sad sounds coming from her, that I panicked. Surely sex wasn’t that scary?
She spoke, and it broke my heart.
“Couch, sweetheart, I love you like I have never loved a man. You have been incredible to me. You are sweet and witty and kind and all a woman like me would want. But I am sorry, Couch, I cannot return your love. I cannot give you what you want so much tonight, and what I would give the earth to be able to freely offer you. Babie, the truth is that I am HIV-positive and I could get sick and die any time. I love you so much I will not pass the virus to you, so forget about us having sex tonight.”
Of course it wasn’t so precise or concise. Tears from two people have a way of drowning words and the flow of thought.
She wept bitterly. I held her.
“Couch, baby, I had to tell you this and be done with it. My previous boyfriend, a Mwarabu driver with Coast bus, infected me a couple of years ago. People used to ask me what I was doing with him and I should have listened. I didn’t. He’s dead now and I think he knew he had it. You can kick me out of your house if you want and I’ll never blame you. I made a bad choice and I will pay for it with my life, I know. But I am not going to take you down with me. I would never forgive myself.”
I held her, shocked. My love could possibly not be the angel of death. No, never. Unless god was unfair.
The grim reality slowly kicked in. Thoughts of all the emaciated Aids victims I had seen dying at Kenyatta National Hospital during a crazy sojourn there flashed through my mind. I saw the naked ribs, the diarrhoea, the blank white eyes, the pleading to be able to live. The only drug then was AZT, and it cost millions for a year’s treatment. HIV was slow, excruciating death.
No, this healthy, beautiful woman couldn’t possibly be heading there.
Many, many minutes and a lengthy silence later I gave her my thoughts.
“Milly, I am so sorry for your condition. I truly am. I wish I could do anything to reverse the situation for you, to cure you miraculously. Unfortunately, you know there’s no cure for your condition and there’s nothing anybody can do. Even my love for you is not enough.”
“I thank you most sincerely for loving me so much that you have decided to protect me. Yours is the truest kind of love. As long as I live I will forever be grateful.”
I held her as she wept some more, expecting the worst, hoping for the best. Something snapped tight, and my mind was made.
“You say that you will understand if I kicked you out of my house now. Yours is just a few metres away anyway. But Millicent, if I did that what kind of man would I be? What kind of friend would this make me? Was our entire relationship based on sex? All those hours we spent together fighting, laughing, kissing, playing, were they all for nothing but sex? Even tonight, haven’t you shown me the truest kind of love by protecting me?”
“Milly, I know everybody says that I am an arrogant, egocentric SOB. But there is also the me that you teased out, the kind, witty and generous man. You have given me confidence and helped me discover a part of me that I never knew existed. I am a better man because of you. I will never kick you out of my house, or anywhere else, and nothing will change between us. I will love you as I always have, and hope you will love me back. It’s all I can hope for, sweetheart. So stop crying and let’s sleep. Tomorrow is another day.”
We held each other and slept. We never made love, but from that day a bond was established between us that could never be broken. It was the beginning of a glorious six years intimate relationship that transcended sex, though sometimes my Milly would do what she had to do to make me comfortable. And she would smile.
And then the ogre came visiting, and her immunity collapsed. The spectre of death won. One of the very few women I have ever truly loved died. She was just 31.
I regret to this day that I was not at her bedside to hold her hand. I regret I never got to say goodbye. I regret I was too cowardly to see Millicent, my Milly, wasted by disease. Like a skunk, I slipped away and went to seek solace in a beer when she needed me most. One day I will ask for her forgiveness, and I know she’ll smile and tell me it’s alright. My Milly will understand.
Today, on this day, I remember the girl I once loved and lost, my Nyar Migori. I no longer weep for her. I just smile, and see her smile back in my mind. But I wish I could just pick up the phone and dial 072274**** and say, “Sasa mrembo, si tukutane hapo Rafikix” (Psys is long gone).
They say that a person dies thrice; once when the soul lives the body, once when burial takes place, and once when those who remember you die, and your name is spoken no more.
I speak your name, Millicent, and create life for you. As long as I live you will never die.
Look over me, sweetheart.
