“I can do this,” you mumble to yourself standing before your dressing mirror. A tall skinny woman with
small but firm breasts stares right back at you with the incessant smile like the one you are giving her.
You are dressed in a golden brown short sleeved blouse and a black micro mini. The blouse is giving
you trouble. You are not sure whether to undo a few more buttons to give your cleavage a ‘breathing’
space. Something tells you that you will look slutty, only that according to what you are about to do,
slutty is the way to go.
“If this guy doesn’t like this and open up, I am not sure what will.” This time you are turned around and
staring at your fine ass in the mirror. An ass which has an ass of its own. It is the greatest possession
you have. The epitome of your beauty. Men have broken their necks trying to steal quick glances. And
that that rows your boat.
You peek at your wrist watch and it is a quarter to 9 O’clock in the evening. You move closer to the
window, draw the curtain and stare three floors down to the parking lot and quickly scan around for
his Toyota Fugo and it does not take you long to spot it. So you know he is at home and that night you
are taking the bold step of introducing yourself to him, getting to know his name and most importantly,
thank him for the flowers he is always dropping on your doorstep with notes bearing lovely words and
hope he grows the balls to say the words in person. You know it is him because you have seen how
he looks at you every time you bump onto each other, on the parking lot, stair cases and the many
times you have caught him staring at you from his window when strolling to or from your car. Plus he
is your next door neighbour and there is only the two of you in that floor.
You do not know his name yet. And you are sure he does not know yours either. All that while you
have been bumping on each other and smiling from one ear to the other, neither of you has ever
bothered to ask. But what you do know is that he can give you orgasm by just staring at you with his
deep and intruding eyes. The fact that he is tall, relatively brown and in the habit of flaunting his
biceps and triceps every time he goes downstairs to pick something from his car does not help with
the matter either. And so since he has been dropping flowers and still doesn’t say a thing when you
meet, you have decided to take the bold step. After all you think it is stupid that women want equity
yet they can’t approach a man and tell them how they feel. Though in your case you knew the feeling
was mutual, you were only going to thank him for the kind gesture.
In short, to let him know that you know!
Satisfied that you are looking cool and ready to claim this man’s heart, you slip inside your flat black
shoes and shuffle out of your door to his. Standing there, you take quick deep breaths before
knocking. He takes longer to open and you are about to leave when the door squeaks open and your
heart skips to your neck as you turn to see him leaning against the door wearing nothing but a pair of
white vest and white short. Plus the scent of awesomeness.
“Hi,” you walk to and offer him a handshake which he takes with a slight bow and that just tickles your
vanity. He seems the charming type.
“Hi, how are you doing Miss….”
“Angela, Angela Makena.”
“Angela Makena. Don’t I love your name?” he says looking you in the eye and that makes you blush
so you stare past his eyes into his apartment. He then adds, “My name is Ben Juma.”
“Nice to meet you Ben.”
“The pleasure is all mine, please, come on in.”
He steps aside and you walk in eyes scanning his living room which reeks of cleanliness and
organization for a moment you doubt if he is a bachelor. He follows you closely and offers you a sit
and you take it crossing your legs. The women empowerment bullshit just flew off your head and now
you are not sure if you should go through with your plan. “What if he is not the one who has been
leaving flowers on my doorstep? Wouldn’t I look foolish? No, I must not bring up anything about the
flowers. I am just a good neighbour following the government’s instructions on the nyumba kumi
initiative. Oh, exactly, nyumba kumi it is!” you think to yourself while nodding your head on the
realization of just how creative you can be sometimes.
“So can I get you something to drink Angela?”
“Any soft drink will do.”
“Cold or warm?”
“Cold.”
“That makes sense,” he mumbles more to himself than to you, “It’s only logical that a hot girl like you
takes something cold to balance the equilibrium.”
“I am sorry, what was that?” you try not to sound too serious lest you scare the living hell out of his
biceps.
“Nothing, I will go get the drinks.”
You manage a mild smile though on the inside, your stomach turns with anxiety for everything seems
to be playing off well. So you watch him disappear into the kitchen and you find yourself asking if it
would be wrong for you to simply sleep with him on that very day, if at one point it became a
possibility, without robbing yourself of any dignity. What is dignity anyway? You tell yourself. If I am
ever going to sleep with him it might as well be today and it won’t make any difference.
He comes back with two cans of Coca Cola directly from the fridge and hands one to you before sitting
to the couch opposite yours. He takes the remote and lowers the TV volume which up to that moment
you hadn’t even noticed it was there leave alone being on.
“So Angela it is nice to finally know you. I must say I wasn’t expecting this at all.”
“Me neither. But I thought it was a nice idea to at least stop by and thank you for the roses,” you say
before you could hold your tongue. You promised yourself not to mention flowers unless he brought it
up. Whatever happened to the government and Nyumba Kumi you idiot! You curse yourself but still
try hard to act calm.
He stares at you silently and rather blankly for a long time. You sip your drink hoping that he would
say something to send the awkwardness settling in flying out the window but he doesn’t. He stares.
At your eyes. Then your breasts. And you silently scream Hallelujah! Glad that you chose to expose a
few deep inches of your cleavage. But why isn’t he saying anything about the flowers?
“I am glad you liked them,” he says just in time to save you from losing your breath. A wave of relief
rushes from your head to your feet you almost tremble in excitement.
So you later learn that he is a banker and that explains the suits he is mostly in and you tell him you
are a creative blogger and a freelance writer, writing about all the romantic stuff and everything to do
with relationships.
“So are you a romantic yourself?” he asks biting his lower lip.
“Well I wouldn’t want to blow my own trumpet but I am sure I know a thing or two about romance.”
“Like?”
“What would you love to know?”
“Is it in line to open up about your feelings to, say a woman, you barely know?”
You hold your head in your hand and pretend as if you are deep in thought before saying, “I think you
should read my blog to get the answers.”
“I would love to but now that you are here, first hand info would be alright.”
“It depends.”
“With what?”
“You ask too many questions, mister.”
You lean forward and wink at him and he stands up to his feet, place his can down and walk to you.
You see him moving closer to you and your whole being is swooped with mixed emotions. You want
to stand up and meet him mid-way but you don’t. You remained sited, trying to control your breath
and you successfully manage to, at least for a second, until he sits right next to you and your breath
resumes the marathon.
“So enough with the questions?” he says in a whisper. His voice brushes through your ears like good
music. It penetrates your skin and making it glow. Your heart joins your breath in the marathon. It’s
intoxicating, that voice, you gasp for breath. And he is leaning too close. Your skins touch.
“Enough with the questions.” You whisper back and this time your faces are too close to each other
and before a second thought sneaks in to discourage either of you, your lips touch and everything
freezes, including the crickets’ outside and their noises. That kiss becomes the doorway to everything
and the air suddenly charges up and becomes so tense. Before you know it, he is yanking your
knickers off your feet and you let him. But your skirt is still on, only raised to your waist and your
blouse has its entire buttons undone. The bra has taken a walk— you heard it opening and shutting
the door when leaving. You do not ask it (your bra that is) where it is going because you know it will
be back when it is needed. If it will be needed. So your small and firm boobs are unguarded, making it
easier for him to feel them with his one hand while at the same time feeling your vagina with the other.
The smiles and the looks you two had been flashing each other one the stair cases and parking lot
and the flowers and everything was now paying off. You replay those moments as he struggles to get
in, right on that couch.
Yeeessss!!!
You kiss him good night and he waits till you have walked inside your house and the bra has followed
you in, before he returns to his. You walk into your bedroom feeling happy and naughty and satisfied
at the same time. That man’s muscles are not just for show. He knew how to put them to action. You
strip naked, throw in a towel and you are about to step in the shower, partly blaming yourself for
refusing his offer to shower with him in his bathroom, when you hear a knock on the door. It must be
him, you tell yourself as you quickly rush to check. You will drag him to your bathroom this time, you
say.
And so with only a towel wrapped around your chest exposing your thighs, you open the door and
then you see him. Dressed in slim black suit with a black tie. He is smiling and holding roses on his
hand, just like the one he has been leaving on your door. Only that, he is not Ben Juma. Not in name
not in shape. This one is slightly taller than him and a shed darker. And he is as cute as his tie. And
you also recognize him as the guy who once helped you jump start your car not long ago and though
you couldn’t remember his name, you do remember him telling you that he lived in the apartment right
above yours.
“I am sorry for bothering you at this time of the night but…” he starts to say but you cut him short.
“Wait a minute,” you cut him short, “You are the guy who has been leaving me flowers?”
“Y-yes?”
“Damn it!” you mumble.
What follows is that you give him a blank stare, and then stare at Juma’s door and then back to this
guy with his roses. You then drop your face with a pensive sigh, feeling stupid and angry at the same
time, leaving the poor guy confused. The roses are confused too, they feel like withering. And the two
of you stand in silence, him not sure whether to say a word, or wait for you to explain why you
look like he just asked for both of your kidneys!
3 Likes
no time to read all these. please summarize!
1 Like
UMBWA WEWE SISOMI HII UPUS YOTE
1 Like
Case of the hunter being the hunted or if you like…the fisi being kamuliwad!
https://mbanacho.wordpress.com/2015/12/03/the-wrong-man/
You forgot the reference.
1 Like
Hamna haja ya matusi kaka. No one is forcing you to read
2 Likes
Kwa sex and relationship ukiweka kitu refu hivi ambayo sitasoma. …at least weka DFHKM tujiliwaze nayo!
UJINGA HATUTAKI HAPA
Hio ntasoma kesho
Nice read, the girl has a way with words.
Kuna kukamuana Ni scroll back?
5 Likes
I love it…a very nice read
mbona blue handle…
they say a picture is worth 1000words…ghasia
1 Like
Story kama hii unaweka in five parts kama story ya @Ka-Buda na JG utaona vile villagers watakupa likes wakiomba part 2.
A girl well dressed looks herself on the mirror.
Someone sends her flowers often and she is thinking of thanking him.apparently a neighbour.
She knocks at his door and the guy(juma), welcomes him and offer her some coke.
She thank him for the flowers.
The guy dryfries her.
Went back to her apartment satisfied.
Someone knocks her door.rushes to open only find a man standing with flowers(not juma).
This is the real man who has been sending her flowers.
1 Like
Tulikua tunaona ball, timing muhimu
Nice read.
If only you acknowledged the source.
or are you the author of the blog?