Love: The new high @ 9:41 a.m

Love: The new high @ 9:41 a.m

Her big dolly black eyes rolled once. She then lowered her chin. She then covered the bright sun rays in lower sprawling Mathare valley nicknamed ‘Manhattan’. She majestically raised her right hand with sophistication twitching her both thumb and middle fingers to flicker off the fake Cuban cigar’s ash.  The rusty bridge she was standing on squeaked under her feather weight, as she bellowed dark heavy smoke that blotted the sunset like a full moon eclipse. Her sexy round nostrils that had inhaled more harm than life heaved under generational rejection as capillaries struggled to fight for polluted pure oxygen.  One would have mistakenly imagined a colonial train engine was snaking through Mtito Adei among the famous man eaters of Tsavo in the new Kenya standard gauge rail road.

She was of dark color a lean neck and rounded full lips with a flashy white smile.  Her chest was at right angle with her firm breasts standing like the noon sun sandwiched over ground zero twin tower nipples. The curved back gave her an average voluminous behind with a prominent edge positioning like a small bouncing castle. The local boys always knew she had been sculpted from God’s rare woods of creation. In short she was gorgeously beautiful in every breath of life. Her scanty see through wire mesh knee dress revealed lovely sexy contours above her smooth thighs.  Any living creature in form of a man would have walked straight in to the mine field or be willing to be stung by bees naked just to kiss her crispy rugged lips. If Lucky thereafter wishing to tighten his grip buried alive in her warm tight escapement of the Olkaria hot springs.

As She stood on this very bridge today, She wished one day she will die together with her lover as they made love to escape the sorrows and the pain of rejection in couple’s multiple orgasms. She had waited for this day for many nights and days. She had meticulously planned it and knew with no sense of contradiction that the day had arrived. She squeezed her left hand…a protruding brown tube with elongated sharp edge was revealed!

The previous night she had visited the unmarked grave of her dad. This man had inspired her in their short interaction before succumbing to the stub wounds in brawl in her mother’s  illegal brew den commonly known us ‘changaa’ den. She loved him and missed him a lot. She knew deep down in her heart that the dry bones of a man laying 6 feet under was a legend and her only protector when the world closed her eyes of  intolerance. She as well knew it takes a village to raise a child but now it was opposite. The whole village had turned against her very own. The whole village that proclaimed sermon on the mountain suddenly had grown cold feet. A city slum where new ramshackle makeshift  gospel salvation ministry churches of hope outgrew the number of pit latrines while increased the flying toilets. She wondered loudly in her head how on earth for Christ sake the slum had so many churches and other pseudo religious outfits imagined or real yet hatred, tribalism, corruption and thuggery of souls mercilessly continued unabated. The only solace as she grew up was the regular warm soup she frequently received at the Roman Catholic parish in the dusty neighborhood. The parish was a center of hope for hopeless and tired of life. Many became followers of Christ and professed Christian faith not because they knew who He was but because they had a personal rare encounter of compassionate love of sharing in the ‘soup parish’ as it was commonly known. She knew then the God the Parish believed in and faith professed must have some truth and life in it. The parish never asked questions, The parish never knew who she was but a street urchin who needed rehabilitation more than salvation.

The Mathare slum (Loosely associated with a mental hospital nearby) where she grew up and occasionally visited her mother was ungoverned government in its own rights. It Was a Nation within a Country. A nation founded on biting poverty the only unifying ‘value’ of patronized patriotism.  Hers was a village yearning and yawning for peace. The real experience learnt in this slum (Ghetto) was empty pangs of hunger, broken families and robberies of intent in as many needles of coronary cold turkey and thrombosis of countless rape and gang bangers. The past was dark rejection; the present was unbearably painful while the future was hopeless. 

In her 27 years on the globe she never had experienced orgasmic rejuvenation of love but only until she had met Omosh. It was a rainy day she remembered vividly. The young couple had met in one of the many orgy’s  of brown sugar (Heroin) escapades and smoking weed. She didn't have a joint for the day. She knew she must get her fix quick to stop painful anguish of withdrawal (commonly known us Cold Turkey). In her life of addiction Nyambura A.K.A ‘Nyambs’ feared the cold turkey than death. She had heard many harrowing stories of how addicts in India sold their organs and pints of raw blood for a dope. She knew no body will want to buy her ‘rotting kidneys’ and overcooked lungs. Her feminine Fallopian tubes had long run dry she thought; owing to the countless backyard abortions procured by illegal herbalist who preferred sex on the floor first to measure the ‘depth and chances of successful operation’. It was a ritual she abhorred yet she kept running in to it with dried tear ducts. She was desperate, she knew Syombua never made it, Nafula succumbed from excessive bleeding and Sofia woke up insane after the first ejaculation.  Many vulnerable slum girls had died because they never received legal post abortion care after countless illegal abortions. The national constitution prohibited abortion unless in circumstances that endangered the life of the mother. In this case a baby endangered the child. A tragedy.

Later she had come to learn indeed her dad was step dad.  That her mother never revealed this truth to her she had no idea. The man who had continuously sexually molested her was her real father who had raped her mother and threatened her with dire consequences if she revealed the insane ordeal to anyone. He was a thug, he peddled drugs, and was loose hit man murderer sniper at best. He loved guns for evil. He had been unceremoniously sacrificed at the altar of corruption as a novice junior officer.  His world headed south. Him and three other accomplices at large were the only alive witnesses on the run and on rogue intelligence radar.   He was a policeman at the crack of dawn and a seasoned thug at wee hours of the night......

The handwritten crumpled note protruding from underneath her bra showed a sign of haste and urgency but revealed a deeper expression of belonging and longing under the ripe cleavage………

To be continued  by Njoroge wa Ngige 041515