Travesty

I used to wonder, why I do not write anymore(apart from the occasional Facebook post).

I am on a ‘sabbatical’ I told myself.

I am ‘on a journey of discovery’. To discover what; I do not know..at least not yet, or have I. My pen always hemorrhages over. Spewing nothing but tragedy and lifelessness.

My pen dances harmoniously along to dirges and dirges.

Dirges buried deep in the darkness of black cotton soil.

He was buried 5 feet deeper than is customary to ensure the ghost of him toils if he was intent on haunting anyone.

But the judge ordered an exhumation and what a stench; that had been pilloried underneath. I write to exorcise demons, cure depression and just ran and pose stark naked in front of people.

I reveal too much of my nakedness when I write, and some will lie that my penis the best they have seen, that I am well endowed. You fake literal orgasms and I will walk away in bravado as you whisper that the emperor is and has been naked and small. Limp and unsatisfying.

But I will write.. I have to write. Because life goes on whether I mellow over tragedy or wallow in comedy. Life itself does not care.

I know this because as I was wallowing in the miasma of pity partying  (i have been to a lot of parties yet I have never had of a tot of pity,is it drank or smoked like sheesha..is it a cock fest or is it bevvied with beauty and vanity) – a cock in all its glory mounted a hen right before me and gave a f**k without giving a f**k (how I felt, what I thought et al).

He was done. before I could write ‘hashtag pity party.

I did not give him a standing ovation, but the cock didn’t bother. After all, he was doing all things cock.

Well, when life gives you pity, throw a party.

When you encounter writer’s block, observe the mundane.

Well this is a travesty.

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Urban Love 4

Mogaka was the perfect gentleman. He almost
never took a wrong step with Moraa.
As graceful as a rhumba dancer he led their
dance: hips shaking,waists gyrating,arses
swaying,palms rubbing.
As soothing as a George Benson’s jazz track. Lips
locked;artist and saxophone in a lock and key
embrace. Eyes closed but hands locked jealously
round the saxophone’s hips.
The beautiful melodies that churned out defined
Mogaka and Moraa.
But that was then. Beautiful melodies were
replaced by uncoordinated ohangla played by a
less than sober pianist. Repetitive piano generated
drumbeats. A hoarse tenored vocalist complaining
bitterly about Anyango nya Alego(Anyango of
Alego) leaving their children in the boma to wallow
in kech (hunger) while she swims in kong’o
(alcohol).
Thats how their love was defined. Like a scratched
disc churning out tunes, beautiful for 2 seconds
and screeching for the next 5.
It really broke Mogaka what he’d done to Moraa.
How he broke her trust when his lips’ waters
touched the shores of someone else other than
hers.
Mogaka remembered what made him stop his
betrayal. Not that it mattered now.

Unfulfilled

Nyatingli swayed her buttocks rhythmically as she
mouthed a Kisii rendition of some common
Catholic hymn. Every motion of the floor duster
across the floor drew Mutiso’s gaze to the
heavenly posterior. In a flash, as if he had been
possessed by some horny spirit grabbed
Nyatingli’s arse almost taking her off balance. A
flurry of emotions engulfed her namely
anger,shock then unexplained excitement.
She turned to face her aggressor, Mama Mutiso’s
only son. For a moment Mutiso digested
Nyatingli’s features.
Her sight was not pleasant at all. She had a
humongous nose and browning teeth. She had
bow shaped legs most likely since there was a
severe rationing of Sunlight fortified with Vitamin
D from wherever she had been dug out of. She
however had been brainwashed to mistakenly
believe it was the epitome of beauty in her
culture. The abundance of hormones in Mutiso’s
loins far outweighed the ugly sight that was
Nyatingli.
Mutiso reached out again but this time she met
the resistant jembe hardened hands of Nyatingli.
She retaliated with a slap that hit Mutiso right
across his face. The slap worked wonders on
Mutiso’s persistence urging him on as if he had
been sent out to confirm the veracity of the adage
hard work pays.
Slowly the wrestling match deteriorated to ruffling
of hair and unconvincing resistance. Nyatingli
gave in to Mutiso. This followed a mouthful
exchange of saliva albeit uncoordinated. after all
Mutiso was a virgin, undefiled, Nyatingli rural in
upbringing,uncultured.
mutiso sliced open his zipper with the aid of
Nyatingli. at that moment, Mutiso felt a gush of
fluid leaving his body, the best feeling he had felt
in his meagre 15 year existence.
Nyatingli gave him a murderous look and
immediately Mutiso knew he had done something
grave. An overwhelming sense of
underperformance engulfed him.
He was still a virgin.

Urban Love Chapter 2

Chapter 1

https://fullieokaka.wordpress.com/2014/09/01/urban-love
12 full moons ago, Mogaka had docked on the
shores of facebook for his usual swim around
through waves of status updates and rantings.
Kambua had also dove into those same waters.
They were no fireworks or ululations to
accompany their chance meet up. Just a boring
status update by a mutual friend followed up by
tidings of comments. Nothing to write oceans
about. The usual modern upto date classic tale
of boy meets girl on social media. Just another
boring orchestra. To think that Kambua was to
be the Achilles on the heels of Moraa and
Mogaka was incomprehensible at that particular
moment.
Kambua was a daughter of the semi arid areas
of the country. Where scarcity of water was
scarcely frowned upon. She was absent of the
light complexion of the people famously known
for long distance trade. With her dark
complexion, it was possible she was imported
as a result of the trade from the highlands of
the Great Rift.
Her conspicously large white frontal teeth and
the wide diastema did not aid her case. It left
no doubt that her Maker was in a particularly
philanthropic mood at the point of her creation.
Her surname was the only thing she shared
with her people. What she lacked in
aesthetics,she compensated in humor. She was
the stand up comedian in denial and was the
epitome of Kabu kabu girl as fondly described in
Achebe’s literature.
The good time girl

Urban Love 2

Urban Love 1: https://fullieokaka.wordpress.com/2014/09/01/urban-love/

Alas! He did a zombie walk and headed to the shower and prepare for the day. At least he had scraped through the dreaded long night. As he showered, he was startled into action courtesy of his ringing phone. Rush he did with soap foam over his head across the face.

He braved the stinging sensation caused by the soap over his eyes to see who had texted him at this time. 6.15 am bore all the prerequisite of Moraa’s text. That was the time she always woke up and texted him a ‘good morning text’ with a plethora of confectionery laden adjectives from sugar, spice to everything nice.
Floating butterflies circled his belly region. It was neither fear nor conviction, just a toxic cocktail of supposedly mutually exclusive emotions.
He unlocked his phone screen with the hope of a milk hungry infant staring intently at its mother’s nipples as they close down on its lips.
‘Aargh! Stupid landlord!’

Urban Love Chapter 1

Mogaka had woken up from his sleep routine. It
was 6.00am alright but he had just slept a
paltry 15 minutes. The rest of his night had
been spent grappling at the fact that the clouds
had connived to suffocate the rainbow out of
the sky. This had closely followed the obvious
absence of the sun, although he had somehow
become accustomed to that.
Mogaka’s taste buds had forgotten the taste of
food as they were only furnished with the taste
of water that had been stored for a tad too
long.
The Nairobi Water Company in part owed him a
huge explanation since he was the Water
Connections and Supply Manager just 3
positions below the CEO. For a moment he
almost remembered the proximity of his office
to the CEO. It was directly opposite his. That
was directly proportional to his closeness to
power.
However, the power he wielded melted right at
his knees the day he bumped into Moraa.
Moraa was not the type of woman with a good
aesthetic first impression but the type whose
beauty redefined daily.
Moraa was the kind of gem you had to tunnel
deep into the bowels of earth to unearth. Every
day was a conscious effort to stay
inconspicuous in the corridors of the workplace.
She always dressed not to stand out but in this
effort she stood out in Mogaka’s eyes. She was
always streaming past at a hurried pace until
that day when she caught Mogaka staring. For
once, Moraa slowed down, Mogaka wallowed in
unhallowed thoughts, their worlds merged.
These memories were now just but a distant
memory in a different dimension.
6.05 am. How the seconds dragged out when
he couldn’t smell her fragrance of ‘I Love
Vanilla’.
Alas! He did a zombie walk and headed to the
shower and prepare for the day. At least he had
scraped through the dreaded long night. As he
showered, he was startled into action courtesy
of his ringing phone. Rush he did with soap
foam over his head across the face.
He braved the stinging sensation caused by the
soap over his eyes to see who had texted him
at this time. 6.15 am bore all the prerequisite of
Moraa’s text. That was the time she always
woke up and texted him a ‘good morning text’
with a plethora of confectionery laden adjectives
from sugar, spice to everything nice.
Floating butterflies circled his belly region. It
was neither fear nor conviction, just a toxic
cocktail of supposedly mutually exclusive
emotions.
He unlocked his phone screen with the hope of
a milk hungry infant staring intently at its
mother’s nipples as they close down on its lips.
‘Aargh! Stupid landlord!’
*************************
It was the twelfth day of February 3 years ago
that Moraa and Mogaka figured out that they
had been taking long walks together when
taking the bus to town would have been an
easier option. They had figured out that their
hugs outlived the life cycle of normal hugs. It
was as if their hugs had mutated as a form of
adaptation. Chemistry and mole concepts made
more perfect sense when they were in each
others embraces. Moraa loved how she always
found herself uncurling her toes. This was no
longer a spark but the harmattan winds stoking
wild fire in the savannah.