Excerpt from ‘Empress from Asmara’
It’s Saturday. One week after my debut poetry performance. I put on a flowing flower-embroidered habesha dress, dangling circular earrings, and a netela headscarf – ethnic chic. I’m hoping Jemal will be there. I take so long dolling myself up that, once again, I run late. I grab a taxi and get to the arts centre when the open mic session is almost halfway through.
A college-age dude is on stage reciting Gill Scot-Heron’s poignant poem Who Will Survive in America? as I find a seat. Watching him, my mind drifts to the escapees I was arrested with in Massawa and the many others abroad. My country is basically the North Korea of Africa. If I were performing that poem, my question would be, ‘Who will survive in Eritrea?’
I signal to the host that I am in the building. When the current performer exits the stage. The host introduces me. I sit on a chair and read from a printed paper.
‘This piece is titled My Bourgeois Lover,’ I announce and then get into it:
‘Tonight, he comes to me – and I’m eager.
When the door creaks open, I’m lying naked, like an agent provocateur
In an Ian Fleming-esque Cold War thriller.
His exquisite masculine frame appears in the door frame.
Beyond it, I catch a glimpse of the moon sailing through the silver night.
His dark form approaches mine with cold, immaculate confidence
I can tell he’s attracted to my curves in the darkness.
I fluidly rise and slowly close the distance between us.
I run my fingers down his dark, muscular chest.
He’s widely travelled, and it’s evident.
He was born in East Africa, but he’s in demand in the East and West.
He bends his carved, Dwayne Johnson-like body to sniff my neck.
He picks up traces of Nairobi, Asmara, Massawa….
‘You’ve been spending a lot of time with others,’ he complains.
‘But I’ve also been taking lessons to please you,’ I blurt out.
‘I’ve done a lot of practice with my lips and tongue.’
‘Show me,’ he commands, as if we’re in a BDSM role play.
I utter all the methalis, mafumbos, and fani za lugha I can remember.
I name-drop Shaaban Robert, Euphrase Kizilabi, Wallah Bin Wallah…
But it’s not enough to keep the Coastal Adonis within my walls.
‘You’re unfit for Kenya!’ he concludes, his temper oddly turning me on.
‘Don’t leave,’ I whisper seductively into his ear. ‘You’ve got me so hot and bothered.’
‘Mrembo,’ he says in an arctic tone. ‘You may be hot but you won’t be bothered!’
And with that, he turns around and melts into the darkness like a black panther.
I am left breathless, agitated, angry; staring at the shimmering ocean outside.
Kiswahili, my bourgeois lover, has abandoned me once again!’
The poem receives a rousing reception. The finger-snapping continues for a full minute. I even hear a few whistles as I make my way back to my seat.
Excerpt from ‘The Love Parade’
From a shop branded ‘Ravi Shah Auto Parts’, a Kenindian family watches the procession march past. The father, a portly man with a Joseph Stalin-esque shoe-brush moustache and a forest of chest hair peeking out of his partly-unbuttoned white cotton shirt, stands nonchalantly at the door. His sari-wearing wife, who has beautiful brown hair, is even less interested. She’s moving about behind the counter, literally minding her own business. Standing next to the no-nonsense father is his ten-year-old daughter, Nidhi, in a short blue sundress, watching excitedly. Towering over Nidhi is her nineteen-year-old sister, Preeti, who is watching the procession with arms folded, the wind teasing her long hair.
Nidhi spots a mobile ice-cream vendor stationed half a block away. ‘I want ice cream, Preeti!’ she says, cocking her head upwards to establish eye-contact.
‘Thik hai,’ Preeti says, taking her baby sister’s hand and leading her towards the ice-cream man who is doing roaring business in the tropical heat.
Preeti stands five-foot-six inches tall and has a body like a goddess. Everything is in the right proportion: she is neither on the slim side nor the heavy side, neither too tall nor too short. Her skin bears no scars or other blemishes, mainly because she is what her mother calls ‘a stay-at-home girl’ who rarely engages in physical adventures. Her hair, like her mother’s, is shoulder-long, straight and dark brown. Brown eyebrows arch over clean white eyes that are ringed by long black lashes. The irises are a light grey-brown hue, like an event horizon around the Black-Hole-like pupils. A small nose presides over generous lips that are painted maroon. Her skin complexion is a very light brown, with redness to the cheeks…
Cut to Simon Kamau, a handsome twenty-four year old Kikuyu man. He watches the procession as it winds noisily through Kirinyaga Road. His interest, however, is in a brown-haired Indian beauty across the road, licking an ice-cream. Despite the pomp and pageantry, the girl has his whole attention. His heart is racing and he knows for a fact that if he doesn’t talk to her, he will regret it for the rest of his life!
He makes his way across the road, like a fish swimming against a river current, and gains the ice-cream stand. It is only when he is within touching distance of the girl that he realizes that she’s with her baby sister, a ‘midget’ struggling to see the marchers, like the Biblical Zaccheaus trying to get a glimpse of Jesus.
‘Hi…I’m Simon,’ says the Kikuyu, smiling broadly to disarm the girls.
‘Hi. I’m Preeti,’ says the maiden, giving him the once over.
‘Yes, you are,’ Kamau seconds.
Preeti gives a silvery laugh and tosses back her hair as if she’s in a shampoo commercial.
‘I mean that’s my name,’ she asserts.
‘Actually, I knew that’s what you meant,’ Kamau says, flashing the killer smile again. ‘I was just teasing.’
He now turns his charm offensive to the little girl.
‘Hi, there, little princess. If you would like to see the march, you can sit on my shoulders,’ he offers.
‘Oh, no, no!’ Preeti protests. ‘That won’t be necessary.’
But the idea has already been planted in Nidhi’s mind and she likes it. Kamau bends down and effortlessly positions Nidhi around his neck. He then straightens up, maintaining a purchase on Nidhi’s legs, and affords the child an unobstructed view of the action. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Preeti checking out his bulging biceps.
‘I play soccer,’ Kamau explains, without turning to look at her. ‘We have to keep fit.’
‘Actually, I was looking at your veins,’ Preeti says. ‘They’re really popping. Don’t they hurt?’
And indeed, Kamau’s veins are as pronounced on his ebony skin as the sewage piping of a high-rise building.
‘Nah,’ Kamau says. ‘Nobody feels their veins.’
When the main body of marchers passes, Kamau lowers Nidhi back onto the ground. Preeti takes Nidhi’s hand, thanks The Man of a Thousand Veins, and strolls back to their shop. Kamau stands rooted on the spot, watching Preeti’s retreating back until she has completely vanished.
***
Excerpt from ‘Paper Moon’
‘Can I tell you a secret?’ I say.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You were my crush in high school.’
She smiles. ‘Stop lying.’
‘For real. You still are.’
She cocks her head to see if I’m kidding. She was one of about three truly hot girls in our class. Boys crushing on them was as natural as breathing. No biggie.
‘You’re a special guy,’ she says. ‘I don’t know how I would be coping with this mess if it wasn’t for you.’
‘It’s literally my job,’ I say, moving away from the window, past her supine form. ‘Speaking of which, I need to get back to Nairobi.’
She laboriously sits up and escorts me to the door.
‘I’ll be waiting for your call,’ she says as we hug goodbye. Her lips brush against my cheek. I’m not sure if we collided or she gave me a peck.
***
I call Waceke the very next day. She answers on the first ring.
‘We need to meet,’ I say. ‘I have some news.’
‘I’m so glad you called,’ her deep, sexy voice returns. ‘I have some news, too.’
‘Can we meet today?’ It’s almost 5:00 PM and I’m wondering how fast I can slip through the net of Nairobi traffic.
‘OK. Whatever time you arrive just come to the lodging. Call me when you’re downstairs.’
I get to Murang’a shortly after 7:00PM. Traffic was brutal. Waceke is wearing a black t-shirt and pink knee-length pleated skirt. The wording on the front of the t-shirt is: ‘BEAUTY IS IN THE EYES OF THE BEER HOLDER’. She must have just taken a bath because I can smell the soap and feel the warm, moist air on my face.
‘There’s a pub on the other side of the market,’ I say. ‘Can we talk there? I haven’t eaten or drunk anything since breakfast.’
‘OK. Let me just put on a blouse.’
She pulls the t-shirt over her head. She’s wearing a white lace-fronted bra. For a slim girl, she has sizeable boobs, especially when viewed from the side. She’s not shy about showing off her body. This is a person that has strutted in front of hundreds of people in a bikini, smiling all the while. She goes the wardrobe, grabs a shiny, vertically-striped blouse and buttons it up as she ponders which shoes to wear. She settles on some new stiletto-heeled boots, grabs a purse and her beloved smartphone, and we’re off.
It’s relatively quiet outside, the market closed. I look up at the blackening sky and the pale grey orb rising gently over the town.
‘ “A naked moon stood in a naked sky”,’ I quote.
‘Eti nini?’
‘It’s a line from a classic spy novel titled The Man Who Was Thursday. It’s about a philosophical team of Scotland Yard detectives tracking down anarchists in Europe.’
‘Oh,’ she quips.
No follow-up questions. She’s not the literary kind. Come to think of it, her room didn’t have any reading material at all. I love books, myself. And music. Culture. I’m pretty sure my teenage love for espionage novels and films influenced my career choice.
We continue walking in silence, shoulder to shoulder. We can hear each other’s footsteps, smell each other’s scents. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a very romantic walk!
Alexander Nderitu is an award-winning writer, poet, playwright, and critic. Some of his works have been translated into Arabic, Japanese, Chinese, Kiswahili, French, Swedish, Dholuo, Gikuyu, and Czech.
His most recent book is Disco Matanga, a collection of love stories set in Africa.
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