You are an 18-year-old. A blogger to be precise. Your life is a mix of both post-high school memories and trying to step into the shoes of tender adulthood. You’ve attended a few parties here and there; all of which you most probably talked to some pretty bird (And told her you own a blog, of course)
She is mildly interested as you ramble on about the kind of stories you write and what a following you have; and you’re saving to buy a domain (You lie; because every shilling you get either ends up in your stomach or as airtime)
She says while checking whether her girlfriend has texted her. You try to cover for your utter lack of charm by asking her for a dance (Clearly knowing you have two left feet – but you saunter on nevertheless – no son of Koitalel ever backs off from a woman)
She asks, with this look on her face that speaks volumes about your scant knowledge of history – or rather, current affairs. It hits you hard that the year is 2017 and not 1978 when you could just talk up a female and ask for a waltz.
“Uhmmm…ah…I mean, don’t you want to grab a drink?”
You ask a second time, you are sweating at the armpits and you thank the benevolent gods that you wore a jacket – lest she smells fear.
“Well, I guess I don’t mind,”
You realize you have not been breathing for the last what? 50 seconds? And you sigh and inhale before you pass out.
She said yes.
“What’s your name again?…ah..don’t tell me,” She closes her eyes pretending to remember a name you never told her.
You will probably never know whether she ever did remember.
You take two Coke cans, open them and hand her one. (Coke; one because hard liquor has never seen the inside of your stomach; and two, you still live in your mother’s place and any of her offspring who as much smells like alcohol is banished to the shed)
You talk with her and you find out that you both share a passionate love for smokie pasua, chapo madondo, nyama choma (Ah…a true Nairobian) and dry jokes – the Trevor Noah kind. You pleasantly resign to the fact that she’s not one of these hare-brained Nairobi girls who insist you take them out to Java or Coldstone; when you can barely afford a decent meal of ugali (That’s the glitterati type – with an Instagram following as big as her ego and a billion-dollar attitude)
She tells you she lives in Kahawa Sukari and you reply in a surprised voice; that you also live there (Although you have never been anywhere past Nairobi)
Somewhere in between this téte-a-téte, you begin to notice her full lips; the way she arched her eyebrow every time she asked a question; her Tom Ford Fleur de Portofino perfume; her dark, dense, short, kinky hair; the womanly slowness of her gait; her nose ring that caught light everytime she shook her head this way and that way; and maybe, just maybe, the way she ran her hands through her hair whenever you smiled.
She notices your second hand Ralph Lauren shirt from Muthurwa market, your vans for shoes (that you stole from your brother) the way you kept on smoothing that crease on your shirt and blushing like a 10-year old girl.
“Are you shy?” She asks.
“Me?…Uhmm..yes…I mean no,” you stutter.
You feel thoroughly embarrassed and exposed as you try to hide your hands in your pockets.
“You’re not so badly off yourself,”
You calmly say, trying hard not to reveal the inner turmoil that is raging inside you. You have never felt like this; not ever since Beatrice-with-the-long-legs left you two years ago.
And since you have no other choice – you follow her into one of the many rooms in the house.
She sits you on the bed and closes the door behind her. This is the point where all the sex education classes back in school come flooding back. You try to recall what was said about contraceptives and safe days.
“Have you ever done this before?”
“Uhmm..what?” You ask-and your blood pressure rises.
She comes and sits next to you and whispers in your ear. Naturally, something awakens in your pants and there is nothing you can do about it. You don’t want her to start thinking that you are one of the easy ones. So you start to think of everything that turns you off (Ashy elbows, city council toilets and saggy tits) but none of this works because her hand is now on your crotch.
Now you try to remember whether you had a Durex tucked in your wallet because you cannot – I repeat – cannot let this chance pass.
It’s a rollercoaster ride from here and you earnestly wish you never met her in the first place. She’s got you cornered- and when you’re most vulnerable.
“What do you want?” you ask.
“To be in Hell with you,”
She says in the midst of her soft moans, digging her nails deeper into your back. Her eyes a different colour altogether. Her back arched. With every move, her patience stretched to the limit. Her eyes shut in bliss. Her moans turned into demands.
You still remember the look on her face, frozen in your memory. Her expression contorted in a confusing mix of pleasure and anger.
All this time your mind was clear. Calm. You felt detached from your body; from what you were doing. It was as if you were watching it from afar.
You hear her let out a lustful gasp – as she breaks into a shattering orgasm. A feeling of pride wells up inside of you – you’ve been able (quite miraculously, of course) to satisfy a female.
You dress up, kiss her goodbye and leave.
You feel empty. You feel frustrated. You feel unfulfilled. You feel tired, desecrated and filthy. The kind of tiredness that weighs on your spirit and drains you of all emotion.
Her name is Alyssa.
She was using you.
And you loved it.