Tales Of Etemesi

Kisses In Kisumu

It’s July 2015 at 11pm on a Wednesday night.

I’ve just landed at JKIA from Rwanda where I had been invited to give a speech about blogging at the University of Kigali. My friend Chris was supposed to pick me up but he has just called me to inform me that his car has had an engine malfunction along the way. He is working on fixing it but it’s going to take some time. Given that I’m tired and can’t wait that long, I opt for a taxi.

As I am walking out of the terminal, a svelte, beautifully groomed white woman catches her purse on a turnstile and upends it, spilling a deluge of money. Coins rain on the marble floor and roll merrily away. People dodge the chaos and keep going as if they didn’t see what happened. I wince in sympathy and crouch to help the woman collect her money, as does one of the guards

Unfortunately, the woman doesn’t even say ’thank you’. She just walks away as soon as she has all her money back in her purse. Like it was our duty to help her. What an ungrateful bish.

As I get up and take a step back, I trip and fall. Aaah..what kind of shit is this now? . My elbows throb from the violent contact with the marble floor, but I scarcely register the pain. I am too preoccupied with staring, riveted by the new woman now standing in front of me. Her Inky black hair frames a breathtaking face. Her bone structure would make a sculptor weep with joy, while a firmly etched mouth, a blade of a nose, and intensely dark eyes make her savagely gorgeous. She looks a bit older, probably in her early thirties but still more stunning than most women my age.

‘‘Sorry, are you hurt?” she asks as she puts her bags down. Her voice is cultured and smooth, with a rasp that makes my stomach flutter. The kind of voice that brings sex to mind. Extraordinary sex. I think for a moment that she might be able to make me immobile just by talking long enough.

She then extends a soft hand to help back to my feet.

“I am okay” I say with a shaky inhalation as I place my hand on hers. My pulse leaps when her grip tightens. Her touch is electric, sending a shock up my arm that raises the hairs on my nape.

I feel drawn to her, as if a rope is binding my waist and she is slowly, inexorably puling it. Blinking out of my semi-daze, I study her further. She isn’t just beautiful; she is…enthralling. She has the kind of breasts that make a man want to rip her shirt open and watch the buttons scatter along a room. I look at her in her civilized, urbane, outrageously expensive female suit and think of raw, primal, sheet-clawing #######.

The first rule of pickup is that when you are extremely smitten by a woman, you should always say something. Anything. Or else you’ll feel like punching yourself after she leaves. So I ask

“Are you heading to town? Rafiki yangu alikua anipick but gari yake imeharibika kwa njia”

“Oh sure…come I’ll drop you. My driver is waiting for me. Hurry up”

I accompany her to the parking lot where a brand new Toyota Land Cruiser is waiting. We get in and speed off to town.

While on our way, she says nothing. I don’t say anything either because I can’t hit on her in front of her driver. Maybe he’s her husband’s snitch. Maybe he’s even smashing her. Who knows?

After arriving in town, I thank the lady for the ride then go on to board a taxi.

Upon arriving home, I go straight to bed, disappointed that I didn’t get her number but rather proud of my career achievements. I had never imagined I’d be giving a speech at a foreign university. Awesome.

In the morning, I am woken up by a call

“Hello, I am Miss Oduor, the lady who dropped you off in town yesternight. You dropped your wallet and passport in my car.”