It is a little into dusk and She is late. With a furrowed brow he thinks … Maybe tonight she will come, she has to. He stubs out his cigarette and walks into the club making a beeline to his now usual seat and waits. Past the struggling rays disappearing off the balcony, past the neon frenzy of lights, past the chorus of touts and blaring matatu horns. He is nursing cold Guinnesses. That is supposed to help. Glancing at his brand new chronometer, it is almost 10pm. Anytime now, she will come. Time for another cold one. He takes the time to admire the new chronometer, turning it to the glow of the Smirnoff guarana light box. She was right, something about seeing through to the gears is inviting. No, what was that word She used? Alluring. Yes, alluring. She will approve.
He feels her just before he sees her. What soapy bullshit! Ati feels her. Whatever! Growing up in a village overrun by night runners, the hair on his nape had grown accustomed to sensing foreign spirits. She has her friends, as usual, and she takes the lead looking for seats. He is perfectly positioned so that she sees that his table is free.
“Excuse me… Are these seats taken?” Polite No. She finally recognises him. Her voice raised a tad over ‘gal a bubble’. “Sasa! Wah! Coincidence nayo. Ama unanistalk?” He sees only her lips. Curved lips. Full lips. Soft lips. Yes, I am stalking you; but… Hehehe ati stalking! Na umejileta kwa local yangu? comes out instead. Laughing… Gloriously melodic. Sip some more Guinness.
Her girls arrive. Introductions. Useless because he does not retain their names. There is some small talk. Sipping her Snapp. She nods her head to Sauti Sol. She closes her eyes, smiling, swaying to the beat. It’s almost time. They are chatting in that giggly, high pitched squealing delight in the way women enjoying themselves do. He uses the time to look at her. Her eyes and small nose. Not much make up. This is a good thing. Then her lips. Spellbinding, luscious lips. There are breast men, hip men, back office men, leg men, color men blah blah blah. He is a lip man. Most people don’t understand the power of lips. Opening, closing, smiling, kissing, suckling… “… chronometer, May I?” Oh heck! He missed that. When in doubt, say yes. Yeah. Then she does the unthinkable. Touching his hand. Manoeuvering it this way and that. Her hands are not too soft. But that’s OK. She is touching him. Upon this sensation his nape hairs stand up. Again.
‘Nishike’ Or girls gone wild. “I love this song.” With that she is on the floor. Which is conveniently near their table, giving an uninhibited view of all the visual delights a man needs in a woman. The laser lights illuminate her outfit. Heels are not too high, legs shapely and long, thighs thick in luminous colored shorts. The type that aren’t too tight or loose culminating in hips full and wide. Tapering into a waist up to the life giving bulge of a sweet bosom. He has She dancing in front of him. Swaying, turning, twisting, bending. 12k for a swanky watch, 3weeks of going to the same loud and crowded club and waiting for hours… It’s all worth it. She catches me watching her. Her lips curve in a seductive arch. She turns in my direction. Her hands beckoning me. A man like me does not wait for a woman like that to ask twice.
I went to her. On that dance floor. For close to 30 unforgettable minutes She made a puppet out of a grown man. Muscle, brain and sinew nothing but putty in the hands of this singing, or rather dancing siren. She leads me by the hand to a darker corner of the club. Against the wall she rubs herself on me. She puts my hands to her hips and bends low, then lower. Having relieved all rational thought to the relief of my lower extremities, May I kiss you? She stops, turns drawing me close so so she can whisper in my ear. “My boyfriend wouldn’t like that.” With that she blows a kiss and walks back to our table.