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Twisted Worlds (A long read, longer than Obado’s misfortunes.)

Stony

Village Elder
#1
If you are old with a balding head, you may recall my encounter with Ndila, the Kamba beauty who swung her long leg over my back to heel in my package into her womanhood, almost making me cum through my mouth, nose, and eyes. For Ndila, I became a repeat customer for many days and weeks to come. The thought of rolling her tight satin panties down the taut bottoms always left me high on adrenalin. For the first time in my life, I began to understand why men act stupid and irrationally once intoxicated with female warmth. If I had the means then, I would not have hesitated to domesticate Ndila. The sweetness of the wet patch was overpowering to both my body and spirit, despite the strange hurdles that would appear later in the form of yet another female.

Although life was extra tough in that wasteland that is Kambaland, the anticipation of laying Ndila each Sunday kept me going from one day to the next. What is more, she would bring me bucketfuls of ripe mangoes during the fruit season. This was just about the most wonderful item on that dry land, as it would break the long durations of chronic hunger. The hunger was so bad I actually shed 15 kilograms without lifting a finger. The furthest anyone could think was food, and all discussions almost always revolved around food. I still adore those yellow mangoes to date. Actually I developed this strange reflex of salivating at the sight of anything with a bright-yellow colour, including caterpillar tractors.

Dear brethren, when Stony says life was tough, just take it in faith. Perhaps a brief account of my background could help put things into perspective. First off, Stony had experienced a hybrid lifestyle. Stony was brought up between Kibera and Karen, literally, and therefore absorbed everything between the two extremes. Although he was born in Kibera, he spent a considerable part of his early years living with the grandmother who worked for a Scottish couple in Karen. The couple had two kids, a boy and a girl who were roughly my age mates. Although my grandma would scold me for playing with the kids, the couple did not mind it, and even encouraged it, strangely. That explains why Stony, the watchman, spoke good English like any other teacher, and was sometimes mistaken for a teacher by new teachers, and why at one point he was convinced by the headmaster to step in as a teacher during a staffing crisis. This would never be a challenge to me because, unlike the infamous Wakanyama, education has never been my enemy. In this school, the longest serving teacher would be two months old. Even teachers from the locality could not stand the hardships. When a relative of Deja Vu rejects a job, just know it wasn’t meant for the average human.

The second side of Stony is made up of mannerisms picked up from Kibera slums. Some of these mannerisms are so deeply ingrained they become second nature. Dump sites and the goodies they carry are not strange places to Stony. Apart from a taut ass wrapped in tight satin panties, the only other thing that will get my blood rushing is the acrid smell of rotting garbage. If the great scribe Mabenda4 could be truthful for one moment, he can confirm that instincts picked from the dump site never go away no matter how far up you climb. For instance, when my madam discards bread that happens to be slightly off, I will wait until she’s out of sight before I embark on a salvage mission. In other instances, I will instinctively dash for that falling piece of meat before the gentleman in me kicks in to remind me that I am in a diner function. In short, by the time Stony acknowledges that a situation is stinking, the likes of Sunny Mango and Nyarwath will have surrendered a decade earlier.

As I had mentioned at the beginning, my escapades with Ndila would soon bring me face-to-face with challenges I never knew existed. For those who have never had the opportunity to observe huge groups of females at close range, I can now reveal to you that strange things happen when females are put together. This you would never anticipate in the real world where girls are supposed to be naïve, shy, and sweet. I will explain this shortly as we proceed but first let me tell you about Mutiso.

Mutiso was the school cook of sorts, but complemented this job description with other tasks such as cleaning the compound, fixing things around the school, and gathering general and specialized intelligence from within and outside the school. He carried the title of the Senior cook, not because there were other cooks beneath him, but because he had been on the job forever. He was the typical Kamba, with genes inherited from a pure-breed of long-distance traders. He is one of those fellows who will get you confused when you discover that some of the students he had cooked-for many years back look older than him. He is the kind of man who will entertain you with stories of what he had done to women, their children, and their grandchildren without breaking any laws. In brief, Mutiso was a man whose age you could not tell just by looking at him. Actually he would smash female teachers I could not afford to touch even in my dreams. We became close friends with Mutiso as I would occasionally buy him kalovo and he would in turn make sure I never died of hunger. I will forever be indebted to this man. Our friendship grew strong and that meant we could break rules to extend favours to each other. Being the kitchen master, he provided me with food despite the fact that I was not entitled to feed from the school kitchen. In return, I would let him traffic anything from the school compound without asking too many questions. That was the unspoken agreement.

Now there is this one rainy evening when, as Mutiso exits the gate heading to the staff quarters, he hands me a red lunch box full of Ugali, some watery sukuma, and two pieces of meat. He also informs me that a certain form 3 student would be walking out at about 8.00 pm, and that I should let her through. I try to ask questions but he tells he will explain later, at which point I assume maybe the girl is a relative. At the same time, I can read excitement in his voice, which leaves me confused. An hour or so later the girl appears, chit-chats me flirtingly, and later heads out towards the staff-quarters about 200 metres away. The houses are hidden behind a thick fence of some ever-green shrubs. I do not read much into this, given that Mutiso is an old respectable man who loves his kalovo (the local beer that would give me an instant running stomach). However, I take note when the girl fails to come back after about thirty minutes. I had assumed she was going to pick or drop something from Mutiso. One hour later, she still hasn’t turned back. At this point, myriad questions start crossing my mind; Could I have released the wrong student? What if she was not going to see Mutiso? What if she doesn’t come back? It is now one and a half hours since she left, and at this point I decide to head towards the servant-quarters, at least to confirm that my orientation of events was consistent. As I approach the mabati rooms from a distant, I can see light in Mutiso’s house, and this gives me relief. However, the responsible adult in me convinces me that I should make a verbal confirmation with Mutiso just to be sure.

I walk hastily towards the door but just before I knock, some strange intense gasps stop me on my tracks. Clearly, I can tell that they are coming from Mutiso’s room since the other two adjoining rooms had no occupants. At first I suspect he could be having some medical emergency, but a few seconds later my mind opens up a little bit, and I decide to consider the possibility that the improbable could be happening. With rising adrenalin, my ghetto training kicks in; this is now a reconnaissance mission. I immediately ease out of my sandals, with my heart thumping audibly, and I silently tiptoe to the back of the houses where the windows are located. Thanks to sloppy workmanship and contraction of wet timber, the wood planks that make-up the windows are separated by spaces wide enough to accommodate a matchbox. In slow motion, I stretch my neck and peek inside the first crack- the sight the meets my eyes makes me swallow a huge gulp of saliva involuntarily and audibly, despite trying hard not to make any sounds that might betray my presence. Luckily, the room was well lit with a 70 watts bulb, and had very few items that could obscure my view or judgment. Quickly, I could confirm severally that I was looking at a sweaty Mutiso engaging a female in a nude contest. With a familiar school uniform heaped on the table, I did not need an Einstein brain to connect the dots. For a moment, I panic at the thought of the consequences that would result if anyone found out that I was an accessory to this event. After trying to make sense of the scene without much success, I tiptoe back to my station, sweating profusely and confused. The girl would walk back an hour later smelling like burnt tyres. By this time my mind had gone numb from the racing thoughts, but I was somewhat relieved that there would be no missing student come morning.

I come to understand the situation a few days later when Mutiso invites me to accompany him to his kalovo sessions some three Kamba-kilometers away from the school. Not to get you confused, what is considered a walking distance in kambaland would leave most of you with medical conditions if not dead, especially if you share any resemblances to Bingwa. It is during this session that Mutiso explains many things to me, some of which leave me a worried man. One revelation was that every male in the school had been allocated a female student by the girls themselves. No other girl would be allowed to encroach on the matched couples. On the other hand, any resistance to play ball on the part of the selected male would attract hostility from the group, including false accusations of sexual harassment. As I came to learn, a few males had lost their jobs this way. Interestingly, all the girls stuck to this order and were happy to cheer-on the relationships. In return, the selected girls would entertain the rest with the day-to-day progress of their liaisons, graphics included where applicable. I may hasten to add that not all couples had amorous liaisons. However, the consecrated ‘union’ stood by all means, including beatings to new girls who dared show too much teeth to ‘taken’ males.

Up to this point, I had refused to admit to myself that a certain mini-momo was crossing my path too often, using every opportunity to strike a conversation or tease me. I would never let my mind wonder dangerously because I liked my job, loved my salary, and dreaded prison. In my slum-life, I have seen 17 year-old amateur prostitutes entertain 99 men, only for the 100th man to face jail after being caught. It is after Mutiso’s revelation that things became clear as to where I was headed. Apparently, this mini-momo had been selected for me. I cannot exactly describe what she looked like because that will stir my blood. But I can tell you that she was of medium height with very exaggerated hips. She had a round face and wore glasses, which made her look extremely innocent. She was also accustomed to wearing taut skirts, the kind you cannot stare at without revealing your thought train. What happened between me and this mini-momo deserves a volume of its own. But the short of it is that a tight skirt can change the course of a man’s life, as Samson Obado can attest. I will be back with this part; someday, before the taxes kill me.
 
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