If I had a bullet, for every news bulletin, I would be married!
I am in kamau’s house, comfortably stretched out on his new sofa set, staring at the roof, busy building castles in the air. You see, he does not know it yet but, it is only a matter of time before his house and everything in it becomes mine, I will change the curtains, burn his overly violent Movie collection replace it with my Ramsey Noah collection, exchange his play station for a cute dressing table I saw at the market, throw out all his nasty wall pictures-I have never liked Britney spears and Avril, showing off their breasts like I don’t have mine, and paint the living room pink with a shade of pink, soon.
“Kamau,so when are you coming to see my parents, it has been two years since we started Dating”
I address him as my trail of thought lazily retreat to a spectator distance
“mmh” he responds, his eyes glued to the television as if he is watching something important. I cannot understand his absurd relationship with the news bulletins, he never seems to settle on one channel, always flipping across the many channels, shifting uneasily with every switch, men who will understand them! Convinced that we can have no meaningful discussion, I decide to play musical chairs with cups, pots and kettles in his fancy kitchen.
However,as I make my way to the kitchen, I experience a cold shiver that seems to sting my spinal cord, there is a loud screeching choir in my head, I see a tiny woman standing at the tip of my nose violently spitting into my eyes, as if she wants me to see something I am not seeing, there is a sole female deejay near my ear playing sirens and gunshots sounds jingles, instinctively I know what it is- where I come from we call it a woman’s six sense, in the big cities I hear they call it a woman’s instinct’s.
I turn back to face the father of my six future children and even then,watching him flip through the channels, I cannot figure out what is wrong.
Is he cheating on me? Is he lying to me? I ponder,
At this Point let me categorically state my ground on the questions raised, If kamau ever cheats on me he shall discover that goat’s droppings are not peas, I do not wish to expound further for I might secure an abrupt state Visit in the numerous state lodges.
Suddenly, watching him glued to the flickering box, licking his lips to tame escaping droll, it hits me.
He flips to one channel just in time to catch a pair of legs catwalk across the studio, he flips to another channel and lets out his tongue at the curves that fill the screen, he flips to another channel and pauses to watch the shinning thighs, with every switch there are behinds threatening to jump of tight skirts, there are flowing weaves, more legs, a flash of peeping mammary … wait a minute, wait just a minute! Kamau is not watching the news, he is not interested in the Egyptian unrest, or attempting to understand the twists and turns of the teacher’s strike, and the price shares of Kakuzi and Uchumi, neither is he interested in comparing consumer prices in the supermarkets!, he is ogling at them, the ones who read the news, while men like Kamau ‘read all their news’ At this point the choir in my head is doing a rendition of some fifty cent song, whose main theme is murder,at the back of my head, I hear a woman load a gun, and my fingers are itching to caress a vein or two.
All this while, dearest Kamau, the one who will open for me an M-pesa shop in six months – though he doesn’t know it,is still glued, unaware of his Impending visit to his distant ancestors, but as if to save him, the ancestors warn him and he turns slightly, inclining his left eye sharply towards the set,and his thump resting eagerly on the remote control,
“Darling I am hungry prepare mukimo before you leave, oh look at her (pointing at the screen with the remote),look at those legs, and the figure” he continues.
In my head I am standing at the middle of a blood bathed wrestling arena, surrounded by armed police officers from the Anti-terror squad flaked with trained Killer dogs, and I am not scared, women from the City call what I am feeling-jealousy, but here in my Village we call it-oh hell no! no he didn’t!
“When is your burial” I think out loud,
he turns to me again keeping one eye on the TV,
“kwani who died, and why do you look pale? anyway, I hope the food will be ready soon am starving” he finishes,
In my mind am now standing alone in the arena, having killed the whole squad with my bare hands, their vicious dogs are now puppies playing with my shoestrings. I retreat back to the kitchen to re-group, after gulping down a cold glass of water which seems to invite back reason.
Calm down, its only women on TV, completely harmless, I convince myself as I stand to stroll around the kitchen, stopping to stare at the shiny kettle, which stares back at me. I like the images resting on the back of the kettle, I see a beautiful woman, with a graceful neck, beautiful arms that may jiggle a little bit,a nice waist decorated with one or two love bumps, hips that can hold children and carry firewood at the same time, and my behind has been described by the local security forces, several government commissions and various serious non-governmental organizations as ‘neck breaking, accident causing, war starting, and meeting the fifty plus one threshold’ to make matters worse, I have been summoned by the area chief several times, and warned against walking along any government marked road, and fined heavily for reckless endangerment,conspiracy to commit murder and other big worded, scary sounding crimes. But must they blame me? Is it my fault that the creator molded our clan on Saturday evening, when he had extra soil that he did not want to waste, is it my fault?
No weapon formed against me shall prosper, all these new bulletin women threatening to ensure My left hand finger remains empty will not succeed, their plans to ensure that gravity swings on my south headed breasts will not prosper,by fire! by fire!”
Thirty minutes later I am mashing up potatoes, maize and beans whistling to Ben Githae’s ‘maya ni mabataro makwa’. Kamau, He who will buy me horse hair and high heels just like those girls on the Television,he will herd cows into my mother’s homestead without seeing any leaf on the ground,without being begged, he just does not know it yet, read my lips.
Mtu ya picha: Ambani Patrick