

## UNDERNEATH

## these
## SKIRTS

A novel by NJOKI wa MAITHA

This novel is a work of fiction. All of the names and characters in this book are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is utterly coincidental.

Njoki wa Maitha asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Copyright © 2014 by Njoki wa Maitha. All rights reserved.

Cover photo copyright ©2014 by Njoki wa Maitha

Cover photo illustration by Light in Captivity/Njoki wa Maitha.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, copied or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except by a reviewer who may quote brief quotations in a critical review.

Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

DEDICATION

This book is most importantly dedicated to me; for believing that I can make it, and making it happen.

One Year Ago

Sunday 10:45pm

I am lying on top of my friend's bed, staring at the stained white washed ceiling of her hostel room that is almost falling off. Caro is never around, neither is her roommate. Most of the time I find myself crashing in here when I don't want anyone to bother me, when I want to concentrate and study for my CATs, or when I want to cry myself to sleep, like I am doing tonight.

It's getting late and I try to concentrate and pay attention to my crazy fantasies, the kind of lullaby fantasies that send me to sleep with a smile, but at most times, these fantasies only help in draining every tear from my eyes and soaking wet my pillow. Maybe I should stop fantasising about tragic stories and instead replace them with the happily ever after bed time fairy tales. Tragic stories though are a lot more nourishing, for it's during such days that I sleep the best; not like a baby, but more like a corpse.

The girl next door is having lots of fun. I can barely build my characters or create conversations with them. I always fear that someday she will fall from her bed and handicap her sexy figure. The squeaky noises from that room are killing me. As soon as I learn to filter them and I'm ready to pick up my fantasies from the last scene, she starts moaning, then screaming, and then shouting curse words. Her boyfriend must be the real deal; not many guys are capable of getting a woman to climax. I once tried giving her a role in my imaginary world, as a professional call girl, but, all I ever imagined was her sleeping with my imaginary boyfriend.

Tonight, I think that I could after all give her a role.

Again, my fantasies are brought to a halt upon the arrival of an unexpected visitor. He's repeatedly banging on the night nurse's door; but this doesn't stop her from telling the whole world how good her man is making her feel. I am thinking it's another one of her clients who has either arrived too early, or is in need of impromptu services.

"Madam, who do you have with you in there?" I hear the watchman's voice asking.  
"What, how is that your business?" She rudely responds amidst her moans.

Since sex is the only thing capable of transforming a classy lady into a real gangster, I was expecting a better answer like,

'Nilidhani ni majambazi, kumbe ni watchie.'

"Men are not allowed into the ladies hostel after 10.00 pm, so if you have hidden a man there ask him to leave. Sitaki kupoteza kazi" Says the watchman.

I hear her walk towards the door, open it, say nothing and slam it behind her.

What's going on over there? Did she just confront him stark naked, or did she spit on his face, or maybe she just rolled her eyes?

The watchman continues banging at the door, but she doesn't open. She instead puts on very loud hip-hop music that sends the door, window and walls of my friend's room vibrating. A few pieces of the old ceiling fall on Caro's bed. With that kind of music, I can't even concentrate on building her character as a sexual goddess in my fantasies. All that I see is her and an unknown dark faced man tearing each other apart with passionable lust. I want to create a romantic scene, but she's prompting me into turning it into an 18+ commercial sex scene.

I do not blame her. She, just like me, is already old enough to be someone's wife and a mother to at least two kids. By the time my mother was my age; she was already married and was on the verge of welcoming the family's third born into the poverty stricken and religiously possessed family. I hated poverty as much as I hated religion. But, it's through this obsession that my father had demanded that I enrol in Christian learning institutions, from primary to secondary and now college. But in here, religion was just a word to be preached about but never to be practised.

He had liked the idea that there were certain clothes we weren't supposed to wear, certain ways we were never allowed to talk, certain relationships we were never allowed to think about, and a thousand rituals we were forced to perform.

"How many of you are virgins?" The lecturers would always ask the new students during the orientation week. They would then counsel the new brood about being responsible and entrusting their bodies to Christ, for they were indeed the temples of the Holy Spirit. To them though, that question was nothing but THE BAIT. If you looked clearly, you could see them ogle and salivate for this brand new and yet to be contaminated pieces of cake. A week after, affairs would be started, a number of cats and bull fights would kick off, girls would start wearing extra baggy clothes to hide pregnancies, some would be suspended, and others, out of shame, would transfer to far away colleges.

Last semester, 47 girls disappeared mysteriously from campus as soon as motherhood came knocking. This got everyone talking, especially the Holy churches that had for so long been proud to be associated with this first ever Christian University.

The Dean of Students was irate. She lectured us for hours about the high increase of condoms found lying within and around the hostels. She called it immorality, cursed the devil that had possessed our innocence and prayed for a whole one hour so that the demons in us would leave us in peace. Too bad, she ended up passing out before saying Amen.

After weeks of brainstorming, the administration came up with an ultimate solution that turned us into prisoners rather than students. Every day after 10.00 pm, the watchman/housekeeper was to make rounds within the hostels and sniff around for men's colognes, eavesdrop at girl-talk with hopes of catching a husky man's voice, or listen for any funny screams or noises from passionate lovers that managed to escape the tiny walls and cracks of the student rooms.

Three months after expunging the devil in us, the rate at which girls' starting falling pregnant became alarming. Of course the administration didn't find out, because the pregnancies were aborted long before morning sickness kicked in. And last week, we finally made it to the papers as the best Christian University in the entire East African region!

The constant knocks from next door subside, but in a matter of seconds, I start hearing them from a closer range. It must be the watchman, doing what he does best; snooping around. I keep wondering what was written in his job description and what qualifications he had to have for him to be awarded the job. How I wish that I had enough courage to open the door and scream at him just like every other girl in this hostel does, but I can't, because this isn't my room, and I don't want to abuse the courtesy my friend grants me of crashing into her territory.

The door knob starts turning... For the next few minutes I don't hear any footsteps leave the door and it's evident that Big Brother is trying to peep through the keyhole. He is such a pervert! What this guy needs is to be set up...and I can't wait to share my plan with my friend.

I choose to not open.

But, if I don't, he may slip in a warning ticket under the door requesting that my friend report to the Dean of students' office. No one has ever been able to win their case against the dean.

After a few minutes of keeping my fingers crossed and praying to the few Saints I know of, Mr. Pervert leaves for the next door.

I am so lucky to have switched off the main light and used the lampshade instead. The last thing I want is to get Caro in trouble since without her, my life is not worth living.

Minutes later, I hear a key ram at the door. I doubt if it's Caro for she never arrives this early...she is the kind of girl who recalls her way back home during the wee hours; sometime between midnight and dawn. Though the University does not allow students in at such times, she never fails to find a corruptible watchman to bribe at the main entrance.

I immediately jump off the bed, turn off the lampshade and hide under the study desk. The door opens, the lights go on, and someone jumps on the bed leaving it squeaking for a couple of seconds, a sound that brings the watchman back to the room in a flash. I can't let him see me. I immediately dash out from my hiding place and rush towards the door. On seeing me, the girl lying on top of the bed jumps off while screaming her lungs out as she dashes for the door after me. I bump on the door and fall with a big thud. The other girl falls on top of me. The watchman just stands there, watching, surprised, but also excited.

"I always knew there was something going on between you two." He says with a cheeky smile and leaves.

I turn to see Caro trying to get off my back. I am shocked.

"It was you?" I ask her while still trying to catch my breath and get on my feet.

"Did you hear him? He just called us lesbians!" She responds.

"You are back early. I wasn't expecting you." I later tell her after we have both composed ourselves and are sitting on top of her bed, nursing a few minor injuries.

"I too wasn't expecting to find you hiding under there. What's going on, who were you hiding from?"

"That pervert guy had been standing at the door for ages and when I heard the door key, I thought he was up to something. Anyway, how was the date?"

"Not bad. I had to spend my savings on treating him only to have him leave for a meeting even before dessert was served. But, he compensated for it!"

I hate it when my friends talk so admirably of their fathers. I never had a father growing up. Not that he is dead, or missing. Physically, he had always been there. Actually, he was omnipresent. But, he is the kind of an African father whom many Africans children were forced to grow up with: the kind that kids run away from, whom last word is final, the kind that never smiles or complements anyone. From our early childhood, everytime he entered the room, we would all run to our rooms and lock ourselves in, whispering in low tones. He hated us talking loudly or even laughing. The only time we used to have a conversation with him is when he was asking about our academic performance and it would be an all Yes and No kind of conversation from us. He would shout at us whenever we said too much, or used words like Maybe, I'm not sure or I don't know. He would then spend the rest of the year verbally abusing us for being stupid as our mother and for embarrassing him.

As a little girl, I had loved him. Slowly by slowly though, the deep love and admiration I had for him was in no time replaced by fear. We feared him, but in his mind, he assumed that it was respect. It only took a few years of wisdom before I realized that I no longer feared him. I hated him, and so did my sisters.

I loathed having him around so much that I and my sisters contemplated killing him a million and one times. He had put us through too much stress, and if he were to die, we had to make his death worth remembering. Nothing to do with a single shot on the head, but a couple of weeks or months in some abandoned old house where we would torture him to the very last minute of his day on earth. But, everytime we thought about the death penalty, and the depression our mother would have to live with, we felt that getting rid of him was not good enough.

Inside my tiny head I used to pray that mama and he would get divorced so that I would leave with her. But she was excessively kind, tolerant, forgiving and submissive. That day never came to be; and probably will never be.

Up to date I can't stand friends, or anyone who speak highly of their fathers. I envy them, and whenever they bring up that discussion, I change it to how dependant they are and that they are to blame for lack of gender empowerment for always having to sulk up to men.

Now that I had joined campus and was in my third year, I promised myself that I would spend my first salary on getting a DNA test to establish whether he was my biological father. I worked hard, always emerged on top of my class and was everyone's envy. Life wasn't good, it never had been, but soon-within the next one or two years, it would come to be.

"Hey, are you listening...or did you once again leave me blabbing to myself?" I hear Caro say as she waves her hand in-front of my face, close enough to poke my eyes.

"Yes, of course...you want me to accompany you to that clinic."

"So will you? I know I have been asking a lot from you lately but, I promise, this is the last time. I am so done with men. From now on, I am taking back my virginity...secondary virginity, or is it tertiary virginity?"

#1

I was loved

Nourished, appreciated

Really, really loved

Then

A hungry passerby passed by

Stunned by my beauty

He plucked me

Tasted then spat

I wasn't ripe yet

There I was

All alone

Never to be salivated for again

Saturday Evening

It's yet one of those weekends that separate the college singles from the attached, the rich from the poor, and the introverts from the extroverts. All of my friends are going out. Myself, though I have never gone out, I have a more than clear image of what goes on out there. The wild photos and videos that these girls take of themselves before posting and tagging each other on Facebook are unimaginably scary. I have never shown interest in such parties and for that, everyone assumes that I am not spontaneous enough.

Today though, Caro, Sera and some other girls have convinced met to join them. It has been a very stressful week and being the first weekend of the month, many of them are more than eager to chop their parents' and employed boyfriends' hard earned money in the club scene.

"It's going to be so much fun!" Sera, a close pal of Caro but more of my acquaintance chips in. She is not really the fun type; I am even more fun than she pretends to be. Her greatest weakness is giving in too easily to the status quo, for the sake of fitting in. I somehow like her, and I think she likes me too, but she would never admit to it lest she be regarded to being as boring as they say I am.

All through the years, jeans, sneakers and t-shirts have always given me a more than classy look; thanks God that they never go out of style. Tonight is no different. I wear the usual except that I make sure that I have my less faded and tighter blue jeans, a more revealing v-necked tee and some colourful sandals. I don't look that bad though I feel rather uncomfortable especially during this freezing cold weather.

"I forgot to bring my jacket. Can I borrow yours?" I ask Caro.

All the girls give me questionable looks, but none says a thing. Though they have their backs turned on me, I can clearly see their faces on the mirror; the kind of smiley faces that are ashamed to be associated with me.

"What? You are not thinking of following us looking like that, are you?" Sera, who is dressed in an embarrassingly short, tight and skin flaunting black dress brakes the ice cold silence.

"I'm not following you, you invited me. And what's wrong with what I'm wearing?" I ask her.

"You look good but..." Caro takes my hand and leads me to her closet. Like always, it's full of beautiful and expensive clothes some of which I have never seen her wear. She also has two extra suitcases full of clothes that she keeps under her bed. Compared to what I have, hers is more of a boutique. She picks out a cute small dress for me to wear. It's the kind of dress I would have preferred to wear during my wedding night but, there's no way I can say No to Caro. I never have.

"Oh my God you look stunning! Who would have ever thought that there's such a sexy little you underneath all that clutter?" One of the girls' comments as soon Caro presents the new me.

They voluntarily make my hair, powder my face, paint my lips and give me 4 inch high heeled shoes. They say that I should feel confident with my new look, but I'm so scared of tripping and embarrassing myself, or sweating too hard to the extent that the heavy paint on my face starts dripping down my clothes. With this extra naughty new look, I wouldn't be surprised were I to be confused for a prostitute.

We arrive at the club and enter in together, the five of us. No one, not even the scary, dark skinned and burly bouncer stops us. I can feel a thousand and one envious and horny eyes stare at us, and mostly at me. I am keeping my fingers crossed praying that none of them notices that I am the fresh blood. The girls disappear into different directions all at once and I am left all alone, not knowing what next step to take. Caro had skipped this part when giving me an orientation on how to become this new person. Should I go sit at the bar, make a move on some random guy, make my way to the dance floor, or go hide inside the ladies' bathrooms?

The music is so loud and inviting and with every young person in the club dancing themselves out as though they are shooting a porno but with clothes on. Again, Caro hadn't mentioned that I had to dance like this, and, I don't even know how to dance. Thanks to my strict and Christian upbringing, dancing was only allowed in church, and the only kind of dancing involved was the clapping of hands while swaying gracefully from left to right.

My alter ego is over excited. She wants to drink herself silly, strip off some clothes and shoes before jumping on the dance floor as the crowd cheers her on to shake her body like a snake. She's thinking out loud,

'If this is how all campus club scenes are like, I surely have been missing out on a lot!'

"Of course you've been. Wait till you check out the VIP. It's awesome! Come on." Caro shouts amidst the heavy loud house music before leading me up the stairs into the unknown world.

There's a lot of beer, wine, food and a smoking zone at a far corner by the balcony. I have tasted almost all these kinds of drinks before, but never gone beyond tasting. I am always hearing a couple of my friends talk about how they go to these kinds of clubs, get high and the next morning; they find themselves with nothing on but their birthday suits cuddling next to a guy they know nothing about. I don't want to become another 'It also happened to me' story teller, but I surely want to experience this kind of stuff now before I'm all grown and tired, or before the mid-life crisis turns me into an old impulsive and irresponsible teenager.

Looking around, I am in my own world. Everyone is busy making a fool at themselves without showing any shame. They all seem to have everything in-order; all except a designated driver. But since I do not know how to drive, I choose to join in and have weird fun.

"I see that the nerd's having a time of her life!" Shout Sera as she hands me another glass of wine.

I want to say something back to her, but I know it might kill her to hear the truth, so I leave and sit by myself at a corner. The music is blaring loud, everyone is acting wild and dancing their minds off, but here I am, watching it all from a distance. How I wish I had a camera to record this and years later, I could use the tape to blackmail them.

Suddenly, someone startles me from the back. I turn. He is the most beautiful man I have ever seen...or has the drink started taking control over me. His dark chocolate skin, his sparkling white teeth and his well toned and firm biceps are a total turn on. He looks exactly like my future husband.

"Want to dance?"

"No thank you."

"No thank you? No one says no to me."

He grabs me by the hand and starts pulling me to the dance floor. On a normal day I would kick him and shout at him for his lack of manners. But tonight, the alcohol content in my body embraces his behaviour as an act of being a macho guy who knows what he wants and how to get it. My half empty glass of wine falls to the floor and breaks into tiny pieces. A few of the people around look but continue with their business. He doesn't know how to take it slow, and in no time, he's placing his hands all over me, forcefully pulling me closer to him and aggressively struggling to lock his smelly drunk mouth with my innocent supple virgin lips. I try to fight him but there's no way I can even pull myself away or him far from me. I want to scream but what difference would it make. The only thing that could bring this crowd to a standstill would have to do with a nasty cat fight between best friends who've been dating the same guy, the DJ playing Barry White's ballads or, a misunderstood Somali guy pulling out a gun and start shooting randomly at the crowd.

Slowly by slowly, I can feel my arm getting numb and my mind clogging, like I am losing myself to him. I have no idea what I should do.

'Please God; let me not be another front page headline at school.' I start praying.

I pull myself to the floor and start biting and scratching his arms. He splashes his drink all over me and slaps me. As I lie on the floor, I see another guy come to my defense and start a fight with him. A small crowd gathers around. I start getting the feeling I always get whenever I am about to pass out; the feeling that everything is at par, serene, quiet and beautiful. Caro comes, pulls me up to my feet and takes me outside with the help of Sera and another girl. I must have switched from being conscious to unconscious a couple of times before I finally breathed some fresh air.

This is not new to me. I have passed out countless times. At times in very weird places such that people thought I was possessed, others thought that I was dead. I have had people feed me spoons as though I was having an epileptic attack; others have stripped me naked while others have grabbed the opportunity to give me an unnecessary mouth to mouth. But the most memorable moment has to be when my teacher slapped me and I passed out, and all she said was,

"Wachana naye, ataamka akimaliza kupumzika."

The only person who knows how to administer first aid to me is Caro.

"Are you alright?" She asks me.

A couple of other girls and one gentleman join us outside. I am feeling much better now that I have somehow been resurrected, and have puked almost all of the alcohol I have been gulping down over the past few hours.

"What happened?" The gentleman asks.

Though it's a bit dark, I can tell that he's really handsome, not beautiful as the first. Beautiful men are either immature, or gay. He's dressed casually; fitting pair of blue jeans, an untucked shirt with the first button unbuttoned and, a loosely hanging tie, as though he was interrupted while in the process of hanging himself. But maybe I was seeing my own things. After having drowned down all of those free drinks, every man I come across seems to look gorgeous.

"Are you okay?" He asks of me while holding up my chin and taking a closer look at my small bruise on my forehead.

"You should have this checked."

"It's nothing...I don't feel any pain."

"I doubt if she can feel any pain when she's this drunk." Sera adds.

We remain outside for a while. The mystery guy leaves in accompaniment of Caro. She later returns with two bottles of wine and we start drinking again. I can feel my head getting lighter as my eyes keep getting heavier by the minute, but the drink wins; it even starts tasting sweeter.

"Who does that guy think he is anyway? Isn't he old enough to be someone's husband yet he can't keep his zip closed for a second?" One of the girls asks, sneering.

"Weren't you guys dating? You were so in love!" Quips Sera. She is becoming irritating by the minute, or maybe this is the real her, the Sera that I have never got to know.

"That's not what I would really call dating. We were only fooling around, having some fun...you know he's rich and everything but, he's so damn lousy in bed. I couldn't stand the torture." She responds in defense.

"But I hear he's such a player. If he's as bad as you say, how does he afford to pull it off?" Caro asks.

"There's this theory that such guys prefer doing a hit and run on chics so that none of them sticks long enough to unravel the truth." I chip in.

"What about you Sera, what's your story? I know you messed around with him after we broke up."

"You had a thing with him didn't you?" Caro rephrases the question. She thinks that she is Oprah, and that she can make anyone confess of their dirty past.

She doesn't respond. It's obvious that she is in love with the guy, and these girls are hurting her by blabbing about his lack of bedroom expertise.

"No, and yes. I liked him alright, but that doesn't mean that I have wet dreams about making love with him." Her tone tells that she is hurting. One of the girls walks behind her and puts her arms around her shoulders, hugging her from behind.

"Girl, look at you! You shouldn't be crying over that douchebag. You're so lucky you didn't have to go through a torturous night as some of us did." She reassures her.

"You know what we should do? How about we hit him up?" Caro suggests.

"What's on your mind? You are not talking about creating a new diary of mad black women, are you?" The girl hugging Sera asks.

"Of course not, we are ladies. We should do something less scandalous, but more damaging."

"No. I don't want to be a part of any of that. What if we get arrested?" Sera asks. Obviously, her love for the guy is insanely deep.

"I have an idea. How about we slash his tires? That's less scandalous and a bit damaging right?"

"No, that's not right. I can't let you do that." Sera argues.

She instead removes a pen knife from her miniature clutch bag and walks to the guy's car. We can't see what she's doing but it doesn't take her long. She comes back breathing heaving, all smiles.

"That was less scandalous, more lady-like, and at least, he won't be taking any chips-funga with him tonight.

On Tuesday morning during the mid-morning Screen Writing lecture, I receive an SMS from a new unsaved number. My phone has the worst and most irritating monophonic ringtone such that I prefer to keep it on silent mode than disturb the peace of those around. The lecturer seems agitated, everyone is.

"Whose phone is that?" He asks.

Everyone turns and looks at me. For so long I used to feel embarrassed especially since everyone had the latest high tech phones, but, with time, I got over it, stopped caring.

"Neema, you understand what that means right?" The lecturer asks.

I nod, and the lecture continues.

Dr. Mutua came up with this very stupid rule that whenever your phone rings in class, you should bring a packet of Éclairs sweets in class during the next session. He's also the kind that awards attendance and class participation marks. That aside, he has this tendency of always giving surprise CATs whenever he discovers that a student he dislikes has missed his lectures. Now I am torn in between missing the next session so as not to bring the packet of sweets, of which would lead me into missing out on his impromptu CAT, or showing up empty handed and having to explain why I shunned his punishment.

I have no idea where I will get the money to buy the sweets. I am broke! The last meal I ate was the day before yesterday, and that was at Sera's place. I have an intuition that she may have put something on my plate, for it just didn't seem right for her to be so nice to me. Furthermore, like every other month, I am behind rent. This morning, I had to make sure that I leave my home early enough so that I don't cross paths with the landlady. All day long, I would have to fill time either in the library or in Caro's room till its pitch dark and the landlady is gone. Like the good girl that I am, I am impatiently waiting for my father to send me money. I know I should give him a call but I don't want him to give me another migraine with his speech.

Dr. Mutua gets a call and excuses himself from class. I check the text. It's from Dru, the guy who rescued me from the womanizer who almost took advantage of me over the weekend.

'Hi beautiful, it was nice meeting you. Would you mind catching up over a cup of coffee?' -Dru

I want to type in YES and press the SEND button immediately. Only God knows the extent at which I am starving. If I don't eat soon, or have that cup of coffee, I'll be paving way for others to eat what I should have eaten in life as they come to pay their last respects and back-bite me during my funeral.

I don't want my response to portray me as being cheap. But I really need some food, maybe a cup of coffee and some cake wouldn't be a bad idea. But how I wish he had asked me out for lunch, or dinner!

If I consult with the girls, I know they will mislead me. I have heard them say that the reason a guy keeps in touch after 3 days is to follow the example of Jesus. Jesus started his mission at 30 years, resurrected Lazarus after he had been announced dead for three days, was tested three times by the devil, was denied three times by Peter and rose from the dead on the third day. That's why a man should take three days before calling a girl in order to have a clear conscious as to whether he is being tested or, if he's going to be rejected. A girl too shouldn't abruptly respond to his requests. She should wait for at least 1 week before replying, or giving him an answer. If not, she should wait for him to make a follow-up call, for 7 is a number of perfection. If he can patiently wait for the death of her silence throughout this time, then, he's very likely to be her almost perfect match.

By following this theory, it'll seem as though I am after a relationship, which I am not. I am only interested in a guy friend: a guy friend who can buy me a good meal or, maybe help me out with some cash. In return, I can voluntarily offer him the privilege of meeting nice college girls and doing whatever he wants with them.

As Dr. Mutua walks back in, I hurriedly respond to the message;

'Hi Dru. Been a minute. Coffee sounds great! Let me check when I'll be free and I'll let u know.'

I press the send button.

The lecturer comes back in and apologises again. I wonder whether I should have apologised for having had my phone ring in class. As he gets started, I hear a similar tone as that of my phone. Everyone looks at me and starts laughing. The lecturer walks towards my desk with a dark frown on his face and asks,

"Should I make them two packets or what?"

I want to apologise, but I shouldn't apologise over by-laws that Charles Dickens referred to as an ass. After all, that is a dictatorial rule that he implemented without first consulting with us. I say nothing. I look at the other side of the hall and see Caro pointing at her watch.

'It's already time? I hope it is.' I silently pray.

"But sir, it's way past class time."

Looking at his watch, he says,

"Mhm, it's time. One packet it is."

I take out my phone full of anticipation, hoping to see an M-Pesa SMS from father, or another heaven sent friend inviting me for lunch. But no, it's from Safaricom.

'Your account balance is 0 KSh. Please select option:

1: Okoa Jahazi (Airtime Advance)

2: Send Please Call Me

3: Exit

As I walk from the hall, all I'm thinking about is food. Hot, mouth watering and finger-licking food; and lots of it...like they show it in the glossy kitchen magazines and cook books. I decide to take action in the best way that I can afford;

I send a Please Call Me to Dru.

He calls back immediately.

We have a date! He'll be coming to pick me up later in the afternoon. I am so excited but opt not to share the news with the girls. I know them. They would force me to drag them along in the name of moral support, though what they would really be after is to flirt with him, sleep with him and steal him from me.

Dru drives in to the parking lot at around 5.30 pm. By then I am already starving as hell. The only thing I have had the whole day was one andazi and samosa that Caro bought us after class at four o'clock. These had actually left me feeling more famished than I was before.

I can feel hundreds of eyes ogle at him, and so many mouths whisper to each other's ear. Deep down I am praying that my friends wouldn't have to hear about it before I am ready to face them.

We sit in the car for a few minutes and chat. All along I have my stomach sucked inside to avoid it making any embarrassingly rumbling noises and have to lick my lips every two minutes to avoid him seeing the cracks of hunger begging to be nourished. I hope that he doesn't misinterpret it, for some guys perceive it as an invitation to be kissed.

He is the first guy that used the word beautiful on me, said that he liked me before he sexually flirted with me, or lied about falling in love with me at first sight. He claimed that he felt the connection and that we had clicked.

"You're really cool, and funny. But, since it's a bit late to do coffee, how about I invite you over to my place and I'll cook for you, we can hang out, watch a nice movie... What do you say?"

I know what it means when a guy invites you over to his place. But at this instance, I don't want to think twice about the proposal. If you have ever been hungry, then only you can understand why I have to take the offer. Even in the Bible, its hunger that made Esau sell his birthright to his younger brother Jacob. The very same hunger drives innocent victims to commit petty crimes so as to be sent in prison, where they are assured of having something to eat. And, every Sunday, hunger drives non-Christians and pagans to different churches every Sunday, with hopes that visitors will be welcomed with a cup of tea and snack, or even lunch. Maybe, once I am well fed and full, I'll be able to think straight.

Dru is a real gentleman. Never in my life had I had a man take so much care of me. Maybe it's because he could read behind the sweet smile and shy laughter. He let me choose the type of music to listen to on the way to his house, the kind of meal I wanted to eat, what movie I wanted to watch...what a gentleman!

He served me a glass of freshly squeezed mango juice and asked that I take a rest while he prepared dinner; every bachelor's favourite dish; steamed rice and fried beef. The meal was delicious, but would have loved the meat to go with a much heavier dish like ugali, which had a higher likelihood of remaining in the stomach for longer. Unfortunately, my stomach failed me miserably by refusing to eat as much as it should have.

You see the problem with being starved for so long, you fall ill, and when you fall ill, your appetite diminishes, and whenever you try to force yourself to eat, you get stomach cramps which are worse off than menstrual cramps. That's why millions of starving people continue starving to death long after getting more than abundant relief food.

For the next few hours, we continue to watch more TV and criticizing the shows, hosts, dialogue and even the quality of the images. He tells me that I can make a great critic. He also has a thing for ladies who know how to express themselves, and are comfortable with their looks, like myself, he says.

I enquire if it has to do with my not finishing my plate of food, which I promise to finish as soon as I feel hungry again.

"Of course not! You have a nice figure, that's commendable. It's very rare to come across a girl who knows how to manage and take care of her weight these days." He says.

"You don't like plus size girls?"

He says that it depends on whether the weight is manageable.

"We men prefer women who are flexible and easy to handle, not ones that make you feel like you are from running a marathon." He adds. I want to correct him and let him know that I know lots of men, especially men from back home who would never be caught talking to or even showing interest in slim girls. This though may divert the whole conversation into a totally new direction, so I let it pass.

In no time, I feel like I have become a totally different person. He smells so good, his naked skin looking so smooth and well built. But this isn't love. I am not a believer in love at first sight, or second sight. He must have overdosed his clothes with some of those expensive pheromones perfumes.

'Or could he have added some kamuti in my food?'

I know that Dru wants to sleep with me, and though I am not for the idea, I am not 100% against it.

He has proven to care more than any man ever has, and if he really wants me to return the favour, there is no use fighting him. All these years, I have been a virgin; despite my father alleging that I dress and behave like a whore. I have been waiting for the right guy for so long, not necessarily a husband, for getting married as a virgin makes a man think he can control you, and play all kinds of games on you.

I had wanted my first time to be with Joel; my Joel. He however had broken my heart so many times. Every single time I saw him with another girl, heard disturbing rumours about him, or be rude to me, I spent weeks, at times months picking up the pieces. That though wasn't fully his fault, for he barely knew that I was into him.

At one time I thought that the feeling was mutual, but then I found out that he had just been interested in sharing his cold bed with one of my close friends. I hated myself for not being confident or sexually appealing enough for him to take notice of me.

I had opened up to Caro who had talked me into sleeping with someone else in order to forget all about Joel the loser; as she called him.

"Take it from me. Everytime I want to get over a guy, I find another for rebound sex. Always works." She had told me.

So here was he, a good looking man, smelling all good, looking all fine, and acting all gentlemanly. Maybe, just maybe, we could not only ignite a spark, but also build a great future together.

'Don't fool yourself; there is no good man on earth. They are either dead or yet to be born.' My inner voice warns me. This good guy right here could be having lots of skeletons in his closet. Maybe he's a serial killer who likes lurking for young, intelligent but hungry girls like me. Or he could be a pauper who has borrowed all this new him from a friend for the sake of pleasing a girl. I should look around and see if there is any trace of another woman, or women; for he could be a married man who has invited me over because his wife is away on a business trip, bedridden in a hospital or visiting her elderly parents.

His big arms start feeling the back of my neck, fondly caressing it, relaxing all my stress muscles, digging further into my shoulders and then into my back, and slowly finding their way into my front. This is the first time that I am having a massage, a sensational massage, somewhat erotic, and it feels so great!

His arms finally rest on my small but firm breasts that have now become as hard as when I take a cold shower in the morning. He lets go the first button, then the second, and slips his hand down to my right hand breast and starts caressing it while still underneath the prison walls of my black see through bra. He slips his arm to my back and starts searching for the bra's clasp. He's kissing me hard around the neck and my left ear while breathing out hot flames of air that sink all the way into my stomach, leaving it all knitted up with a million butterflies trying to find their way out. My groin starts to burn with lust as my naughty alter ego urges me to say Amen and let the miracle happen. But then, the small voice once again takes over,

'No, I can't be another statistic.'

"I'm on a period..." I say to him as I roughly try to pull back.

He doesn't stop. This time he manages to pop open my bra and starts feeling my naked breasts with his bare hands. It feels so good, so good than I had ever imagined. I want to give in and finish this passionate adventure that we have started. But the conservative voices keep getting louder, warning me against being another one of the girls I watch in the movies who sleep with a man during the first night and end up being dumped the next morning.

I push him away: he looks like an angry hungry lion that has just been fought over by its prey.

"I'm sorry..." I apologise, though I have no idea why.

He doesn't say a word. He looks at me with very evil and mad red eyes before he wipes his mouth with the palm of his hand and dashes to the bedroom. I have no idea what I am supposed to do. I run after him but he bangs the door behind him and leaves me standing there like a zombie. I walk back to the sitting room and start buttoning my blouse while looking over at the bedroom door every other second to see if he'll come out.

I hear the shower running. I guess that he is cleansing himself off my filth. If only I had some cash with me I would dash out and board a matatu to take me back to my peaceful hovel.

He comes back a few minutes' later, smelling so good and fresh. He is only dressed in some boxers and a sleeveless round-necked t-shirt. He clears the dishes from the table, takes them to the kitchen, comes back, turns on a video game and starts playing. I am hating every second of this.

Though I have long forgotten about the hunger that brought me here, I am wishing that I would be in my tiny one roomed house than be in his presence. Is this the moment where I should run before he jumps on top of me and rapes me, or kills me and disposes my cadaver with the rest of his kitchen garbage?

"You wanna play?" He later asks me, smiling, handing me a game controller.

It's Wednesday at dawn. Dru wakes me up asking me to take a shower and get ready for the day. Though it's been a very long while before I last took a hot shower, bathed with some sweet smelling shower gel and spoiled my skin with luxurious lotion, I give it a pass.

"You don't want to shower?"

"I'll shower at my place."

"Aren't you uncomfortable...?"

I want to smell myself; I hope that I am not smelly. I think I smell alright.

"Ohh...I now get it. You lied about being on your period, didn't you?"

I had already forgotten about that. My mind can't generate any other lie to cover up the first.

"Fine... I lied. I was scared..."

"Scared of what? Me? What did you think I was going to do to you?"

I've learnt that whenever a guy asks what you assumed he would do to you, it's because he had something already planned in his mind.

"It's not like that. I don't want to end up pregnant or..."

He shrugs off and heads to the kitchen.

'What do you think this is, the 17th Century...?' I hear him talking to himself in the kitchen.

Later he shouts,

"Mind making yourself useful in here?"

I am more than glad that he is a heavy eater, and with this share of breakfast in my stomach, I can go for another two days without being sickly hungry.

I can't wait to floss about Dru to my friends. He is such a gentleman and we seem to have so much in common. Just like he had said, 'We had indeed clicked.' He is 7 years older than I am, has a small nice place of his own, a car, knows how to treat a lady, got a good job going and is currently pursuing his post graduate studies. In him, I see a lot of promising potential. What else would a smart girl want from a man?

He is nothing compared to any of my male college mates of whom definition of a relationship is going out to parties, drinking some cheap diluted spirits, having sex with random people without using protection and making it the subject of discussion for the entire week. Right now I am feeling grateful that I dismissed their being interested in me for I would have ended up becoming like other girls who start merry-go-round support groups to help them collect enough money to pay for an almost safe abortion.

As a college girl, the only guy worth dating would be a lecturer. Dating a lecturer is more of a conditional relationship. Due to my constant financial problems, I would be lying if I said that the thought of dating one had never crossed my mind. I know of a couple of lecturers who would fight each other in order to win me over. Most of these conditional relationships however adopt a barter kind of trade; the exchange of good sex with exceptional grades. Since I had always been an intelligent girl, taking up such an offer would have be an insult to my intelligence. So I had thought about going into the same business but getting involved with a more appropriate person, like any of the male accountants or finance officers working in campus. Too bad, every student loves money. Everytime one of these lucky girls' graduated, the offer would get auctioned and the winning bid announced long before girls like me found out that there had been a vacancy.

It's 6.30 am, I am almost done with my breakfast and so is Dru. I can hear some noises from outside indicating that the neighbours have also woken up. I don't want anyone to see me do a walk of shame, though there's definitely nothing to be shameful about.

"You mentioned that you don't have classes today right?" Dru asks.

"Yes...why?"

"Since you are not much in a hurry, and there's isn't much to do in the office, how about I call in late for work?"

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Why...?" He asks half grinning and half pissed. He comes and sits next to me, takes away my almost empty cup of coffee from my hand and puts it on the table, wipes the bread crumbs off my lips and pulls me closer to him as he draws his lips closer to mine. I try to push him away but he's too strong to feel the impact of my resistance. He is now all over my face barely leaving any more space for me to breathe. Unlike last night, this morning I feel less in the mood. I hate the smell of coffee in his breath and his body odour is suffocating me. I try to push him off my face with all my might but he now gets aggressive and pins me down the sofa.

He takes off his t-shirt. I can smell where this is going, but this is never what I expected from a guy like him. I want to scream, but I have never screamed before. I do not know how to scream. If I try, I'm scared that his neighbours may come to my rescue and upon finding me naked, may use their camera phones to record a reality show that they'll share with their fake friends on social networks. I try pushing him with my legs but he sits on them and I can feel them getting numb and number by the second. The caffeine in the coffee must have destabilized his feelings. His face looks like that of an animal. His whole body looks like an animal. Finally, I manage to scream. He tries shutting my mouth but I scream even louder, begging for help. It's still early in the morning and I know enough people are already awake, and for those who haven't, they will be awakened by my screams.

He slaps me really hard across my cheek and pins my head upside down as he tears off my top. I feel all of my energy diminish as I lay there helpless and trembling, with barely any energy to scream. Then I hear a knock at the door. It must be one of the neighbours who has come to my rescue. Dru stops whatever he was doing and becomes still. I too become still. Then there's another knock, and another, followed by small whispers coming from outside the front door. He looks scared!

"See what you have done?" He hits me harder again on the other side of the face and I can feel wet fluid oozing out of my mouth. He grabs a bread knife from the table and shoves it on my face,

"If you dare make any noise...you have no idea what I'm going to do to you. Go to the bedroom and dress up." He walks to the door while still holding the knife, behind his back.

I don't know what kind of lies he feeds the caring neighbours but it barely takes a minute before he comes back. He sits on the edge of the bed and says nothing, then leans over supporting his head with his arms.

"I'm sorry...I...I..."

He stands and walks to his closet, opens one of the drawers and throws me a first aid kit. "Take care of that wound before it gets infected."

He walks to the bathroom and the shower start to run.

#2

Been so long since I last sat, listened to myself, thought of me...looked at me, wrote about it

But today, I sat, sat, and sat...listened to me, thought of me, looked at me, and now, I'll write about it

I'm tired of this:-the fake smile, the hidden tear, the hypocritical laughter, the cold hug

Tonight, I'm letting go the fake smile...I'm ready for a frown

That hidden tear; finally, I'll shed it...and not feel ashamed about it

I don't have to laugh...to hell with hypocrisy

And no, no more hugs, no holding hands, no more kisses...no more of anything

I admit that tonight, it'll be hard to fall asleep

Coz I'm still scared-scared that I'll have you next to me in my dreams

So I'll have to sit...sit all night long...with this frown on my pretty face; tears begging to be shed, letting the laughter die, and hugging myself...As I hug goodbye to my yesterday, and await for a better tomorrow

'I don't screw my protégées.'

At the time I had no clue what he meant by 'screw', but the more Andre kept talking about it, the more I got to understand what he was talking about. Andre is one of the few students at the University who comes from a foreign country. Almost all foreign students enjoy a little celebrity status here in campus, especially the ones from West Africa, for they always have a funny and interesting accent, wear strange clothes and are very arrogant. Some people speculate that Andre is from Ivory Coast although there have been less reliable rumours that claim he has several fake citizenships from a number of Western African countries, as well as Kenya.

I have never come across or even known any other Ivorian, other than the English footballer Didier Drogba. From Drogba's character, I had assumed that all Ivorian men were tall, lean, masculine and liked to perm their hair. Andre too had some of my presumed Ivorian looks apart from him being much shorter, darker, stouter and with less than 10 huge dreadlocks on his head. He doesn't do girlfriends, dating or courtships. Instead, he prefers the hit and run chips funga of whom he pays KSh. 10,000 per night. The few girls who have been lucky enough to get hired for the job are said to have spent at least a week in the hospital and another week recuperating at home after rendering their bedroom services.

I ask him what he means by 'I don't screw my protégées'.

"Well, you seem to be a nice girl. Keep it that way, and you don't have to worry about our relationship; our professional relationship."

He has asked me over to his tiny studio apartment to pick up some documents for a research I am helping him with. Being my first day at work, I was ready to lick even the sole of his boots to make me an extra shilling.

His place is expensively furnished but with litter scattered everywhere. I notice that he has all of his windows closed hence explaining the source of the pungent odour all over the place. I fear that sticking around for an extra second will easily send me into another episode of unconsciousness, and only God knows what his method of administering first aid will be like.

"Make yourself comfortable." He tells me as he starts going through loads of files creating more mess on the floor. I spot some custom-made weights at one corner of the room which I guess he hopes will one day help him build and tone his muscles. But, judging from his physique, the guy has always been too lazy to lift them.

A couple of minutes later, he opens the windows and tidies up a small desk with a 19th Century desktop computer for me to work from. Though I had hoped that he would have a small office somewhere else, I am not complaining. From this small desk I could make something small to bring to an end the many dramas I have had to deal with the landlady, the torturous behavior I have had to put my stomach through and maybe, get me a new wardrobe. It's been a whole four years in this college but, I still wear the very same clothes I brought with me during my first year of campus. The few additional ones I have are the ones my good friends have chosen to donate to me, or rather dump on me. Initially I had felt embarrassed about accepting their left overs but with time, I got used to being embarrassed, and assuring myself that they actually looked better on me than they ever did on them.

There is a new rumour going from one student's mouth to another student's ear that I am the new sex slave of Andre.

It's one of those lazy afternoons when I'm from taking a heavy 50 shillings meal and would rather miss lecturers that attend one and end up dozing all through. I walk into the library and sneak at one of the corners on the top floor to take a nap. The weather outside is so hot but sitting near the window allows me to enjoy a cool breeze before it gets contaminated with others students' expensive perfumes, sweat and snacks they've sneak in.

The reason I would rather nap in the library than in my room is because like every other day, I can't let myself see eye to eye with the landlady. She has such a loud mouth that everyone has come to know about how big of a debt I owe her: I would rather have her embarrass me when I'm away that when I'm around.

It's long since I slept well, and dreamt a real dream.

Almost all of my dreams are full of fantasies: fantasies about my successful future as a bestseller writer and film maker. The number of books I have written, and the number of blockbuster films I have produced, in my head, are unmatched. Someday, I'll share them with the rest of the world.

Now that I am working for Andre, I've occasionally thought about making use of his computer and start doing some creative writing. But everytime I try to, I keep writing, deleting and rewriting the first sentence. I have so many storylines in my head but composing them in to words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters is extremely hard. Maybe I wasn't born to write after all.

If all goes well, a smart scientist will one day come up with a device that can be implanted in my mind to record all of my fantasies and feed them into a computer in form of writing. I know that it's such a lame excuse but, it consoles me for I no longer have to feel guilty about being lazy and not doing what I have always loved to do. If the writer in me never gets to be born, then it won't entirely be my fault. The blame will be on that smart scientist who failed to make this great discovery.

Today's fantasy is a continuation of the one I was building on last night, and the past couple of weeks. I see myself in a highly cosmopolitan city, living on the 7th floor of an overly expensive apartment, driving a Porsche Cayman, attending a book signing and then signing a contract to have one of my novels reproduced into motion picture.

A few minutes later, as my fantasies start paving way for the real dream, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Is someone messing up with my sleep? Now I'll have to spend another 30 minutes building on my fantasies, again, before I get that highly anticipated nap.

"Hey, do you have your bag within the library." Whispers a girl I have never spoken to or seen before.

Startled, I respond confusingly. "Yes...no...what?"

I hate it when someone expects to start a normal conversation with you when you are still half asleep. I tend to blab a lot, but I'm thankful that I never blab about things that could land me in jail, or could be used to blackmail me.

Waving her hand in front of me, "What, are you sleeping in the library? Wow, this is interesting."

"Shouldn't I? I don't see any posters warning us against taking a nap in here."

"I'm sorry. See, I am in some awkward situation right now...mind lending me a tampon, or a pad? I totally had no idea that I was going to get my period today and...I'm still new here and yet to make friends so I thought you could help. Can you believe that I am 20 already and haven't mastered my cycle yet? Crazy right? Oh, sorry, I must be talking a lot, I tend to do that a lot. So, do you have your bag in the library?"

'She seems nervous around me. God No, not another lesbian trying to hit on me. I seriously need to stop wearing baggy jeans and t-shirts.'

I hand her a tampon from my wallet. I had stolen/taken it from Caro's room a while back. She gives me a somewhat queer smile before starting to blab even more about how I have saved her day. I don't entertain her and she takes it really well. She leaves for the rest rooms.

It's at this moment that it hits me, and I am scared! I too have never mastered my cycle...but, I sure can remember that it's been quite a while since I last had my period. I try my best to remember the date but, nothing. I am so poor at remembering things that have contributed towards making my life more miserable.

Tracing back on how everything had happened between Dru and I, I can't clearly recall whether he had a condom on. But still, I should have taken measures to ensure that he hadn't gotten me pregnant, or infected me. Could I be pregnant? Could he have infected me with something I would have to be embarrassed about for the rest of my life? It must have been as a result of the many things on my head at that time that had led me to forget; or maybe not.

After he had drained the best out of me, and burned over 100 calories while in the act, he had the audacity to tell me that I was not a virgin. Was this yet another line that men use after they have dishonoured the temple of the Holy Spirit?

He had later dropped me off at a far end corner near town before making his way into the city centre. Was I really that bad looking to be seen together with him in the big city? Or was he planning to pick up another girl after he had fumigated the seat I had been sitting on? Having not been born within the city or its suburbs, I had no idea where I was. I didn't want to ask for directions out of fear that someone would once more take advantage of me. Luckily, I didn't have any classes that day hence had more than enough hours to loiter, get lost, make new discoveries, and learn.

Right there in the middle of a big city stood a young girl abandoned by a man who had defiled her a few minutes back. I started questioning why I was different. Was it a must for every girl to bleed after she had sex for the first time? Or was it because of the active life I had while young; climbing trees and riding father's bicycle when he was away? Or maybe, just maybe, another man had hypnotised me before sleeping with me, and that's why I didn't remember. So many questions raced through my defiled mind as I tried to locate any landmark I knew of, and try to cross the many roads and streets before getting near it. Yet, a part of me was thankful; thankful that he had taken me for a liar. It would have been worse had he found out that I was still a virgin, yet slept and dumped me on the streets like that. His nascent chauvinistic ego could have been over the top. It was better that way. It did hurt, quite intensely, but not as much.

On the brighter side, he had given me KSh. 3,000. The money could have been a way of saying sorry for the ugly treatment, or a way of compensating for my inexperienced services. It wasn't bad money, but it did make me feel more like a whore. Or was this one of those unexplainable moments where God answers your prayers? I had been broke for far too long and could no longer stand borrowing my friends' phones to call my father only for him to use their airtime to insult me and clarify once again that he wasn't the Managing Director of the Central Bank of Kenya.

Reaching back to my one-roomed house, I had found the landlady with a handyman trying to break my padlock. I have been a witness to so many similar cases before but never had I imagined that I would someday suffer the same fate. Loads of people had gathered around waiting to fight each other over the loot. But what exactly was there to loot? I had always slept on the floor, cooked using a paraffin stove and owned a small Chinese imitation of Panasonic radio which is branded Panasoniax. Other than my books and thousands of papers with a million and one ideas, there wasn't a thing valuable in that house. For the sake of safeguarding my treasure; my half conceptualized ideas and plots, I gave her every last note I had on me and was only left with 37 shillings. With so much going on, I completely lost knowledge of what had just happened to me that very morning.

The only thing that is now running through my head is my cycle, maybe a pregnancy, HIV, public ridicule, life as a single mother. What if I am pregnant? That will kill my mother. She has always had so much faith in me as we both looked forward to the day I would get my first pay cheque and I would rescue her from the many miseries that her husband had forcefully put her through. I have less than a year left to make this happen, but, if I am pregnant, this will be the end of her hope in me, and my dream for us.

With not enough cash on me to buy a pregnancy test kit, I am thinking of going for a free medical check-up at the University Clinic, but then I remember that no one who works there understands the need to adhere to the patient doctor confidentiality code.

I could take a small loan from someone, but why on earth should I get myself into more debts when it is Chrystal clear that I am certainly breeding a new life inside me. The mere thought of it scares me even more. Strange enough, these semi-moments of fear are constantly interrupted by I visualizing a life with the two of us together. It makes me smile.

No more having to stress myself with where to get this or next month's pack of sanitary towels, or having to clog my vagina with old rags to absorb the heavy flow. It really amazes me how despite the harsh treatment I have given my vagina, it has never gotten infected. I know loads of women who have had very scary infections or even died after getting Toxic Shock Syndrome, yet, I have been using old and dirty clothes or pieces of spongy mattresses and nothing has ever happened. I actually had no one to teach me how to use tampons, I even didn't know of their existence. My kind of queer vaginal experiment must be what led to the discovery of tampons in the first place.

If only my vagina could speak, she could tell stories that have never been told, talked about or discussed in any of the vaginal monologues. One day, she too will find her voice.

Tokophobia

It's Wednesday morning. I have always loved Wednesdays. Wednesdays are beautiful, peaceful, blissful and wedding like. Before I found out that I was a Monday baby, I used to lie to myself that I was born on a Wednesday, still does. As for today, I have a strong intuition that this Wednesday is going to be a lot different; dramatic and harsh.

I am woken by my neighbours jamming reggae music that he blasts every morning taking advantage of the fact that most of us don't have access to TVs or good radios. From my room I can hear the sweet sounds of John Holt's 'Sweetie, Come Brush Me'.

Apart from his egocentric character, there isn't much that I hate about him. I have always thought of him as a rather good looking guy who may have a thing for me. He must be thinking that he can use John Holt's songs to lure me. I too used to like him, a lot actually. He is not just the cliché-kind of the perfect tall dark and handsome guy, but he is does have a good height, good body, great skin tone, amazing looks and very long, clean and healthy dreadlocks. I love men with locks!

My feelings for him changed a while back. It all happened after I realised that he does nothing for a living yet is among the very few whom never collide with the landlady. I also overheard two of our neighbours discuss how he used to be, and could still be a member of the Mungiki sect.

Personally, I have never had a problem with the sect. I don't understand why the Western governments hate on mungiki yet it is the exact of the Italian Mafia, the South American cartel groups and all of the American and European vigilante groups. Mungiki is in-fact the Kenyan definition of a combination of all superheroes, like Superman, Spiderman, Green Arrow and Batman or in other words, the Justice League of Kenya.

Its 10 minutes since I opened my eyes but still can't get out of bed. I feel weak, sickly, my bones and joints are arching, my head feels very light, and my stomach is killing me. This is the exact way I feel whenever I am about to get my period. Could I have been wrong? Had it been a false alarm?

Maybe I am not pregnant. I have never kept count of my cycle but maybe the reason I missed my period was because I have been so stressed lately. I need to know what's happening to me! I take out the Techno phone Caro gifted me after she bought a new Samsung Galaxy and starts doing Goggle research.

Of course I am right! Missed periods can occur whenever one has a lot of things going on, is highly stressed, or has been starving for a while.

Now I'm certain that I am fine. I am not pregnant! With these early morning signs, I am perfectly sure that my period will start flowing in no time.

Just then, it clicks. Like every other day, I have no sanitary towels.

I start getting ready for class as I keep my fingers crossed that I won't bleed as much this time round, for old cloths don't absorb as much flow as an ordinary tampon. Plus, I would have to rush to the rest rooms every now and then to save people from trying to hide that awkward expression on their faces when they see me walking around with red polka dots all around my butt.

One hour later, I am yet to spot a single red stain on my white panties. I opt to wear black jeans trousers and hide bits of thinly cut pieces of clothes inside the pockets, for emergency.

Everytime I am on my period, I make sure that I arrive in class as the first and sit at the back row. I then have to leave after everyone else has left to make sure that I have neither left a mess on my back nor on the chair I was sitted on. I keep praying that no one masters this small secret of mine for many male students think that when girls' are on their period, their sexual urge is on the rise hence can force them to do things they won't be proud bragging about to their pals. Male lecturers then assume that whenever a girl misses lecturers, it's because she is on her period. I don't like my sexuality getting in the way of my normal life, and so, I always keep my fertility dates on the low.

At the end of the day, I still have the same cramps, though the pain is much intense. My joints feel as though they are suffering from arthritis, my stomach feeling as though someone is playing cat's cradle with the intestines and with my head feeling so light and dizzy reminding me of the very first time I got drunk. I am now wondering whether this could be a sign of I being pregnant, or I experiencing bloodless periods. Can one really experience bloodless periods?

I need to do more research. The campus cyber café is always full, but being an Internet-addicted fourth year student, I know almost everyone who's as addicted as I am. It wouldn't take as much time to flirt my way into getting a computer, but I am terrified that someone may peep over my screen and see what is keeping me busy. This would instantly ignite a newer Season premiere of a dirty rumour, about me. I'm not afraid of rumours. What I am actually afraid of is if the rumour turns out to be true.

A few years back while in my first year, I learnt how befriending bitchy girls and being friendly to young boys with raging hormones could act as a free ticket to a life full of miseries. I was still very young, pretty (I believe that my prettiness has long been overtaken by my being beautiful), and innocent. Many people find it hard handling such a package. Due to this, a lot of jealousy, envy and hate speech is born.

One night you go to bed feeling on top of the world only for the next day to see people giving you funny looks, shutting up when you get closer and starts giggling when you pass. I had no idea what was going on until Caro being the paparazzo she is came to personally confirm if the rumours were true or false.

"Please tell me it's not true."

"What's not true?" I had innocently asked, not knowing what she was talking about.

"Don't act smart with me! Everybody is talking about it."

"What is everybody talking about?"

After utilising her natural lying detector on me for a few seconds, she was convinced that I was clueless.

"You have no idea do you?"

"I have no idea what you are driving at. What's up?" I had asked, a little bit agitated.

"Stuff is being said about you. That you were messing up with that bouncer guy...you know, Jack right...and that he got you pregnant...then ditched you...so you tried killing yourself..."

I was in shock. How was it that my name was trending everywhere without my being aware of it?

Every rumour has got a certain percentage of truth in it, but this one, that percentage was far below average.

"That's all? Or there's more?" I had enquired.

"Kinda..."

"Kinda?"

"Well, I just heard about it this morning, so be prepared to have people keep up with talk for another week or two."

"You said there was more. What are they saying?"

"Oh, yeah! There's more. I shouldn't be the one telling you this but I will, to save you from being in a dilemma. They've given you a nickname...Miss Suicidal. Others are calling you Neema suicidal."

It was hurtful, and like many girls who had previously fallen victim of similar rumours, I could tell that many people expected me spend the rest of the semester locked up in isolation, fail my exams and seek a transfer. But I didn't. I remained strong, let the bouncer guy find satisfaction in being given the privilege of sleeping with me, getting me pregnant, ditching me and watching as I allegedly attempted to take my life because of him. In reality though, I could see how much that the lie was killing him. Everytime we crossed paths, no matter how much he tried, there's no way he could hide his guilty self from me.

I found it interesting, that people could start rumours about me being pregnant and having procured an abortion when I was still as virgin as the Virgin Mary. And trying to kill myself? I can neither confirm nor deny that, for that was nothing but a very normal episode, an episode that almost all of us have faced, fought and overcome, but are ashamed of sharing, so we simply call it a bi-polar episode.

Had I been born in a more privileged country, and among more empathetic people, they could have put me under counselling and made me take some expensive pills to cure my condition. A condition that kicks in when my two polars collide and my alter ego resurfaces, The Scientific Neema, she who is impulsive and likes experimenting with everything, and anything. God knows that anyone in my shoes could have done the same, only that after my alter ego had driven me into swallowing some pills; she vanished and left the real I wondering what had just taken place.

No one could make sense of what I had just done, so they formulated questions and filled in the gaps with whatever they thought made sense to them; another abortion gone bad.

The stronger and more focussed Neema had resurfaced and taken responsibility, sought immediate treatment and after a few days, was back in school, watching as everyone talked behind her back as though she was clueless on what they were talking about. At times she wanted so badly to join their circles and offer to give them an exclusive one on one interview.

When you do a crazy thing in the life, and are left just there, not knowing whether death will pluck you from life, or if life will fight to take you back, you learn the difference between surviving and living. The very same way a rich person can never appreciate wealth if they have never been poor, or how someone who has never been hungry takes food for granted, is the same way someone who has never attempted to visit the other world can never appreciate the beauty of seeing a brand new day.

After all, there's nothing wrong with attempted suicide, it becomes a problem if you over-do it, and doctors fail to resuscitate you.

A couple of months later, I started thinking of how much money I could have made by suing the institution for speculating and broadcasting my medical condition. That would really have marked the end of my financial problems. That semester though, for the first time ever, I scored a clean 4.0 GPA. That's just how much not caring about what people say about you behind your back pays.

I may have successfully fought the first rumour, but were another to erupt, it won't be as easy.

Andre has travelled back to his home country for a fortnight and I take this chance to invite Caro and Sera over to his apartment. They help me in cleaning it up hoping that he'll appreciate my work and increase my wage. There isn't much work to do anyway since his business is falling apart, and may soon go underground. He works as a middleman between European sponsors and Western African students who are in need of financial aid to help them pursue higher education in Christian studies. Being the middleman, he spends most of these funds on meeting his sexual wants.

I later get time to myself to surf the internet and do more research about my condition while Caro and Sera watch a movie on Andre's 42 inch flat screen TV. The more I click on the web results, the more scared I get. Now, there are two main disturbing diagnoses.

I may after all be pregnant.

Or

I may be suffering from a chronic heart disease.

"OMG, you're pregnant?" Shouts Sera who is now standing behind me. She freaks me out to the extent that I almost topple the computer monitor.

"You're pregnant?" Repeats Caro as she jumps from her seat and dashes beside me while craning her neck to see what is on the screen.

"What? Me? Pregnant? Do I look pregnant?" I ask in defense.

They both give me a wide eyed look without saying a word.

Looking back at the monitor, "Oh, this? Don't be silly! It's a class assignment."

"Oh really? And which class is that supposed to be?" Asks Sera with an accusing voice.

"Human Health Issues?"

"Human Health Issues? Didn't we take that class already? When was it? Second year?" Caro enquires.

"I'm retaking it..."

"Like you have ever retaken a test!" Exclaims Sera as she goes back to her seat.

"What test? No, it's not a test, it's a CAT. It's on Friday." I respond.

"Do we look that dumb to you?" Caro asks. She seems annoyed that I might be lying to her.

"She thinks that we haven't noticed that she hasn't said a word about Dru since the two of them eloped to God knows where." Shouts Sera from the end of the room as she goes through a pile of Andre's DVDs most of which are blue films.

"Plus it's been a while since I last saw her sit on the back row in class." Caro adds.

"Stop talking about me as though I am not here. Okay?" I shout back at them.

Putting her hands around my shoulders, Caro asks me in a low whisper.

"Did Dru get you pregnant?"

I don't respond but instead close the tabs, shut down the computer and starts getting my stuff ready to leave.

"Remember to close the door and leave the keys under the door mat." I tell them as I walk out.

"Oh my God, what are we going to do?" I hear Caro ask Sera after I have left.

#3

How was passion meant to be

When both were passionate

But he blew off the fire

And I can rekindle it no more

Never in my past life had I thought that I would one day miss having my period.

There is not a single woman I know of who looks forward to those long two to seven days; days filled with painful cramps, irritability, fatigue, injections, pills, hot water bottles and the endless trips to the loo. As for today, I would give anything to bring back into my life those miseries, for it is a day that I get a clarification; that in a couple of months' time, I will be someone's mother.

Bringing myself to the idea of having a baby grow in my tummy is beyond my imagination. In the East, babies are believed to be the ones responsible for choosing their parents. My Ethan must have been out of his mind to choose me as his mother. I can foresee him having as good looks as those of his father, and he'll be a genius-just like me, and very creative. I would rather see him grow to become a successful artiste than have him struggle to survive in the corporate world that is already over-saturated.

This is crazy. I shouldn't be thinking about the future, nor the present, but what is in between the present and the future. What's in between is a vacuum full of suspense, fear, regrets and important decisions to be made. In between these months, I will either make the stupidest decision, or the worst of mistakes.

This isn't how I had planned my first pregnancy to be like. It was meant to be until at least two or three years after my superhero husband had promised me everything he knew I desired, but of which he would never afford. Two to three years would be the right time, for we would somehow have gotten used to each other, and would have become more of friends than lovers. Introducing a baby into the marriage would change that, and he would once again start seeing me as his woman, and not his roommate, or a sister he shares his bed with. One evening, when he's pretending to be all busy and tired from work, I would say the four words;

"We need to talk."

It would scare him. I would wait and watch as his face changed, him muting the sound of the TV, or putting aside his smart-phone as he waits for the bad news, or an opening line for another petty argument. Having had three whole years to unravel my mysteries, he would choose to listen, and only talk when he's sure of what he's talking about, and what my ears want to hear, not what they need to hear.

"We are expecting..." I would say.

Still, he would just sit there, expressionless, waiting for me to finish the sentence.

"We are pregnant. You're going to be a father."

He would tenderly embrace me, plant a hundred kisses all over me and even start putting his palm on my belly hoping to be the first to hear the baby kick. He wouldn't wait to tell his mama, brag about it to his friends. I would be so lucky, so would he.

But, I have messed up, my eggs messed me up. I am now nothing but a broke girl who is on her way to crossing over to the world of single parenthood and with nothing to offer herself, or her son.

Today I received the first portion of my wage from Andre which allowed me to shop for some food. I intend to go on a vegetarian diet so that I don't add too much weight too soon, or before getting a chance to lure a better man underneath these skirts and make him believe that he's the father. I have been working towards accepting the fact that I am pregnant, but never will I embrace the idea of me being a single mother.

While shopping, I can't get my eyes off some lovely baby's clothes at the thrift shop. They look so adorable I can picture little Ethan wearing them. It foolish I know but the idea of having a baby seems to excite me, just for a while. In no time though, the reality clock strikes and the excitement turns into a nightmare; a nightmare so scary that I don't know how my parents, my pretentious friends and other students will react once they get wind of the news.

I find myself doing more than just window shopping, praying that none of the campus paparazzi are watching. A young male shop attendant approaches me, asks whether I'm in need of his help. This is the first time someone is offering to help me out, when shopping. Pregnancy must be making me look hot! If not, this must be one of those good looking attendants who are good at flirting with women in order to blind them into buying more than they can afford.

"Lovely choice that is. Would you like me to wrap it for you?" He asks of me after I spend a couple of minutes playing with a light blue baby's bodysuit.

"No...no, I'm fine. Just looking around." I tell him, hoping that he'll disappear and leave me alone.

"I can do it for free you know, I mean-wrap it for you. I recently had a niece and she is so adorable. Seeing the baby wear your gift is the best thing in the world. Babies are super gorgeous! Are you shopping for a niece or a nephew?" I take a closer look at the guy and it becomes evident that he's gay, though he doesn't seem to be aware of it.

"No, its fine the way it is." I tell him as I head to the counter to pay and leave the store in a hurry before anyone sees me. Him thinking that the bodysuit is for a niece or a nephew makes me feel sexier, and a lot in the mood of finding this baby a new daddy.

The bump is yet to start showing and I being the petite size, I am scared to death. I don't want to start looking funny like some women do. If God sincerely listens to my prayers and gives me the bread I've been praying for rather than a stone, I'll take in the features of a neighbour of mine from back home. She has 8 children; Do, Re, Mi, Fa, So, La, Ti, Do. She always amazes us all at how talented she is at giving birth. There's this one day when she had been working on her shamba from the mid morning to the late afternoon hours. Later that evening, she gave birth, naturally, without the help of a midwife! Everyone in the village was shocked; including her husband, for not even him had an iota of an idea that she had been pregnant. I am clueless on how she manages to do it, but having witnessed how easy it is for her to hide the pregnancy, and deliver very strong, healthy and beautiful kids with no complications, I want to be like her. My only worry is that if I become like her, I may as well have trouble bringing my baby up.

Should I give up my baby for adoption?

I'm positive that it wouldn't be that hard finding a well-off family to adopt my Ethan, preferably a Caucasian family so that my baby could feel out of place and come back looking for me once I have created a good life for us. In almost all of the city's upper class estates, there are hundreds of Caucasian couples parenting adopted African kids; it's the in-thing.

Or, I could abandon my baby in a charity home and later return to adopt him when I am all grown and mature to be someone's mother.

No matter how much I try to see life beyond his birth, I can't. All I think about are my classmates learning about it, and my parents. I am scared for my mum for she had so much hope in me. I can see father blaming her for not having brought up her daughters well, yet, it is him who should have taught me how to connect and interact with men. As for my sisters; he'll have to be stricter with them. They will have to lead a much more pathetic life than I did. But they are not as strong as I am. My sister Soni is unpredictable. At times, she strains too much to please him, and I'm sure that she would rather dedicate her life to be a nun than offend him. My other sister Ciku is the hard-head. Unlike the persevering Soni, I'm sure that she'll try to follow my footsteps in no time. Lucky for her, she always has her way with men, and knows how to bring them on their knees. Last time I checked, our local MPs son was still so madly in love with this girl.

"When a woman gets pregnant, she instantly falls in love with the father of the baby." So says my friend who recently had a baby and just came back to school.

"How can you bring yourself to a love a man just because he got you pregnant?" I ask her, for I strongly believe that nothing, not even my baby could make me fall in love, or even get to like Dru.

"Don't you always have an answer to everything Neema? But hey, wait till you get pregnant and then we can talk." She tells me. I don't fight her out of fear that I may crucify myself.

"But there's a rumour going round that you are pregnant." One of the other girls who used to be my friend back in the day points out. We had a falling out after she called me Neema Suicidal. I had got mad at her, and she said that I was too sensitive for she had been joking. But how on earth do you make jokes that are going to hurt the people you love, especially if you believe that those people are too sensitive?

Very sharp needles start prickling me all over my body-how I'm I supposed to react? And who may have started the rumour? How did they know? How many people has the rumour reached?

Thankfully, no one is smart enough to read my body language. I want to stand and leave before anyone can, but if I do so, that may imply something. If I don't say a thing, that too may be deemed as inferring that the rumour is true. And if I try to change the topic, that will clearly be a way of dodging the BIG question.

"Really, so I'm pregnant? Did the rumour also address on who the father is, or when I'll going to be due?" I ask, sarcastically, hoping to shut her up.

"Three months." She plainly answers. She pisses me off, no wonder I had to let her go off my friendliest. With her around, you don't even need to purchase a copy of the weekly Nairobian gossip newspaper.

"Ohh, really? Sorry that you had to hear it from the grapevine. But I seriously had no idea that you still keep tract of the men I sleep around with when I'm ovulating." With that final blow, she is forced to zip her mouth and excuse herself.

If it's true that the rumour is in existence, I pray that it doesn't reach the monster that put this angel inside of me. It would make him proud, knowing that he can just go around getting ladies to spread their legs wide open for him and proving how fertile he really is. The past few weeks have been the hardest for me, especially since I have had to survive them all by myself while he is still out there luring more young college girls into his little sex haven.

I wonder how many more women he has flirted with, flattered and lured to that bed of his since I left. How much alcohol he has had to feed them, how many home made meals he has had to prepare for them and how much petty cash he has had to dish out the morning after. Out there may be a dozen other girls whom he may have made loved to, countless number of whores he may have fucked, and an unimaginable number of young, innocent, desperate and Godly virgins he has raped. Could it be that his goal in life is to be a father of a great nation, or does he pay those girls' to procure abortions?

Very soon he will get wind of the news, and maybe he will call. I don't intend to pick up, nor read his message, because I already know what his message will be.

'Get rid of that thing.'

He will call again, again and again. Once I don't pick, he'll assume that I have fallen in love with him, and that I am playing hard to get. So he will send me a message, via someone else's phone, probably Caro's, and then M-pesa some cash to pay for the abortion.

I will take the money, and spend it on something else; maybe some books, class assignments, rent, or Ethan's clothes. I have become extremely addicted to baby clothes.

I hear my phone buzz, and there on the screen is his name. Why didn't I get rid of his number? Deleting it would however prevent me from knowing when he is calling, and I would have to talk to him, unknowingly. Maybe I'll need to have his number saved on my phone for the rest of my life, so that anytime I see his incoming call, I can watch with satisfaction as it keeps ringing and begs to be picked.

I ignore the call.

He keeps on calling and calling and calling. This must be déjà vu; I think to myself.

It's either that he has gotten wind of the rumour, of which I don't care; wants to apologize, of which I am not ready to forgive; or wants to pay me off to get rid of my baby, of which I will never agree to.

"Why don't you pick up the phone?" The guy sitted on the opposite side of my table in the library asks.

"Because I don't feel like picking up!"

"That's not up to you to decide, it's disturbing the rest of us."

"Not up to me to decide? Do you want to decide for me?"

He reaches out for my phone, picks it up, presses the Talk button and start Halloing. I snatch it from him and hang up.

The phone rings again and I mistakenly press the Talk button.

"What games do you think you are playing?" Dru furiously asks. I sense the same macho and arrogant tone he had when he was dropping me off back then, acting all bossy as though he's God's most treasured gift to women.

"Games? What on earth makes you think that I would be interested in playing any game with you?" I shout back and hang up.

He calls again. I head to the bathrooms to pick the call, with the sole intention of giving him the last piece of my mind.

"I don't have time to play your games sweetheart. Just wanted to tell you to stop sending me those Flashbacks and Please Call Me text messages..."

"My God, you are unbelievable!"

"Let this be the last time I'm warning you. In case you forgot, I am a lawyer, with very good connections; I could have your number suspended in an instance."

"And may this be the last time you are confusing my number with those of your gay boyfriends. And hey, if you want to scare me, stop hiding behind the empty threats and just act." As a hang up the phone I can feel my heart beat faster than ever before, and it's feels amazing! I'm proud of myself.

Seconds later he sends me a text message, of which I delete without reading. I later start wondering what he wrote, and whether the message contained insults that could have been used against him in a law court. I wonder how much of a fortune I could have made from that defamatory text message.

The morning is still very young and fresh. It's yet another of the baby making seasons; very cold but serene. Nine months from this season, a season when heavy downpour hits the roof and hypnotises everyone to sleep, a new generation will come in to fill this earth.

Rainy season is beautiful. I love it. Everything about it seems so cool and calm. I had always fantasised about getting married on a rainy day. It's weird I know, but I would have loved to take my vow as heavy rain drops hit our foreheads. We wouldn't have to sign no certificates for God would have let out a beautiful double rainbow on the horizon to act as a symbol of our marriage covenant.

Now that I am pregnant, I doubt if that will ever happen. I see myself tucking in my little Ethan to bed as I read him his favorite bedtime story everytime he asks about his father. I don't intend to read him any happily ever after fairy tale, for he will ask questions, the kind of questions that I would rather not answer, or would have to lie about.

How I'm I going to handle single parenthood? That life is too hard to imagine. I have never liked kids, but, the thought of having a son leaves me beaming, I have no idea why. Maybe it's because I have been emotionally and physically lonely for so long; with no brothers, a father or even good boyfriends. But this bundle of joy will forever be my side.

Life as a single parent is going to be tough, though not very tough. After all, almost all married women bring up their children single handedly while their husbands stray and make lame excuses of having to spend long hours in the office in order to meet the needs of their families but in reality, they are out there hitting on young girls, young enough to be their daughters, whom they think are more presentable, prettier and would make great second wives, but all these girls are after is whatever these men's money can buy.

On some days though, raging sexual hormones might drive me crazy. I don't intend to introduce a new uncle to my son every weekend, or befriend my shamba boy, or worse still, lure a young and sexy college toy boy to a cheap hotel bed where none of my friends will find out, only for him to infect me with an embarrassing STI.

With a kid on my lap, every educated and 'well' brought up man will assume that I will be bringing in too much of a burden into the relationship, hence will prefer a decent girlfriend. What he doesn't know is that the decent girl he cherishes was once in my shoes, but out of shame, she got rid of the pregnancy. Year after year, the perfect gentleman and the decent girl will try to make a baby, but never will they be blessed with one. They will fight, separate, get back together, give adoption a chance, or hire a surrogate, but still, he'll not be fully satisfied. Eventually, he will start acting friendly to a woman like me, the woman he once dismissed, but it might be too late, for if I won't have reached my menopause, his sperm count will barely be enough.

The less educated men from the village have a different presumption: they prefer single mothers. Single mothers know all about handling tough times, and if you put a ring on her, she will never stray; so they believe. If getting a husband is going to be that hard, then maybe I should start thinking about befriending a lesbian.

The rain continues pounding on the roof so hard that all I want is to let it hypnotise me till the very late morning hours. Though I can no longer resist sleep, no matter how hard I try to pave way for it, my body says no. Down there; I am dying to release some fluid. The whole pregnancy has gotten me so excited that I am urinating every time I see or sense water. This has to be one of those nights that you want to take that soda bottle from the corner of the room and urinate in it, so that you can go back to your not so often beautiful sleep.

Finding my way to the switch, I realize that there is a blackout. I should have known better. Lights always go off whenever there's a light shower, thunder or lightening. I can even count the few times I have been blessed with power over the past few years. Living in a cheap house simply means getting used to living with barely any social amenities: water is always a problem and so are electricity and the drainage system. Our landlady is so mean that she even installed a gadget that bars us from 'wasting' electric power. We can't use electricity to iron, boil water or power up a computer or HDTV. The only supported devices that can be powered with electricity are the 14 inch black and white TV's, the very small and fake radios-such as mine, mobile phone charging and energy saving bulbs. Whenever one person tries acting smart and screwing up with the connection, we are all forced to stick with the blackout for at least two days. On the third day, she sends a fake electrician to come check out the problem, which he does, but within a couple of hours, the same problem kicks in again.

Here I am, stranded. The rain is likely to cause a small flood thanks to the poor drainage system. Power won't be back for at least the next 12 hours. I have no candles in the house, my phone battery is almost empty and when I think about the mess created in the public loo outside whenever there is no power, I want to find me a bottle to pee in. That's exactly what I do.

The feeling is so good. It's like quenching a thirst after a whole day of trekking without hydrating your body, or passing wind after you have had to hold it in for so long while chairing a public meeting, or climaxing during sex for the first time. Pure ecstasy.

Going back to bed, my phone buzzes, with another one of those Battery Low alerts. The screen lights up the room with a neon blue light transforming my little shack into a small Las Vegas club. I had a friend make fun of it once, asking me whether that was a sign that it had Bluetooth.

As I get back to bed, I notice a couple of stains in my bed. Blood stains.

Almost every girl I know of uses her menses as an excuse to everything: She asks for extra pocket money because you can never say No to a woman with no sanitary towels. She misses her classes for she cannot multi-task between paying attention and handling the pains. She takes a day off from work because the pain is unbearable, and nothing in life is as important as her health.

I call up Andre to try and explain the situation; that I can't make it to work today, because I am ill. I don't like using my womanhood as an excuse to not meet my responsibilities, but today, this is more than I can handle.

He says that I have to be there.

"There is so much work to be done and the other girl just sent me a text saying that she is on her period."

"On her period? I never take a day off when I'm on my period. Why don't you ask her to come in at least later in the day? Coz I just can't make it today."

"You don't understand. Tasha's cramps are really painful-o, and I don't want to be the one rushing her to the emergency room now. Just get your ass in here or you consider yourself laid off."

"So she can take a day off because her cramps are more painful than those of any other woman in the world right?" I ask him, pissed.

"Neema, this is not a matter of discussion. Are you coming in or not?"

"The thing is that I am also on my period, and..."

"No, I can't have the both of you away. Tasha's situation is serious."

"I had no idea that you are her fallopian tubes to know that."

"What?"

I don't answer back. I am pissed, but I just can't afford letting this job slip off my hands, not now, but I also can't bring myself to apologise for something I am not sorry for.

For a few seconds, there is a disturbing silence on both sides of the line. He finally breaks it by repeating his final decision,

"I'll be waiting."

then hangs up.

I recall the first day the bloody flow paid me a visit. I thought that I had pneumonia, or something serious, one of those rare diseases that you contact and die a few minutes later, like anthrax. I was so very scared of telling anyone, for they would think that I had been misbehaving. That's how stupid kids who never get to study Home Science are.

The weird infection had left my limb joints feeling as though I had been taking a week's long hike to Mount Kilimanjaro during the very cold month of August. Lucky enough, it was on a Sunday, during the December holidays, and no one really cares about anyone's business during the day that God set aside for all of His creation to sit back, chill out and enjoy their me-time.

The pain I feel in my stomach right now reminds me of the one time I had diarrhoea. You feel like emptying your bowels every two seconds but, nothing ever gets to come out. If only I had a five star bathroom, I could spend the whole day sitted on top of the toilet. Yet, nothing feels as pleasurable as passing wind, which happens every couple of minutes. I don't really know what this is, but had I been less smart, I could have no doubt believing that someone had cast a spell on me.

This pain I assume is the exact pain, or ever worse, like the one a young girl feels after she has stolen her grandma's knitting needles and used them to knit out an unwanted baby from her uterus.

It's during days like these that I choose to not to eat or drink anything, for I can't stand rushing to and fro the toilet every five minutes, not forgetting 99% of the time, I usually don't use hygienic sanitary towels. Despite all this, I have never skipped a single class or missed out on performing my chores.

On the brighter side, this punishment only last for a day; and this is the day.

Four days later, the flow is yet to disappear.

At first I felt glad, glad that there had been no pregnancy, and my life would finally be back to normal. My friend Google calls it self-impregnation; the feeling you get when you deeply believe that you are pregnant such that you start experiencing all of the symptoms despite there being no foetus in the womb.

A part of me is excited that I can get my life back on track, but the other half feels as though I have just killed my Ethan. The idea of mothering a young boy had scared and excited me at the same time. Now that he is no more, and never had been, I feel confused, but somehow relieved.

Why then had I been experiencing all of those symptoms? Had it been as a result of poor diet, or being very depressed? It's hard to tell whether I had been depressed, for when depression becomes a part of your daily routine; it ceases to be depression, but instead becomes your definition of life. I have never been happy, so the only thing that can depress me is happiness: the kind of happiness that peeps through the window like a ghost and by the time I open my arms to embrace it, it has already vanished.

I know I was pregnant, or so have made myself believe. There is no way I could have made up all those symptoms in my head, especially considering that I had been with a man while I was ovulating: And this bloody heavy flow, coming from nowhere and sticking around for an entire week! This is so not the flow that I have grown au fait with in the last couple of years.

My mind tells me that I should see a doctor, the kind of doctor who is credible enough and lacks the aggressiveness of passing word around that I was inviting boys into my panties without first doing a background check on them, and comparing it with mine. I would hate it were she to use my personal medical files to conduct a research and base her findings on my sexual behaviour. At the end of the year, she and the rest of her fellow medical doctors would share my and other girl's files with the ministry of health, present our files to the government as evidence that the girl-child still needs protection, beg for an increase of condom supply in colleges and try to push forward for the legalisation of safe and affordable abortion.

What I don't want is a doctor to squeeze me off my bits of cash, but what I really need is a bit of energy to drag me into the Mama Wangari's kiosk to get me a 10 shillings phone credit for my phone and do more traumatic Google research. The last couple of days have been taking a strain on me. It's obvious that this is no ordinary menses but an extra ordinary condition, a miscarriage maybe; a thought I have been irresistibly trying to fight off my very intelligent brain.

Had I grown closer to my mother, and had she been more open to her daughter, she would have prepared me for all this, and educated me on everything I needed to know about transforming from a girl into a woman. She is not to blame for any of this though. I'm certain that she must have been waiting for the right time to do the talking, like on the night before my wedding. Or, she may have presumed that being the smart girl I am, I would have read all about it in books, heard about it from friends and teachers or, researched about it from the internet.

Had I mentioned this piece of news to Dru, he could have had me blacklisted from all the male gender. I had let him know that I was a virgin, of which he doubted and proved me wrong. Then there would have been this pregnancy; that pregnancy, which he would also have doubted, and yet again, he would have won for the pregnancy was no longer verifiable.

This must be a sign, a sign that God has listened to my cries and after many years of abandonment, has finally come to my rescue. He is finally showing up to rescue me from public ridicule, abandonment by parents, dismissal by potential husbands and giving me a chance to experience a bright future.

Still, it could have been another form of a sign. Like a sign that I will never be able to carry a baby in my womb again, that it is a punishment from God for sleeping around, or a prophesy come true as prophesied by my father; that I was a foolish woman whose future was doomed.

#4

She's a baby girl!

Another stupid woman in the family lineage

She'll be as stupid as her mother; never will she amount to anything

At first, she feared him;

Walked out when he walked in, ran away when he came her way

She had to forget his hugs, his smile, his touch, his compliments and later; his presence

She watched as her skin cracked, walked to the market barefoot like the homeless and mentally insane

She had to keep her hair short otherwise it would get lice

She forgot all about having friends, looking good, feeling good and being a lady

Every other month she would pump in dirty clothes to suck her fertility

Someday somehow, she had to let him go; for good

The day she spread wide her innocent legs to a man his age...just to have a meal...a basic need

Then, the desire to be daddy's little girl died

'May thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven

Give us this day our daily bread...'

At one time in my life, I had wondered what it meant to have a daily bread. The first thought that crossed my mind as a little girl was having Supaloaf for breakfast, hence would get really mad at God when mama made us porridge for breakfast, or whenever she had us eat boiled sweet potatoes and tea. Having never gone a single meal without food, I couldn't understand why it was necessary to pray for food, but that was until I saw the grieving images of the Turkana people dying of drought and famine. Not long after, I too became a part of the starved.

Stating that I always had a daily bread doesn't mean that I had the right kind of bread. There are different kinds of breads. There is the white bread which tastes great but has loads of yeast and sugars that make me sick; there is the yellow bread which tastes great too but smells really awful; and there is the brown bread which tastes really bad but is highly nutritional. The kind of bread I grew up eating was none of these three. It was both bad tasting and nauseating. After all, isn't that what every parent exposes their child to when they send them off to a far off prison that takes in the name of a boarding school?

Though I loathed the prison-like boarding school, at least there too was enough bad tasting and sickening daily bread.

College life however exposed me to a different taste of daily bread; bread that only came to being ever so rarely that for the first time in my life, I understood what it really means to not be hungry, but to be starving. I watch as many girls covet my petite physique, congratulate me for knowing how to stay in shape, but if only they knew what my secret diet is, they would donate all of their left-over's into my beggar's plate.

At first, it was okay.

Then it got bad.

Later on, it became unbearable.

When you are hungry, you can choose what to eat and when to eat it. If you are starving, that's something else. You eat anything, and everything that your eyes sees and your hands get hold of.

Starvation is like a chronic mental disorder. When you are starved, you can barely chew or swallow lest you increase the intensity of the pain. The worst part is that you have to deal with systematic fantasies of you dining in a four star café or, taking part in a food eating competition. For the past couple of nights, all I have been dreaming of is hosting a cooking show, and having to eat everything I prepare for my guests. Due to this, my beddings really smell nasty now that I drool all over them whenever I fall asleep on an empty stomach.

When I first came to campus, I thought that this was to be it, the Big IT. I would have the freedom, my own space, live a stress free life away from my father's criticism, eat all the foods I never had a chance of eating before, put on some good amount of weight in all the right places, and above all, get plenty of me time.

I ended up getting the exact opposite.

You know, to enjoy life, be happy and contented, you need money. Not a lot of it, just enough. Enough is what I never had. God knows that I did my best to get enough. Calling my father, trying to apply for part-time jobs, marketing my writing skills to magazines out there, but still, there was hardly anything forthcoming.

When the whole world turned against me, I resulted to swallowing my pride and regaining the strength to make yet another one of those most hated phone calls. I always tried my best to not hit the nail on the head immediately, but rather use a more diplomatic approach. Call my mother, talk to her, then ask her to pass the phone to my sisters, then to my father, and, after I was done saying hi to everyone, I would introduce the financial aspect of the conversation. My phone credit wouldn't last for long, and so the call would be disconnected before I was done explaining how much I spend buying a cup of tea and two slices of bread for breakfast, a plate of rice and beans for lunch or a plate of ugali and sukumawiki for supper. I would wait, wait, and wait for a couple of minutes, to a number of hours and then to a couple of days, for him to call back.

I would then call again, this time, using borrowed credit from my mobile network. I would skip the greetings part but instead go straight to the point. Still, I would have to wait patiently for more minutes, hours and days for him to call back, or apologise in form of an M-Pesa text message.

Then I would result into begging for credit from a friend in order to send him an SMS, but still, nothing.

At last, I would resolve into a Flashback.

After all my hardwork, it became clear that I had become more of a nagging mistress than my father's daughter.

What did he expect me to do? Start sleeping around with boys for food, or sleep with lecturers for money? Or maybe he was under the assumption that if he gave me money, I would do drugs. After all, isn't it much better to die of starvation than of drugs?

"How many times do I have to tell that I don't work at the Central Bank?" He would scream into my ear everytime I called him and, instead of him checking on how his daughter was doing, he would start lecturing me on anything, and everything. On such days I always wished that I would get myself back home and poison his food. But that would give him a more than decent, painless and immediate ticket to hell.

With the pregnancy no longer getting on the way of my young life, and having been showed matching orders from my part-time job, starvation had come back banging at the door.

Like Esau who had to sell his birthright to his younger brother Jacob for a bowl of soup, or like the Prodigal son who returned back home to have a nice home cooked meal, or simply like a homeless beggar opts to commit a petty crime on the streets so that he can be locked up behind bars where there is free food and housing, I too picked up my rags over the weekend and headed back home.

It would annoy my father to see me waste money on transport, but it would annoy him even more were his mother and his friends to comment about how malnourished I had become, which was my intention. My people strongly believe that it is far much better for a man to fail to meet his wife's sexual needs in bed, than for him to fail in putting a bowl of food on the table for his children.

My sisters as usual are excited to see me, the only girl to have left the countryside and travelled to the big city in search of knowledge and wisdom. To them, it is obvious that I will get married to a wealthy, handsome and well educated man, hence give them the right to crash into my new home whenever they felt like it, with an excuse of helping around, when in reality they will be inventing moves to woo my husband's rich friends and relatives.

I love my sisters, but I love my privacy more. This is why I can't stand having to share a room with them, listen to them gossip about some village boys they have a crush on, and how they lied about attending the church choir or Bible Study when they were actually meeting up with boys by the roadside bushes to practice with what they watch Mexican actors and actresses do, or what they have read from Mills and Boon.

I ask them to hush repeatedly, and they only do so for a couple of minutes before going back to their same old boring storytelling, everytime trying to change the topic so that I may join in, only for me to hush them again.

"Hey Neema, what's up with you today? You are acting like a pregnant woman!" Comments Soni in a fairly loud whisper before they both start giggling.

"Since when did you become an expert on pregnant women?" I angrily shout back at her in a louder whisper, secretly praying that my father's ears have become deaf so as not to hear what we are talking about.

"So you are pregnant? Who's the father? Are you getting married? Where does he come from? Is he rich?" Ciku excitedly asks. Amidst the big cloud of darkness I can see her sit up with her mouth wide open with excitement. Why do her teeth have to be so white when she barely takes a minute to brush them?

"Ciku! Stop it; can't you tell that she is on her period?" Shouts Soni.

Later I hear them have a pillow talk till they hypnotise each other to sleep. They seem to be getting closer to each other by the day. Just a few years back, they could hardly stand each other, but now, they are acting more like lovers. I hope they haven't been doing any of that lesbian stuff girls in single sex boarding schools do. Not that I mind it, for it would be a lot better to be with another female than live a abnormal life with a man who'll remind them of their father.

Come the next morning, I am awaken by my father knocking hard on our door, almost breaking it down as he shouts at my sisters to go and study. I remember back when I was still in school; primary and high school. Vacation or no vacation, he always had me strictly supervised, with a timetable waiting for me the very minute I reached home after the schools closed. I used to have terrible headaches then; I barely had enough sleep, or enough of anything. It feels just like yesterday when he would threaten to come wake me up with a whip. As soon as I started my university education, I found out that after all this early morning study sessions, I hadn't been born to be an early morning person. My mind works best from the late afternoon hours all the way to a little past midnight. Hopefully, I will get a job that will also allow me to work the afternoon or night shift.

After he makes sure that the two female slaves are settled in their study room, he comes back, with more bangs; lecturing me on how foolish I am to be asleep when my old mother is already up and killing herself with house chores. I've always wondered why is it that I being a woman have to do the kitchen and house work while he sits around doing nothing. It's not like I do the cleaning, cooking and washing with my breasts or my vagina!

There were those days when I thought to myself that God had made a mistake; that He should have let him be physically challenged. That way, I would have no problem doing everything while he sat there, controlling the remote, making orders and Hitlering the running of the entire household. I read that a majority of well famed dictators are like this because they were born with only one testicle. Could he be one of them?

Though I had planned to stick around for a while, the man can't seem to stand my presence in the house. He tells me that he doesn't want me to miss a single class. He says that I should leave for school latest by noon. I make a wild guess that he doesn't want anyone to see how thin I have become, and they may start talking; talking about how I may have fallen prey of the city men along the well famed prostitution cum Koinange Street.

Before he has his wish, he has to fulfil mine. That's when I introduce the taboo topic which has brought me home; money.

"Money, money, everything is about money. What do you think I am, Bill Gates? If you want money, you have to work for it." He starts fussing long before I finish introducing the topic. This is the same man who used to tell me that I need focus on nothing else but my education, for he would take care of everything else.

Like a zombie, I stay there. Glued. Motionless.

He sighs.

"Mhm, what do you do with all the money I send, drugs? Or do you have a family you're feeding that I know nothing about?"

Mother joins us, and like me, she remains there, like a just resuscitated zombie. Sitted, sipping her cup of coffee, saying nothing.

"I am already late on rent, I have completely run out of shopping, and this being my final year, I need more money to work on my final project. And I also need to start sending applications for my industrial attachment." I tell him.

He looks at me, unconvinced, for a whole two minutes, and then diverts his misogynist look at my mother.

"See what you have done to your daughter?"

This isn't new to me. It happens every time he's furious with me, for no reason, such that he opts to disown me and let me be my mother's child, and no longer his first-born daughter.

Two more minutes of total silence, then he unleashes his ugly sarcastic laugh.

"Now that you have gone to University you think you are smarter than me, and I am nothing but a stupid old man? If I am as stupid as you think I am, don't you think you inherited the same amount of stupidity from me?"

Another two minutes of silence.

"Listen, I don't have time for your stupid games. If you want me to trust you, you will have to send me the receipts of all the print outs you make, the food you buy, the rent you pay and any other thing you spend my money on. In regards to your attachment, I'll be the one to take care of that. Go get ready for school."

There is something sinister about this man. I mean, does he think that I don't have a brain of my own, or does he assume that it's too shallow to make its own decisions? Maybe he assumes that some-way in between, he took advantage of an IPO I ignorantly made available and purchased 51% of its shares making him my brain's main shareholder. Not a day passes before I try to come up with an explanation why mama has had to stick with him all this while, or why she got together with him in the first place. Love may be blind, or even insane, but this, this relationship of theirs is absolutely absurd.

Later in the day while he is gone, everyone gets back to life. Without his presence, this house becomes a home, every piece of food no matter how small becomes a meal, and my mama, sisters and I finally become a family. Why can't things be always like this?

I'm thinking about talking my family into borrowing a leaf from the Kikuyu women from Kiambu. The women are notoriously known for their beauty, charm and love for money. Out of their love for a good life, most of them make it their project to join forces with their kids and eliminate the man of the house. I however doubt if mama would ever let me talk her into it.

I like seeing mama happy, smiling. I have no idea how she laughs though. She is a beautiful woman, and I have occasionally caught several men look at her, men young enough to be her nephews, and others old enough to be her father. One day I will make her laugh; and that will be the happiest moment of my life.

It's a few minutes' past 2:00pm. Mama asks why I am disrespecting papa's request. I tell her that was no request; it's was a command. My sisters laugh. Since I am all grown up and smart, I no longer have to shake when he speaks. Shouldn't he start thinking about the future? Being the angry man he has always been, age has already started catching up with him, really fast! If he doesn't change his ways, soon he will have no one to look after him, or even someone to send him to a prison-like retirement home where kids who hate their parents send them as a payback.

I am not stupid though. I have had enough of him already, and can't stand another night under his roof, or having to hear his voice penetrate my ears. The sound of his voice is more annoying than that of a mosquito singing and dancing around your ear when you're trying to catch sleep. If I start getting ready now, I will be done by around three o'clock, and can spare a couple of minutes for mama to say a prayer for me as I leave. By four o'clock I'll be in the matatu and come eight o'clock, I'll have arrived in college.

As I stand to go back to the house and follow my well laid plan, I realise that everything around me has suddenly become blurry, and so is my hearing, and my stability, then my consciousness.

Never felt so much peace, serenity and happiness in life. If death feels like this, and I believe it is, I have no idea why so many are scared of dying, and freeze everytime one tries to bring up the topic.

I have taken a peep on the other side a number of times before, and being on the border proved to me how lovely that place is.

My younger sister at first assumes that I have died, so mama comes to confirm whether the daughter that she has always loved, but never had the words to express how much she loved her is really gone. Slowly by slowly, I start coming back. I must have reached the other side past the office working hours and had to be deferred till the next intake.

As Soni struggles to resuscitate me, mama is in tears, dialling her phone, calling out for neighbours and weeping while hugging my body tightly close to hers. If this is what it takes to feel that warm hug that I have always longed for, then this should be happening more often.

By the time I gain full consciousness, word has already spread far and wide that I am dead. I in fact wouldn't be surprised if a couple of months or even years down the line, someone got a shock of their life upon seeing my ghost taking walks on the streets.

Father is dead worried; I have never seen him this scared. He must have started counting the losses of educating this girl, and end up losing her before gold digging a handsome amount of dowry and bride price from his future son-in-law.

Mama insists that I should seek medical attention, but I am against it, so is papa. This is the first and only time that we've actually agreed on something.

"It doesn't seem that serious to me. Let her get checked tomorrow after she goes back to school. We can't afford to pay for her check-up here when we have already paid for another at her school." He says.

As I go to bed, all I am thinking about is, 'What If'.

What if it is something serious? Did it have to do with my miscarriage? What will the doctor say?

I wake up earlier than usual, but to my surprise, there is no wake up banging at the door. The big man must have been scared from yesterday's episode to an extent that he leaves mama to wake up the lazy girls. Her style is different, patient, but all the same worse. At first she will come in, softly call out your name as she gives you a tender facial massage. If you don't respond to that, she returns with a more aggressive approach; pinching your feet. If at all you resist that one too, she will get rid of all the blankets, hide them, and open the windows.

As Soni and Ciku try in vain to catch an extra minute of sleep, mama approaches my bed and informs me that father wants to see and talk to me. What happened to the old saying, mwenye haja huenda choo?

I tell her that I will be right up, but she doesn't seem satisfied. She demands that I first get out of bed, which I refuse as I instead turn to the opposite side of the bed and cover my whole body with a blanket.

"Wake up; you know your father doesn't like to be kept waiting." She demands as she takes away the only blanket I'm covering myself with and drops it on the floor. I give up. I turn to the other side of the bed and sit up.

I notice Soni and Ciku stare at me, a stare I have never seen before. Mama looks embarrassed. She looks away, and then down before asking my sisters to leave the room. I look back at her, worried, not knowing what is going on.

"What have you done?" She angrily asks as soon as the door shuts behind Ciku's back.

"What are you talking about...?" She doesn't let me finish. She slaps me hard across my face, a chilly and sharp slap on a freezing cold morning.

"Is this why you were refusing to go back to school? Oh my God, where did I go wrong?" She starts wailing, pacing about the room. Father calls out for her,

"Mama Neema, are you planning on burning down my house or what?"

She stares at me with very infuriated eyes before leaving. Those aren't her eyes; she must have contracted the disorder from father.

After she leaves, I take a good look at myself and just like a balloon that has been puffed in with air, is my protruding belly. I don't know how and why the thing had to pop up at a moment like this, when just yesterday it was as flat as young girl's bare chest.

Maybe it had always been there, but I had gotten so used to sucking in my stomach that I had failed to see it grow.

"How are you feeling?" Mama's sweetheart asks me. I can't really tell whether he is faking his being concerned, or if he's for real.

"I'm okay."

"Fine. Go help your mother in the kitchen and then get ready for school. Your mother will accompany you to town and have Dr. Kariuki do a check-up on you. I don't want you passing out unnecessarily out there on the road all by yourself."

I have no idea what kind of abnormality I am suffering from, but if it has to do with a man, the last person I want to get to know about it is mama. Proving right her suspicions will destroy her, if not kill her.

A part of me is telling me that I am suffering from a complicated pregnancy that should be checked, and if not, then it must be a tumour, or an unknown weird medical condition. I try to convince and re-convince myself that it could be something else, but the more I think about it, the more I start experiencing imaginary baby movements and kicks.

Mama doesn't say a word to me. Not that she talks much but, I would rather listen to her call me names and lecture me about my having humiliated her rather than keeping those harmful words to herself. She recently lost a dear friend of hers who had also been married to a husband with exactly the same traits as father. Her naivety and submissiveness had paved way to her suffering from a brain tumour, which hungrily fed on all her youth, beauty and womanhood before ditching her into a six feet deep pit. And just like that, the mourning widower brought onto her side of the bed another woman the very next evening after the burial ceremony.

It would kill me were mama to follow her friend's footsteps.

I want to make her proud of me, and help her get back her voice, her strength, her endurance, and her dreams.

As I walk to the clinic's washrooms, I feel that I have to act now, and that I need to do something that will bring back to life the strong woman whose personality has been sapped by the man she loved, and the daughters her husband wished had been born male.

I meet this charming cleaning lady in the washrooms going about her tasks. She tells me her name is Ann. I ask her if she is pregnant. She is taken aback at my allegations.

"What makes you think that? I just gave birth a few months ago!"

I beg her to help me out, promising to give her the little money I have with me in exchange of a little sample of her urine. I would rather go hungry for yet another day, and maybe another night, than send mama back home in fear and depression.

The lady must have once been in my shoes. She takes a look at me, then another, and a final one before obliging to my request. As I continue to grow up, I have come to learn that not many women are as outspoken as they should be. The speak best with their inner voices, and if you have never had that inner voice, you can never get to communicate with them or understand them. That inner voice is great, for it helps you connect with each other, but it so bad, that it makes other people take advantage of you.

The results come out negative. Mama is so happy, she's smiling! It's like the tallest wave of bad karma has been swept off her entire lineage. The woman is so lovely, so radiant and beautiful with that smile on. In no time, she gets back to her serious self, and scared as she reverts her attention to the doctor.

"Could this mean that it's something else, maybe something more serious?"

"No, I highly doubt that." The doctor responds. "Your daughter just told me that she had her period a few days back. The fainting could have been as a result of too much blood loss, especially if she had a heavy flow; it's quite a common occurrence among girls her age. Same thing with her tummy; nothing serious, just a bloated stomach. But since we can't speculate, I would advice that she comes back for another check-up after a week."

Mama can't hide her excitement any more, she wants to celebrate! It is the ideal girls' day out; a day that she got to wrap her motherly warm arms around me for a couple of minutes and found it hard to let go. I am wondering to myself, 'why have you been keeping your arms to yourself all this while?'

"I am so proud of you my daughter. You are a big blessing." I can see a cloud of joyful tears form in her eyes as she utters these words.

I feel guilty though, wondering whether I should tell her the truth, or let Mother Nature make that decision for me.

At the bank, she asks me to queue and make a deposit at the counter as she sits in one of the customer chairs, relaxing, something she barely ever gets to do while at home. She is always waking up too early, going to bed too late, and overworking too hard. In less than three minutes, she is already in dreamland.

After I am done with depositing the school fees at the counter, the teller lady tells me that the manager wants to see me.

"Why? Have I done something wrong?" I ask.

She gives me one of those looks that want to yell, 'Listen lady, they don't pay enough to work as both a teller and a messenger.'

The guy who had been impatiently queuing behind me belligerently approaches the counter and shoves me aside to the point of almost sending me to the floor. The teller starts conversing with him as if she is already done serving me. A few feet away from the counter is a small all glass office with a BANK MANAGER sign on the door. Before I hold up my hand and form a light fist to knock, a burly man opens it from the inside and asks that I come in.

Inside are three men, two sitted on one side of a small two sitter leather couch and with the other man sitted at the Big Boss's chair behind a huge magnificently expensive desk, the kind that must have been bought using the high interest rates the bank charges its poor customers who have to depend on loans for survival. He has one of those very dark and handsome smooth skins with sparkling white teeth; or maybe they are not that white, he's just lucky that his skin tone makes his teeth look whiter. My guess is that he is no more than 35, but his 8 to 6 Monday to Saturday tight work schedule and fat salary and allowances must be behind his looking at least 45.

He asks me to take a sit, asks what my name is, where I work or go to school and for how long I have had an account with the bank. He then signals for the two men to leave before making the conversation personal and asking for my number.

'So this has nothing to do with my banking services!'

I look outside the glass wall and right there is my mother, fully awake. She pretends that she doesn't take notice of me though I'm sure that she is analysing the scene with her corner eye and eavesdropping with her inner left ear.

"Don't worry, the room is noise proof." He assures me.

I ask him why he needs my number.

"I would like to call you sometime and talk."

"Aren't we talking?"

"How about I take you out sometime? Somewhere where we can talk some more; away from the constraints of this office and the guardianship of your mother?"

I tell him that it wouldn't be possible, for I am already engaged.

A part of me is waiting for him to unleash a fit of temper like the two to three decades old boys do everytime a girl shuns them.

"Okay. I do hope that he's aware of how lucky he is, and, say hi to your mom for me."

He seemed okay, mature and passed the first litmus test that I use to test all my potentials. Had the circumstances been a little different, maybe I could have given him a shot. But still, a girl has to wonder whether this man is the kind that is always asking young female customers to his office and requesting for their numbers, or if she's the first, last and only one. It's hard to tell, and if something is hard to tell, then it's not worth thinking about in the first place.

Mama asks me what is it that he wanted. I tell her that he was asking about my account details. I know that she knows that I am lying, but she doesn't push it.

"Maybe he wanted to give you a job. I hear they are looking for new employees."

She knows that I know that she's covering up the fact that I know that she knows why the manager called me in his office. Why do mothers and daughters find it so hard to talk about these things?

"Be careful with these men. You have come from very far, and I wouldn't want all that gone to waste." She finally tells me as we sit in a small café where she buys me a plate of cheap but very tasty French fries. I know that they won't be as sweet as the ones my former crushes have treated me with back in campus, for restaurants up there don't use ordinary oil to fry them. They use a cheaper form of oil, oil that they drain from electric transformers at night and use it to cook fries. It has been speculated that the oil is poisonous, but that doesn't matter. What matters is how delicious the meal is.

This is why I am so in love with this woman. Though she usually has just enough to feed herself and her daughters, whenever she gets spare change, she always spoils us in very special ways. All this takes me back to almost 10 years ago.

It would happen every three days in a year; when parents go to shopping malls, restaurants and bakeries to buy their kids in boarding schools all kinds of fancy and spicy foods and snacks. I hated visiting days for they were the days when father would come and lecture me, and call me names while my schoolmates and their parents watched in shock. He would only come for 30 minutes; 10 of which he would spend at the notice board checking and analysing my academic performance, 20 minutes of lecture, and 10 minutes of catching up with his friends, before he left. After a while, he stopped visiting. He alleged that I was embarrassing his good name.

Mama, Ciku and Soni weren't ashamed, or maybe they didn't care about public opinion, and so they continued coming. They would always be excited to see me. The four of us were just awesome. But one day father decided that he had had enough of me. He refused to give mama any money for transport or to buy me any good food with. I remember being so excited seeing her, all alone, without her husband to torment me. But she was just like that, carrying not even the smallest shopping bag to wipe off the rust left by having to eat boiled prison food for the past two months. As we sat under a shade, she removed a tiny hot pot from her handbag, and inside was nicely fried rice, with a few potatoes, carrots and tomatoes.

I was so mad!

How I wished that she hadn't come so that I would at least have benefitted from the rich dishes other girls had been brought by their parents. But now that everyone knew that I had been visited, they wouldn't donate me a single snack. Instead, they would be waiting to taste my mother's cooking.

I was so mad at her then. But that one time proved how much she really loved me, for not many parents can walk 15 kilometres with nothing but fried rice on their bag to visit their child during one of the most important days of their boarding school life.

Everytime I remember that day; that very special moment, tears of love fill my eyes.

The afternoon has just fully matured but this weather is making it look like it's time it handed over its survival torch to its offspring Evening. Rain has been pouring heavily for the past one hour leaving a heavy mist on the matatu's windows. Now there's nothing to busy my eyes with as I can barely see the beautiful sceneries along the way to the city, or the funny architectural designs being incorporated by the mushrooming buildings that are being built only an inch away from the highway. It's my belief that it won't take long before the government sends in a group of rowdy youths to tear down these buildings and bring in Chinese prisoners to expand the highway for us; all in the name of strengthening our bi-lateral relations.

Almost everyone in the matatu seems to have fallen prey of the weather and is resting their stresses of life hoping that these short-lived joys could last forever. Other than myself, the other three passengers who are still awake are too busy on their phone texting, listening to their music selection with their earphones and reading an erotic novel.

Then, when all seems to be going on so well, the vehicle breaks down. No one wants to get out of their comfortable and warm seats and help the driver and the conductor with the repair. A couple of minutes later, the men in the vehicle alight and start sharing their expertise on some weirdo facts and myths why the vehicle broke down and what should be done. These are the very auto-smart men who have never been, and are never going to be privileged enough to own a car, yet here they are, fighting each other over what they read from a 1995 Top Gear magazine. With so many volunteer experts, getting the problem solved becomes futile.

It becomes Chrystal clear that we will be stranded right here for as long as God hears one of our prayers and sends help. The few matatus that pass our way refuse to help, or take in more passengers. About an hour later, a mini bus that usually transports anyone, and everything, including farm products and animals to the city, stops. All the men fight for the little space left as the ladies opt to sit on 'saucers'-the wooden chopping boards placed on the space between two opposite seats that should be used as the pathway.

I refuse to enter and they tell me that I'm being stupidly proud. I tell them there's no way I'm getting into an already full bus and end up becoming another victim who lost her life because she was in too much of a hurry to get to her destination, to the extent that she forgot about the existence of traffic rules.

"Kwani wewe ni mchawi?" One of the women asks me through the window as the bus conductor slaps the door a couple of times, signalling the driver to re-start the engine.

I choose not to seek shelter in the broken-down matatu again, or else I will have to remain stranded all evening and night long, between two strangers that I have no background information on.

I wave down a number of personal cars and matatus passing my way but none stops. Then, just like a miracle descended from heaven, one car stops, without I having to wave for it to stop.

He opens the front passenger door for me and I hurriedly enter. I am so glad that I forget to look into his face but instead busy myself with getting rid of the wet clothes as I repeatedly utter countless Thank You-s.

From the corner of my eye I can see him checking me out, or rather regretting letting this soaking wet girl into his luxurious car.

He looks so familiar, but I can barely recall where it is that I met him.

"It's you! What a small world this is!" He says, beaming with a mischievous smile.

I smile back, mischievous smile too, hoping that he doesn't re-create memories that I can't remember, or don't want to remember.

"You don't remember me?"

"No, of course I do."

"...and."

"We have met...before...I mean before now...that's why I remember you, from somewhere...but, but I'm not sure where..." I stammer hoping that he will save me from this self-imposed awkward situation and just refresh my mind on where we may have met.

He seems to be enjoying this.

"You want me to refresh your memory?"

I nod.

"This morning, in my office."

#5

I have seen people cry

Women fast

Husbands run to wizards

Families have been broken, crimes have been committed, and marriages have been torn apart

All because, God's ways aren't man's ways

So why do they want me, to turn my blessing into a curse?

God has blessed me with a child

But they tell me; I am too young, too financially unstable, and too unfit to be a mother

And so, I have to get rid of it, wait till I'm ready

All grown up, educated, employed and married

But, if I abide by these rules

Sooner than later, I'll be the one to cry, fast, run after witchdoctors

And then, he'll go away, I'll do something silly, and he'll leave me

All because I wasn't ready to welcome God's blessing when it came my way

MARY; THE MOTHER OF JESUS:
She was the kind of girl that every man in the neighbourhood talked about, the one every mother looked forward to welcoming into her kitchen as her new daughter-in-law. But just like a wolf in sheep's clothing, the truth finally came out. She was no longer the angel everyone thought she was. Here she was, still living with her parents, and lying to her fiancée that she was waiting for the right time, when actually, she had long tasted the forbidden fruit. Her act made all the girls of loose virtue proud of themselves. They would talk in hushed tones while going about their business;

'Any idea who the lucky guy is?'

'Can you believe that she is still claiming to be a virgin?'

'I believe her, maybe she is not pregnant, it could be a tumour. I know of this girl who would chew her hair all day long and by the time she was 14, everyone thought she was pregnant. And guess what it was, a lump of hair in her tummy!'

'The problem with such girls is that they are so lame, why didn't she use protection? Or take a morning after pill?'

'The good news is; that handsome boyfriend of hers wants a break up. It's only a matter of time before he officially gets back in the market!'

'Isn't the pregnancy still young? If I were her, I could have gotten rid of it.'

'No, way! It's better that she carries the pregnancy to full term. Who doesn't want to see who the baby is going to look like?'

'I seriously can't believe that the reason we are having this discussion is because Mary is no longer a virgin. If it's such a big deal, why can't she undergo one of those procedures; you know, hymen restoration or something?'

Here I am, in the same shoes as Mary.

Just a few days back I was mourning the loss of my beautiful baby Ethan, and a few days later, after having a clear conscience and reflecting, I celebrated. Now I am back to where I was before. The pregnancy has once again re-emerged.

Doctors call it heterotopic pregnancy; a very rare kind of pregnancy that I had always categorised under the diseases of the wealthy; the kinds of conditions that are only afforded to those with the means to understand them and finances to have them addressed. Baby number one is no more, but baby number two is in here, working harder to live the dream that her twin brother could never see. I have read that baby boys are not so good at fighting for survival inside their mothers' wombs, but baby girls always have a way out.

I am not ready for a baby Candace. As a matter of fact, I am sacred of her. If she takes after me, we'll never get along. And if she takes after her father, it'll be hard for me to ever love her.

There's no way I am letting Dru know about her, and I don't plan to ever have him find out what fate befell his seed. The same way no farmer has ever reaped a seed that he sowed but never watered, manured, weeded or sprayed with pesticides is the exact way a man cannot choose to impregnate a lady and expect to be a father after he let her make all the trips to the pre-natal clinic, deal with hormonal imbalances, develop strange food cravings, double her weight, get stretch marks, go on maternal leave, decorate the nursery and undergo the contractions and hours of labor all by herself.

I can see her, nagging me to tell her who her father is, hating that we have to be so poor, rubbing it on my face that the reason her father left is because he couldn't stand living with a monster like me. I can see her refusing to adopt my name as her surname, and making up a weird name that she believes was her father's name. She will criticize my cooking, dressing, talking...everything. I can see her not telling me about the PTA meetings and other social gatherings for she will be ashamed of her mother. And when she starts having problems with boys, she will blame it on me; say how bad she feels that she had to inherit my genes, and how much she wishes I had given her up for adoption to a better off family. She will do everything to find her father. Once she does, it's him that she will forever talk about. His beautiful home, his glass ceiling office, his classy wife, her adorable half-siblings, their immaculate English and etiquette... Then a day will come, when I'll ask her to help with the household chores. She'll start ranting about how her father has maids to do all that stuff, and that she is done being my slave.

Not long after, she will disappear. I will cry for weeks, borrow money from anyone to find her. But then, my friend will show me a newspaper article.

'There she is, your daughter! She was the top candidate in the national exams. You must be so proud of her.'

She will be as smart as me, and with an expensive school that her father sent her, I see her living my dreams; dreams of our four generations. Hers, mine, my mother's and my grandmother's; the women who believed that one day, the sun would set in the morning, and rise in the evening, and all night long, we would shed tears of joy.

Years later, while I am nursing her insults on my death bed, she will come back crying, begging for forgiveness. But it will be too late, for I will have lost my eyesight to tell who she is, my hearing to hear anything she has to say, and my memory to recall that I ever had a daughter.

That's why this little baby girl growing inside me right now should never be born.

I don't know much about abortion, but by the phrase 'how to abort' emerging on top of the most searched keywords on Kenyan search engines; accessing the information will not be a problem.

Since no sane woman will ever be truly happy as a single parent; in pursuit of happiness, she will opt to spare the baby the agony of being born out of wedlock. But when the male law makers who rigged their way to Parliament learn this, they jointly propose a bill, second it and sign it into law. Abortion is a criminal offense. The new law nonetheless makes it okay for men to continue injecting women with unwanted babies, and disappear into thin air, or deny being responsible for the pregnancy.

Now that it's too late to start swallowing abortion pills, and too dangerous to insert knitting needles in my vagina and torture the baby till it can live no more, I am left with only one solution; start a harambee to pay for an unqualified but experienced old man to unhygenically extort this baby out of me.

Caro claims that she recently talked with Dru and he's remorseful. By him being a very decent and high profile man, he doesn't want a baby mama popping out of nowhere and claiming half the wealth he inherited from his father who was one of the most prosperously corrupt men in the district.

"He gave me KSh. 7,000 to take care of the surgery."

After moments of silence, she continues,

"You know what our grandmothers' used to say; it's better to have your water spill from the calabash on your way home from the river than to have the calabash fall and break to pieces. I mean, we don't want anything bad happening to you."

The more she talks, the more of an expert she is proving to be, which somehow scares me but at the same time, gives me comfort.

"There is this one place, the guy does it so fast and professionally, you won't even feel a thing. It's like taking a nap during Dr. Mugambi's lecture. I don't know much about him but the girls tell me that he knows how to keep his mouth shut, if you know what I mean." She continues.

"Have you said anything to anyone else?" I ask her.

"About what? You? Hell NO! If someone knows, it's probably because you have been making it so obvious. But sweetheart, as far as I am concerned, not a single soul knows-NOT YET."

"I am really not sure whether I am ready for this." I tell her.

I know that it's foolish of me to be thinking twice about this heaven sent miracle, but pre-motherly instincts must have started taking their toll on me already.

"Hey, listen..."

I can sense a really weird tone of concern in Caro's voice. Never before had I seen her this concerned, or serious.

"...the more you sit there and mull over this curse or whatever you call it, the more likely you are going to mess up things. This baby is going to ruin your precious life. But if you are ready to bring in another life in this world to live a worse off life than you have had, then, GO AHEAD!"

'Is she's giving up on me already?' I'm thinking to myself.

"I have been thinking, and I feel like God has a reason for all this. I mean, isn't this like some form of a miracle that even after miscarrying I find out that I am still pregnant?"

"Girl, you have no idea what you are talking about. Don't try to confuse a curse with a miracle. We've got to get rid of this ASAP before that bump gets any bigger and baby boy starts throwing kicks."

"It's a baby girl."

"See, you've already started getting attached?"

"Fine then. But first you need to get me that money and give me some time to think about it. And please don't share this with anyone, especially that Dru guy, okay?"

"My lips are sealed...not until you ask me to unseal them."

There is something disturbing about this friend of mine. Rumour has it that she has a big thing for Dru, and that the two share more than just a platonic relationship. Though she is from a filthy rich background, she is the kind that never spreads her legs for free. She is no prostitute but she sure knows how to utilise her charming feminine wits. She has a chain of men whom she sleeps with, some of whom she occasionally sleeps with without protection. A month or two later, she calls them up, tells them how she has missed her period, and that she is not ready to barter her career aspirations for a stay at home mom full-time job. With her kind of work, you don't need a day job. The girl makes tens of thousands of tax free money in a month!

The abortioney; the term I invented for money paid to have an abortion, is definitely not from Dru, Sera tells me. Could my dear friend Caro be pulling one of those moves married women pull on their husband's mistresses? The way she has everything well planned out, she could make an ideal abortionist's personal assistant. When I question Sera about her concern in how I choose to lead my life, she defensibly blames it on Caro,

"She is the one who put you up to this right? That conniving rat!"

I tell her that it's my own decision and, the right thing to do. Plus, she shouldn't be talking about my best friend like that.

"Fine, if you think that I'm lying, why don't you call him right now and confirm who's lying?"

"You know I can't do that!"

"I would never lie to you. I'm pretty sure that I am not your best friend or anything close to that, but you surely are my best friend. Why else do you think I am telling you this?"

On the D-day, I wake up feeling as though there are 1001 butterflies relaxing in a Jacuzzi that seemed to have found its way into my stomach. I run to and fro the loo thrice, each time hoping that the person who saw me the first time doesn't see me go for another round. If this is how hard life is always going to be like, then I would rather get rid of baby Candace when there's still time, for it's better to end her life before she's even aware of herself, than let her get exposed to the nasty Pandora boxes of this world. After she's gone to a better place, I believe that God will turn her into someone else's guardian angel.

Three rounds of anxious diarrhoea are all I needed to detox. As soon as I am back on my bed resting before starting to get ready for the big occasion, I hear a newer version of a knock at my door. I never get that many visitors. As for the few who tend to miss me a bit, I have had to master their knocking patterns, lest I open for one who needs not be welcomed, such as the landlady. Peaking through the tiny ventilation near the bottom of the door, I am dumbfounded to see an overly smartly dressed man standing outside. Though I can't see him clearly, my judgement tells me that there's no way this kind of a guy could be looking for a room to rent, or could be asking for directions. Could he be the landlady's son? If he is, I will have to ask Caro to negotiate the price of the surgery so that I can have something left to quench this man's and his mama's thirst for my money."

As handsome as ever, and with some borrowed manners that can't pass a limit of 5 minutes, is Dru. The very moment I open the door, he starts reciting what he must have been cramming all night and morning long.

"I'm sorry that I had to show up like this but... I am not letting you go through with it, that. It's my baby too, and I have rights."

"Your baby? You are expecting a baby? How come all I see is a beer tummy and not a baby bump?"

"Neema, I am the father, it's my right to..."

"The only right you have is the right to see a doctor because, last time I checked, you were incapable of rising to the occasion, and here you are blabbing about being a father."

"Can I please come in inside. It's kind of embarrassing talking from out here while the neighbours watch." He whispers as he tries to peek inside. There are a few neighbours pretending to be fetching water and hanging clothes when all they are doing is newsgathering for their next mid-morning round table gossip talk.

"I wish I could but fortunately, I am too busy right now, and I don't invite strange men into my precious home."

He seems mad. His patience has reached the summit. He sighs, makes a step back as though walking away, scratches his head before grabbing the door by the handle and invading the only space that was separating the two of us.

"Is this what you call a home?" He mockingly asks.

Maybe it reminds him of the shack his watchman lives in, but I have come to learn that what makes a home a home is the love it receives. No matter how small it is, so long has it has your love and warmth, it's a HOME. For it's better to live in a small, shanty peaceful one roomed home than in a 100 acre ranch with a castle on it that is nothing but a house.

After a few minutes of peeping into my small haven, he tells me,

"I'll be waiting outside the gate."

Today is the day Caro is to take me to have the life growing inside of me removed, but here is Dru trying to talk me out of it. With him around, I could give my baby a better life. Not exactly a happier life but a more financially stable but unhappy life, which is a lot better than what I grew up with.

What he did to me though is nonetheless unforgivable. You don't go around coercing girls to sleep with you and then expect to be forgiven. Though my Sunday school teacher taught me that I should forgive and forget, I don't ever recall her teaching me that I should forgive and give second chances.

He takes me out for a coffee is one of the city's best coffee houses. We are welcomed by the strong smell of Kahawa long before making our way in, which I choose to not like for the very reason people hate it when they smell fish before they enter a Japanese restaurant.

One look at the menu scares me. I mean, the price charged for a simple cup of coffee and a light snack can maintain me for almost a week! He orders black coffee. I don't know what to order, but I don't want to order the same lest the waiter assume that we are a couple that has already started growing into one boring person. Black coffee too reminds me of my worst of days when I have to take turungi-milk-less and almost sugarless tea which is a favourite of poor people.

It also reminds me of my first ever experience to nourish my body with proteins from a raw cockroach. I had had a busy day; had woken up late and was as skint as ever. I had made some turungi and taken it with white bread in haste. Since I was a little girl, I have always loved soaking my slices of bread into my beverage before putting them into my mouth; many people finds this disgusting, I don't know why. After just a few bites, I left for class. Several hours later, I was back to pick up from where I had left. The coffee was dark as the 3.00 am darkness. With plenty of time to enjoy my left overs, I sought the comfort of my bed as I drank, and chewed the few remaining pieces of the now wet black-coloured bread inside the cup. Though pre-soaked bread is usually very soft and takes barely a second to chew, the piece inside my mouth seemed a little bit too smooth and at the same time rough to pass for bread. I spat it out and right there, were the few remains of a cockroach, I could see the wings still fresh and shiny. I really wanted to vomit, but I didn't. Now that I think of it, it must be because that delicacy is not that bad after all, if you doubt me, ask Cambodians.

As soon as the waiter leaves, he reintroduces the topic.

"Did Caro put you up for this?"

"What are you talking about?" I pretend to not be aware of what he's talking about.

"Your friend Caro, is she the one who talked you into getting rid of the baby?"

"What baby?"

Judging from his look, I must be getting deep into nerves. He opens his mouth in readiness to fight me back, and ascertain whether I suffer from memory loss, or if I am just being stubborn, but he says nothing. He instead directs his anger onto the fruit cake.

"You do understand that you can die, or never become pregnant again, and the law...do you know how many years you are likely to face behind bars?"

"I don't care the least about the law. You are some sort of a lawyer right? Then I suppose you remember who proposed the bill to legitimate abortion, it was a woman. And who voted against it? Men like you. How stupid do you think we are that we have to sit here and let you make the law for us? All you think about is how to inject a sperm in a woman and 9 months later, BAM, baby pops out screaming Daddyyyy! That, that is never going to happen because only I know what is fit for me. You have no right to ask, request or demand otherwise. This is my body so I decide what gets in, and what comes out. And as for this thing growing right here, it's definitely going to come out."

"Shh. Please, people are looking!"

"Oh really? I wonder what they do once they learn how this whole pregnancy came into being."

Back in his car, he becomes a totally different man, the kind of a man I would hear mama and her friends talk about; a weak man. He is desperate to have me give birth to this baby. He doesn't cry, but I know the kind of feeling he is withholding inside, and that is the kind of feeling that can make any man, include Robert Mugabe, cry. He is so convincing that he's almost swaying me into his side.

"If you don't want to keep it, then give it to me once it's born, and I'll never bother you again. I'm ready to pay you any amount of money you want, just mention it."

"Do I look like a surrogate to you?"

"No, of course not! I'm sorry if it came out that way. But please try to understand."

"You are married!?"

"No. But I have a girlfriend, an ex-girlfriend, we broke up."

"Because she couldn't give you children?"

"She doesn't, didn't want any."

"You are lying."

He doesn't respond, not that I'm expecting him to. In any normal day, he would have strangled me to death for grilling him like this, but on this day, to my satisfaction, I have to get the best, or the worst out of him.

"We are still together, but she can't..."

I knew that he had been lying; no woman doesn't want to have kids. The ones who claim they don't only use that statement as an excuse to shield their procreation incapabilities.

"I get it now. You love her so much to leave her for another, that's why you want to steal my baby and just like that, become the perfect family."

He goes mute again. I want to empathise with him, feel his pain, and compromise, but, I just can't.

"That's not my intention. We can work out something."

"Something like my daughter growing with you, two mothers and I don't know how many half and step siblings? No, that is never going to happen."

I sense that my words are burning him inside, and were we in a more private place; he wouldn't hesitate to hit me. He could still hit me, and apologise, but he must be scared that if he doesn't let me have my way, his days as a father will never come to be, maybe not until he stops being obsessively in love with his girlfriend.

"Why is it so hard for you to understand? I am really sorry for what happened."

"But..."

"There are no buts. All I need is for you to forgive me and let me be a part of this baby's life. I am willing to do anything. I can give you a better life; you don't have to struggle anymore."

It's my turn to take some time off. He looks at me, expecting me to inject him with more verbal venom, but I choose to let him see that after all, I am not much of a fighter.

"What do you say?" He asks.

"I'm not struggling."

"Your friend Caro said..."

"I have to go. I've an appointment."

"Not that abortion thing, is it?"

"No...maybe...as a matter of fact, yes. It's that abortion thing."

He sighs. I hate seeing a man in desperation, though it's a complete turn on at times, but right now, it's an absolute fail.

"Ohh, before I forget, Caro mentioned that you had given her some money for my operation...you know, the abortion. How much did you give her exactly, coz I don't want to be conned."

"I didn't give her anything!"

"You know what, I had somehow started reasoning with you, but here you come again, with more lies."

I get ready to alight from the car but he pulls me back, and locks the door.

"Listen, Caro is not the kind of friend you think she is. That woman, I mean girl, is a psycho. She has been playing these childish games on my pals for as long as I can remember. At one time she even claimed that she was pregnant with my baby and would get rid of it if I didn't marry her, but..."

"So you're saying that you know my friend more than I know her, and that I should trust you more than I trust her? Is there anything else you'd like me to do?"

"You seem to have such a hard time believing any word I say. Who made you this way?"

"Well, I could say that it's from encountering so many fake men like you, but I won't, not before you pay up for wasting my time when I could be doing something more productive with my precious life."

He makes that laugh, the laugh I have so far heard from my father, his brother and a number of makanga. I suppose men make that laugh to belittle women. In return I smile back, and he has no idea how down that smile looks on him.

"Take this, you might need it." He hands me 10,000 shillings.

He really knows how to play these games. Is the money meant to help me get a better and more clinically hygienic abortion, or is it a way of telling me that if I keep the pregnancy, I will be more than comfortable; financially?

I never liked the guy. No, I actually did, once, for a few minutes. The few minutes he saved me from a drunkard, though he ended up being more of a monster than the drunk himself. Still, he is the only guy that has ever apologised to me, said sorry, expressed his true feelings to me, and above all, offered to help.

As I hurry back to campus before anyone starts smelling the giant bunch of cash I am carrying, I keep getting these mixed feelings which I'm trying so hard to fight. Should I, or should I not bring Candace to this world?

Time is running out and I have very little time to make THE DECISION.

The only place you would see as many girls in one place would either be in a strip club, an all girls' boarding school or a bridal shower.

The devil's clinic is located within an upper class residential estate on the outskirts of the city. Brenda's School of House Keeping is its name, but you can never find it in the Yellow Pages, Facebook, Twitter or under any list of related education institutions.

All the girls' in here are in pairs, including myself, presumably to give each other support towards the making of the BIG decision. There are 10 girls already in the lounge by the time we arrive. The clinic, which has a waiting lounge, a bathroom, kitchenette and two bedrooms; where surgery and post-surgery recovery takes place reminds me a lot of Dru's house. It is a beautiful place, and it's a shame that these kinds of things have to take place here. But thanks to this school of housekeeping, these girls' are presented with a second shot towards leading a better life. Of all the girls' I know that have had the surgery, none goes beyond 12 months before another unplanned for and unwanted baby shows up.

The nurse, dressed in white from head to toe comes in and calls the name of one of the girls. After she calls girl number three, I realise that the nurse and the patients are on a first name basis.

"What name did you use to register me?" I ask Caro.

"Nicera." She whispers in my ear, smiling.

"What? Why?"

"None of these girls use their real names, and the nurse only asks for one name. At one time, I registered as Francesca, and then there was Wilhelmina and even Theodora."

"Mhm, funny."

There's sickening silence in the room with only the sounds of the wall clock ticking, flapping of magazines and noisy tappings on phone keypads. The nurse comes, and calls in the fourth girl, Henrietta. I can't believe how fast this so called surgeon does her surgeries! It's one more girl in-front and then, it shall be me.

A few minutes after Henrietta leaves for her surgery, a middle-aged couple storms into the lounge and starts looking around, suspiciously.

"Someone just got busted." Whispers Caro quite loudly so that everyone hears. We all gaze at the couple.

"Are they the police?" The girl sitted a few inches from me asks in another loud whisper, much louder than Caro's. I look at Caro questionably.

"Of course not! The woman who owns this place is the granddaughter to the Minister for Health. In other words, this place is kinda legit."

The couple helplessly looks around, probably for the lost sheep, but it's hard to tell who is who considering that all girls are dressed very conservatively and with most of them wearing ugly wigs on their heads and are all covered up with heavy Maasai shukas.

The woman starts ransacking the girls before the nurse comes to our rescue as the man remains standing at a corner, scratching his head,

"Winnie, Winnie, is that you?" The woman shouts as she strips one girl off her wig and shuka. She takes her by force from the seat and drags her to the door. Her friend is left there, mouth agape, not knowing whether to go rescue the friend from the wrath of her parents, or remain glued to her seat and save herself from becoming another one of their victim. Once calm has returned, the nurse calls out.

"Winfridah."

No one answers. She calls the name again, and then again, before the ditched friend announces that she has left.

"Will I be getting my deposit back, coz she's left without being served?" She enquires.

"Sweetie, we only give refunds if we don't deliver, not if you fail to deliver." She then calls in the next name,

"Nicera."

As the ditched girl storms out of the lounge furious, my butterflies resurface and this time round, accompanied by heavy pounding of the heart. I ask for God to show me a sign, which I know he won't for it has been a while since we last had a sincere one on one.

"Nicera." The nurse calls again. "Has she also left?"

Caro pinches me,

"It's your turn." She reminds me.

It's at this very moment that it finally clicks, and I become conscious of what I am about to do, and what's about to be done to me, and my baby.

"Don't worry; it will be over before you even know it." Caro reassures me.

I envy the level of courage this girl has. In her eyes I see the inhumane creature these cheap surgical needles, knives and bloody foetuses have transformed her to.

I take a whole minute to get on my feet and walk towards the operating room. Just then, everything starts to gradually peter out. It feels as though my brain is slipping into a coma. I start to recount everything that has just taken place; getting undressed, laying on top of the bed and staring at the blank white washed walls and ceiling, which I had anticipated to be decorated with an uncountable number of blood stains.

The nurse comes in, then the surgeon; an old wrinkly man. I can see their lips moving up and down as though talking to me, and then to each other, and back at me.

Caro comes in, shakes me a little and sits me up as the nurse tries to open my eyes by raising my eyelids. Once again, I lose control of my whole body, strength and mind.

#6

I remember the sharp chills, down my spine

The missed heartbeats

The cold shivers that left me sweating

The sweet smells of your scent, full of love

I could forever think of you, live for you, die for you

I could have held you close, and my heart would always be your peaceful dwelling

I coulda, woulda, shoulda stood by you, amidst the roughest storm, and laughed with you on an easy Sunday morning

We would have held hands down the street

Counted stars under the moonlight

Kissed at the site of the rainbow

Made love first thing at dawn

Grown grey by each other's side

Though you crushed my heart

I still got the memories, so dear and close I hug them

I'll cherish you for the little time you possessed my heart, thoughts and fantasies

Now that you given them to another

The brain of a woman in magical! It is capable of imagining, thinking and doing everything that a male brain can never accomplish.

She has lesser number of brain cells and tissues yet can transfer data from the right to left hemisphere much faster than he can. Hers is a well balanced brain, his is not. She always stays in touch with her feelings and has a higher sense of smell, and although she may end up attempting suicide three times more regularly than he, it's he who ends up killing himself three times more than she. But, it only takes a few words of discouragement to turn this magical brain into a naïve, scared and introversial brain.

As a young girl I had the wildest dreams, thoughts and imaginations. I dreamt of making it big in life, conquering what the early scientists failed and above all, lead a happy life. But I was told,

'No, you are not supposed to think like that, you are girl!'

They taught me how to think, act, behave and carry myself. It wasn't easy at first, but with time I learnt how to sieve and block whatever my brain was made to think about, whatever it wanted me to speak out and whatever it was supposed to share with the world; because as a girl, God had made a couple of errors in giving me a much bigger and smarter brain than He should have.

So they invented new ways of controlling what God failed to control. Female genital mutilation, bride price, rape, wife inheritance, buibuis, polygamy, honour killings, breast implants, vaginal rejuvenation... They even renamed everything she touched; catching up became gossip, finding love became gold digging, being sexually adventurous made her a slut and, family planning became abortion. And when they looked and saw what they had made out of her, they were more than pleased.

This is why I need a 'Womanhood for Dummies' guide book. The Womanhood for Dummies would have informed me early enough that I am now an embarrassment to my family, and that I should never go back home; not until I get a husband to adopt my daughter, or give her up for adoption while making sure that no one discovers the dishonour I have brought upon the sacred family name.

I would love to name her after mama, but I can't. I can't even name her after anyone in the family for just like her mother; she too will become an outcast. The Bible states that all children are a blessing from God, but in my world, the world I was born in, a child can only be a blessing if she is born in accordance to the archaic traditions. If she has no father from whom to borrow her last name, or in-laws to be named after, then she's not worth being celebrated.

I am six months pregnant. There are only six more weeks remaining before the beginning of my final exams, and eight weeks to the end of my life in campus. I had anticipated for this moment, the moment when the best organisation would come to our campus and lure the best performing students. But no matter how good my grades are, I doubt if any HR executive would risk luring a young, inexperienced and pregnant undergraduate.

The doctor says that I should rest a lot, since this pregnancy is no ordinary pregnancy. He calls it 'a miraculously strange pregnancy.' Dru is excited about becoming a father, but I have been thinking about a permanent solution of getting him away from being a part of our lives. It's definite that I can't be granted sole custody of the baby, but I can try and squeeze him hard towards paying child support, and once I'm strong enough, I can run. If only this had happened a few years back, I could have meekly sought refuge in FIDA and emerged the winner. But today, if I were to try making such a move, he would also seek refuge in MAWE: Women vs men's right groups, I wonder which team would win.

His beloved girlfriend has been acting disturbed lately, I am afraid that she may do something crazy. I don't mind if she hurts herself, or me, for I know how to fight back. But were she to hurt Dru, then she'll have killed the only source of financial support I could ever rely on.

I hear that she is friends with Caro now; my ex-best friend. The girl had to call it quits after I jilted her at her favourite abortionist. She had always been acting crazy, but never did I know that she was heads over heels for Dru, and that she could go to any limits to make her well laid plans go her way.

I'm hence very much surprised when she comes and sits next to me in class. She doesn't say a word, only grins at me. I try to comprehend the grin but I find it hard to make out whether it's a 'Can we be friends' kind of grin or, 'You have no idea what I have in store for you bitch' grin.

She remains behind as the lecturer and the rest of our classmates leave after the lecture. I can't believe that she has been my friend for all these years yet she is so hard to understand. She may not be 100% crazy, but that has never stopped her from doing really crazy stuff before in order to get her way.

'Is she planning on pushing me down the stairs?' I am wondering to myself.

"Girl, you are glowing. I am so jealous!" At last, she says.

I look back at her and smile. Maybe I should respond, but I have no idea what is there to tell her. I don't know her anymore.

"Hey, I know I have been acting like a real snob in the last couple of weeks, but I am really sorry. I...I...I..."

"No worries, I'm cool." I tell her as I make my way out.

"Neema, please... You have no idea how much ashamed of myself I am right now, I can't even believe that this is me!"

"Okay. Fine. What do you want?"

"Let's catch-up. Coffee? My place? After classes?"

"Baby hates it when I drink coffee."

"I have plenty of yoghurt too, and fresh juice, and ice-cream. Please don't make this too hard for me; you know how poor I am at apologizing."

It's almost a quarter past four in the evening. Most of the day's classes are over and the so called social and outgoing students are catching up at the cafeteria, the TV room, the hostels or at the legendary Kamukunji grounds. As I pass a small group of well educated male college idlers at the Kamukunji, they all hush.

When people hush as you pass; it's for two reasons: It's either they were talking about you or, they are making up absurd stories in their heads that they plan on introducing as their next agenda as soon as you are away from the scene.

I have been talked about so many times that it now feels as though I bear a Breaking News tagline that makes anything and everything about me too juicy and irresistible.

Not long ago, they would have hushed to ogle at me. But my once curvaceous glass-hour figure has gradually been replaced by a kwashiorkor-like physique. Still, I look yummy, especially after adding weight in all the right places; the hips, the ass, the boobs.

I wonder what it is about me that these boys are planning on gossiping. Presumably how I dismissed their being interested in me in exchange of the interest of an older man? They will then gossip about how cheap their fellow female students are, how they sleep with any man who drives a nice car, how many of us have so far got pregnant, the massive number of abortions we have procured, how we trade our bodies for sex with the lecturers, how they would never marry a girl from this campus; because we all have some STIs, and judging from our current lifestyle, who knows if we would ever be able to make them fathers?

In the course of their gossip, another girl will pass, probably a timid female first year student; poorly dressed, above average looks, quite attractive. Almost everything about her will neither be that bad nor too great, she'll be okay. Again, they will hush as she passes. They'll resume with their gossip before one of them gathers the courage to go chat her up; for she is different, disciplined and conservative.

He will hate to be seen with her in public for she isn't the girlfriend material. She's like a precious jewel that should be hidden in a treasure box, and not flaunted in public, he will tell her. In the course of their relationship, she'll be hurt countless times, but will always forgive him and give him another chance to toy with her young heart's feelings and inexperienced mind. By then she will have grown to the idea that with so many single girls desperately looking for boyfriends, she'll be the luckiest of them all to have him by her side. Then one day she'll meet another, not the best, but better. He won't promise her a thing, spoon feed her lies or feel ashamed to let the world know that they have something special going on. At that very moment, she will become me; another good girl gone bad, the kind of girl you hush when she's passing and hate on when she's no longer in vicinity.

It's exactly half past four when I arrive at Caro's pretty residence. Unlike me, her parents can afford to rent for her a nice one bedroom apartment now that she's all grown up and about to join the corporate world. Last time I was here, it was much cleaner and organized: seems like she is yet to friend a good friend like me who's open to playing maid in her house.

Within a few minutes, she has chased some of her new friends who are nothing compared to my irresistible company. She doesn't ask about my baby or how I have been. We only talk about where she's going for her internship, which lecturer is pissing her off, and what kind of drink I would like to have.

Minutes later I learn that this wasn't just another one of those we are cool right kind of catching up. She has invited another party over.

I have never understood why some women have to carry an entourage of fellow women along when meeting the enemy. This small physique of mine in accompaniment of my current condition doesn't require such an army, even an 11 year old bully can easily bring me down.

This is exactly what would have happened had all this new transformation come knocking while back at home. Mama and Aunt Sylvia would have called an older and wiser woman to talk to me, advice me and siphon her expertise on how to be and act like a woman down to me.

I almost storm out of the room once I learn that this new visitor is Dru's girlfriend, or so she claims she is. Other than her dislike for kids, I have no idea what in her has been repelling him from her charm. She has it all; the beauty, the class, the sophistication, the charm. Had I been born male, or had I chosen to make me believe that I am bisexual, I could have easily fallen for this woman. Her accent though screws up everything. She has this very annoying accent that is not Kenyan, American, British or Caribbean. This is the kind of accent Kenyans assimilate when they take a ride to the airport to pick up a long-distance relative, or whenever they travel out of the country for a year to pursue their master's degree in another African county.

"I didn't come all the way here so that we could fight each other over a man. I understand that you are a very smart lady, but as your friend told me..."

So there's a BUT, and they had been discussing me behind my back?

The woman keeps on talking and talking, not putting any commas or full-stops, but still maintaining her calm as classy women should always do.

"...I know that you don't love him, may be you do, but not as much as I do...so please don't take him away from me. I'm sure you wouldn't like seeing a younger girl come into your home and steal your father away from your mother."

The monologue sounds so perfect I'm left wondering the number of hours she had to spend reciting and perfecting it.

Can someone really steal another's boyfriend or husband? It's not like he's a piece of property you can steal, hide and sell when the coast is clear, or return once a witchdoctor announces that if you don't return whatever was stolen, you'll start eating grass.

"If it's the money you want, I will you give it to you. Just name your price and I'll sign for you a check right now."

I'm thinking to myself, this woman must have watched too much Western reality TV shows that she's now starting to live in one. All along I remain sitted at the edge of the couch, weighing my options as to whether I should stay and continue listening to this crap, or leave them to discuss how stupid I must be to be thinking that he won't also leave me for another.

I've learnt that the more you become the good listener, the more the talkers take advantage of your silence, and that makes me steam up more and get ready to explode. Right now I want to explode, shout at them and throw a few things in their direction before walking out of the door in style as I leave it banging so loud that it shatters the window next to it. Since the doctor said that I shouldn't get annoyed, I chose to express my sincere gratitude before leaving amicably.

"I guess it would be insulting if I didn't thank you for luring me into this therapy session and telling me how I should live my life. I mean, am so thankful, you have no idea how fabulous I feel right now. I just wanna kill that man!"

"So, what do you say?" The lady asks.

This is why I love sarcasm; some people are just so dumb to differentiate real talk from mockery.

"I'll need time to digest everything you've said, and then I'll get back to you. Or I can ask our dearest friend Caro, to share my response with you."

I leave feeling great about my miniature performance, and I am sure that my baby is proud to have a strong mother as me.

As I walk off I can't help wondering what those women were thinking. I only see such timid and foolish women on TV scenes directed by misogynist male screen writers and directors, but not in real life. Mid–way through, I have a change of mind and rush back at Caro's with hopes that I will find the meeting still in progress.

"Hey, you're back!" Caro exclaims.

"Yes, I am back. I didn't want to waste your time as you wait for my answer. So, I have decided to think fast enough about everything you said and..." Dru's girlfriend cuts me short,

"No, you don't have to make a rush decision. Take as much time as you want."

"As I was saying before I got interrupted, I have thought about what you have had to say, and I have decided that, I need you off my businesses. Do you seriously think that I am the only girl your boyfriend has ever cheated on you with? There definitely are dozens of others out there, and who knows where he is right now? So, instead of you stressing about my intrusion into your fake perfect relationship, how about you talk to him? This is no same script, different cast sort of thing. And, if I were you, I would start by getting this new friend off my personal problems."

I feel good, so damn good. It's like finally being able to breathe in clean and fresh air after months of being confined in a dungeon.

I call up mama later in the evening hoping that she will finally pick up my call. She doesn't. I can't leave a voice message for no-one leaves or listens to any of those messages. Were I in her shoes, I also wouldn't want to talk to me, but I would have to.

Aunt Sylvia is the only one who has been kind enough to keep in touch. Ever since the big news found their way into the village, she has been consistently calling to check on me. In the beginning, she would call me names; bad names, as though I was the first girl to get pregnant while still in school, when she herself had had her first born while still in high school. The name calling was soon replaced with sessions of lecture, to sympathy, and now, empathy. She wants to know everything; how I am doing, how I am feeling, if I am eating right, if there is someone out there stressing me, how the baby's father is dealing with the situation... I mean every single detail.

I ask her about mama. She hesitates to say a word. A few minutes later, as if her engine has just been ignited, she starts complaining. Telling me how mama has become like a robot over the years while her husband sucks every remaining strand of womanhood from her. Out of her tantrums I can pick up bits of information about the situation back home. It reminds me of back in the day, when my sisters and I felt that mama was keeping important breaking news from us. On that day, we would play very well behaved children. We would ask Godly questions, bring mama her tiny Bible to read for us, and at the end of it all, she would pray. It's out of these prayer sessions that we would pick important information like who had passed on, which neighbour had been admitted to the hospital, whose child had ran away from home, whose family owned mama debts, what couple was fighting each other, which family was starving or who had been caught stealing during the day.

Auntie tells me that father is no longer talking to mama, or to my sisters. I don't see anything wrong with that. He has always been verbally abusing us, and by him going mute, that must be a glorious miracle!

I would have written a letter to my sisters had they still been in boarding school, but father had pulled them out for fear that they would take after me. They were now day scholars. He had brought them closer home where he was now using his natural CCTV cameras to spy on them. I think about texting mama, but I fear for her and her daughters too. If father were to see the text, I can't even imagine how they would manage to survive living in that hell for another day.

I try dialling a couple of numbers that belong to some of mama's close friends. I get through one which belongs to her colleague, and also a family friend.

"Your mother has been worried sick about you, we all are. Are you okay?" She greets me as soon as she picks up the phone.

I tell her that I am coping alright before requesting that she deliver a message to mama.

"I would love to help but that won't be possible." She tells me.

"Why not?"

"You don't know? She resigned from work."

I am taken aback. Nursing has always been her dream. She loves helping people, young kids especially. Her career had been the only dream that had remained alive after the rest had been trampled upon by her husband.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of any help. I have also been trying to call her but she never picks up my phone. Have you tried calling her?"

"Yes I have. I mean no. I'll try later. Can you then pass my message to her through Soni, or Ciku?"

"No I can't. Your sisters haven't been in school for the past one week. I hear that they are being homeschooled."

Why is it so hard to get rid of that tainted man? He isn't that good looking and neither is he that rich nor admirable. We live in a big farm with plenty of bushes, open pits and with a river and forest just a kilometre away. Getting rid of a body can't be that difficult.

Up here, I too have become a slave of another man; a man who defiled the only remaining part of my innocence that father failed to reach. He is God sent, that's how I lie to myself for the sake of keeping my sanity. He has rented me a better off space, catered for almost all of my needs, and has just started hanging around my new house rather too often hence leading the neighbours to start rumours about how I have stolen another man's husband and made him my own. They now think that I may also be eyeing their husbands.

When father closed his gate, doors and windows on me, Dru opened his. The new door is a lot more sophisticated and full of the things I only imagined I would have after I had had a steady career for at least 5 years. The conditions though are making it unbearable. With every single passing day, I point out a symptom in him that may one day result to a chauvinistic syndrome similar to the one father suffers from.

It's hard to say no to these symptoms, especially when there's a reward at the end of each one of them. He doesn't ask for much, just a bit; make me some breakfast, I'm running late how about you start making us some dinner, mind ironing my shirt as I take the shower, help me find my other sock, pass me the remote... I hate to play messenger girl, but why should I complain when he's always giving me more than enough pocket money, paying the bills, driving me to school, the hospital and has even promised to help me find a good place to intern after giving birth?

#7

Five cows, ten goats and half a million shillings

That's what he used to lure the elders with to let her get into his bed

In the name of animals and paper, he now owns her

It's because of those stunted cows that she now has to wake up early in the morning

Go look for firewood, warm his water, prepare his breakfast, iron his clothes, polish his shoes

And guess what; he opts not to shower

He's too late so he'll have breakfast in the office

He picks a different suit, pair of shoes-and doesn't even say goodbye

The skinny goats and cows they slaughter every Christmas are responsible for her having to cook for him, clean after him, wash for him-and, look good for him

Despite all that, he never fails to find a fault

If the food isn't too salty, then it has to be burnt

Or there's a crease here, a stain there

But, you've got to hear about the paper

That paper comes up everytime they have an argument, a conversation, or even a joke

When she thinks of that paper, she remembers that she is someone's property, not a woman

That's why she never answers back, fights back or even talks back

And now, he says that he wants a refund-says that she's depreciating

Her flat tummy is long gone, her weight has tripled, her sex appeal vanished

Her friends say he's messing around

And last night, for the first time, she saw her

You're the past, me; the future, she brags

But she's glad

For she no longer has to continue pretending to be his perfect half

He used to be, and somehow still is one of my favourite lecturers. The guy has always graded all of my papers with clean A's and although I am smart enough to get my own A's, I've always wondered whether it had anything to do with his being interested in me.

He relocated back in the country just a few years back after life became too unbearable for him abroad. I gather that up there, any student-teacher relationship could easily lead to the end of one's career, but down here, if such a scandal ever gets within the earshot of the media, the Public Service Commission first promotes, and then transfers the culprit into a very remote institution, where their sexual escapades are yet to unfold.

Dr. Kamau has a bit of everything; a bit tall, not well built but knows how to manage his weight, dresses well, not that bad looking and, has a killer smile. In each one of his lectures, no matter what the topic is, he always finds a way to fit in a sexually stimulating discussion, which is understandable because, men tend to think about sex 19 times in a day. What separates him from the other men though is that instead of thinking about sex, he ends up fantasising about it. An hour or two later, you can tell that his libido has climaxed and for this, no female student dares follow him or remain behind to chat him up after class, except for his cheap girlfriends.

Just like every other polygamous man, he used to have his favourite, whom he has since replaced. Her name was Wambui, the true definition of a woman who knows how to exploit her sexuality in exchange for a good life. She must have been his first bait in college, and just like every first wife, she too was very manipulative and excessively aggressive. To fulfil his promise towards her, he had hooked her up with one of the directors of the largest media company, where she is now climbing the ladder of success all the way to the glass ceiling, by sleeping around with any man who sits at the round table.

We always admired her, and many girls dreamt of becoming just like her. But since there was barely any vacancy to fill when she was around, girls would do absolutely anything to get into Dr. Kamau's office. It was always a scene worth watching as they waited for him at the parking lot, or stalked him to his favourite hangout joints. I never stooped that low, and the more I dismissed him, the more he got interested.

Today, things are different. It's my turn to chase after him.

Whenever I was paying him a visit, I would always find an escort, whom he jokingly called my bodyguard. Since Caro dumped my friendship to join the Dru's exes support group, and Sera is at the moment torn in between choosing sides, I have opted to go solo. After all, I am positive that I am no longer as sexually attractive as I used to be, so there's no way he'll still be interested in flirting with me.

He is sitted behind his medium-sized desk marking the students' papers. I notice that he has a few drops of sweat on his forehead, his tie loosed and with two of his shirt buttons buttoned into the wrong holes. It's evident that another one of those aggressive girls who use their genitals more than they use their brains were here, or is still here, hiding. I want to enjoy this, and so I choose to bring up an extra long conversation.

"Hello Ms. Neema, how's the going? What brings the lovely you into my office this afternoon?" He greets me as he signals for me to take a sit opposite his desk.

I can hear some strange noises coming from within the office, but can't tell exactly where.

"I am doing okay. Just wanted to drop by and see how you're doing, and maybe get an exam leakage." I jokingly respond as I look around for the not so obvious places where a girl would hide when playing hide and seek with her lover.

"You are funny, and interesting. See, that's why I like you. And talking of interesting, what happened to your bodyguard?"

"Well, today I decided to give her a day off."

"Then why didn't you leave the door open?"

Out of his overly weird and irritating behaviour, I would have Caro accompany me to his office, and if not, she would wait for me outside, and if not, I would always leave the door open. Today I have left it closed, maybe because my instincts are telling me that I am no longer a young girl, but a soon to be mother. As a soon to be mother, I no longer need to have someone protect me; I am the protector.

"You must be mixing me up with someone else. Why would I ever do that?"

"Yes, maybe I am. So what's going on?"

"Well, you had mentioned that you would like to help me find a good company to take me in for the internship. Is the offer still open, or, I'm I too late?"

"About that...you didn't give me an answer in time and right now, all the places I know of are already flooded. I would love to help, and I'll still try my best, but I can't promise you anything."

"Is it because I'm pregnant?" I ask him. He is definitely feeding me these lame excuses because he is not man enough to tell me that I may not meet the standards of the deal he has promised the directors of these companies. He doesn't link up students with internships in good companies out of selflessness but because out of every deal, he gains the admiration of the student and, he opens up links for these employers to lecture part-time in the university so that when the right time comes, they return the favour by voting him in top management of their nationwide media associations. Aside from this, he gets to introduce young pretty girls to his male friends whom they use to flatter themselves that they are still desirable.

"Pregnant? Of course not! What does pregnancy have to do with this?" He pauses for a few seconds before continuing,

"You are smart enough to understand that a lot of companies are a bit hesitant in hiring pregnant women. Take your time; relax and concentrate on your new life. I'm sure that something good will present itself as soon as you are ready."

He has just categorised me among the pregnant women. I am a pregnant girl, not a pregnant woman!

"So you choose to not help me despite I being your best and most capable student, because I'm pregnant?"

I get off the wooden seat which had already starting getting my butt numb and head for the door. He seems apologetic, but doesn't say so, only adds that he will do all that he can but cannot guarantee anything. Maybe he's sorry that he can't help, but I still can't comprehend what having a mere baby bump and uncontrollable hormones has to do with getting an internship.

In his attempt to get from his chair and see me out, his trouser's falls off. He immediately jumps back on to his seat which may have led him to hurt his girlfriend who had been hiding under the desk all along. She releases a weak, sharp moan.

He embarrassingly looks up at me, but I choose to leave before he can apologise or claim that it's not what it looks like.

The left side of my brain is telling me that I should relax, take things easy, accept the things I cannot change, and let nature take its course. My right side though thinks otherwise. It does not want to be wifed by a man it barely knows, a man who is already in love with another woman, and a man who is only interested in becoming a father.

Sera paid me a visit this mid-morning and shared with me the latest on Caro's life, and what everyone else is talking about behind my back. Her solution to the big mess I am in with my family, friends, enemies and my future can all be done with if I give Dru an ultimatum. She suggests that I should make him marry me.

I have no idea what 'MAKE HIM' means but her take is that I can start by giving him the warning signs; stop picking his calls or talking to him, accepting his money and, regularly opting to sleep at a friend's house instead of sleeping in his home. If he isn't able to deduce that, I should literally interpret it for him. If he tries to play dumb, I should threaten to take my life. In case that also fails, then, she will have come up with yet another miraculous suggestion.

"Isn't he desperate? Then there's no way he is going to dismiss your request, or demand for that matter." She tells me.

I tell her that I cannot accept a permanent punishment to serve as a solution to my one time mistake. She however adds that we can always divorce, and after the divorce, I will end up getting so much more from the settlement.

"God hates divorce." I tell her.

"Yes He does. But if He hates divorce that much, I wonder what He thinks of pre-marital sex and pregnancies."

"So you want me to get married and then turn my marriage into some kind of an investment?"

"I didn't say that! Why do you always make the worst of my genius ideas?"

"Because that's exactly what they are. Stupid! They are wrong!"

"Did you just call me stupid?"

I laugh it off. She is trying to pull off a childish tiff girls like pulling on their boyfriends whenever they are on the wrong and don't want to admit it or be the ones to apologise. This kind of an argument could last forever. Out of fear that I may lose my only remaining friend, I let her have her way.

"OK, I'm sorry. But there is no way I am marrying that man. He is already married. Not legally, but, isn't five years of cohabitation the same as being married?"

"You won't be marrying him, he'll be marrying you."

"What's the difference?"

She sighs.

"It doesn't matter whether there's a difference or not. What matters is the difference between being just a clande and his legal wife."

We hang out for a little longer, watch a movie, eat and exchange class notes before she says that she needs to get going.

"On a serious note, you need to think about what we've talked about. You don't want that miserable life you were used to to come back knocking."

Although I don't feel entirely comfortable with Sera's proposition, at times, I want to give it a try. Over the past couple of weeks, Dru has been crashing at my home; which he's paying for, quite regularly, which is at least five days a week. It's just a matter of time before he fully moves in.

He and his girlfriend don't seem to be in good terms anymore. Theirs must have been a relationship of convenience, and, if he's to have a relationship with me, we too will have another bizarre kind of relationship, probably a relationship of sustenance.

Right now, I would give anything to get mama's advice, but, she still won't talk to me. Auntie on the other hand would give anything to advise me, but as usual, her kind of advice would be like;

'A man gets you pregnant and instead of denying being the father or running away, chooses to stay with you, and now you're complaining? Do you have any idea how many women fast every day and go to church every Sunday to pray to God to bring in their life such a man?'

She would never understand. She is another of those women who believe that marriage is all about bearing a man's last name and naming your kids after his parents.

I don't want to become that woman; the kind of woman whose work is to give birth, clean, wash, absorb insults, take instructions, be disrespected, abused and tossed when he's done. I want to be the wife whom he respects and out of that respect, he will find it impossible to not just love me, but to also fall in love with, feel proud of and brag about to his friends.

Money can never make you happy, but it can make your life stress free.

It's the first day of the final exams and unlike all the other exams days, I didn't have to spend the better hours of my morning begging the registrar to let me sit the exams. I bet father is also relieved for it's been a while since I called him to nag the little money he makes out of him.

I join in the queue to the exam hall but the other students let me pass. Apparently, pregnancy has its own privileges; such as people letting you through the front of the queue without complaining. I always prefer sitting at the far end corner of the hall, for my own personal reasons. There's this one time I sat at the middle, but it got odd when everyone finished before me and left me there, sitted all by myself like the lost sheep as I struggled to remember answers to questions I swear I had never come across in my life. Since then, I decided to always sit at the back so I could get comfortable around my own territory, and not miss out on the unfolding drama; students scratching their heads till sweaty white dandruff start falling down their answer sheets, watching as they whisper and beg for answers from each other, do hilarious sign language, exchange answer sheets, get caught with mwakenya's and as the smart ones literally fight with the supervising lecturers over the small piece of evidence they so much want to get rid of by chewing, or swallowing it.

Cheating in exams is among the worst of academic crimes. Though a first offender only gets their exam results cancelled, a second offender gets suspended for two semesters and with a third offender getting expelled. Last semester, some guy in his final year was caught for the third time with a mwakenya written all over his body. That was daring! Smart cheaters always use written paper mwakenyas to cheat, so that if caught, they can chew them and get rid of the evidence. But with his whole body tattooed with answers, he had no way out, and couldn't risk an expulsion. The exam hall was on the second floor, and since there was only one audacious way out to save his future, the guy risked to jump throw the window and break a few bones rather than get caught and expelled. With blood oozing all over his body and him writhing in pain, no one dared bring up the cheating. Instead, he was immediately rushed to the hospital without anyone taking a photo of his temporary tattoos. Two weeks later, he was as fit as a fiddle and allowed to re-sit his exams.

Today, my back spot feels different. Maybe it's because I have grown bigger and can longer squeeze the whole me into this tiny space. I'm too busy adjusting myself in an effort to get comfortable when one of my least loved lecturers' approaches my desk. She asks why I'm I sitting at the back when there is so much unoccupied space in front.

I tell her that I prefer sitting at the back; I always sit at the back.

Why she asks. Do I have something to hide?

"No I don't. I like keeping to myself so that I can concentrate."

Another lecturer hears her more than loud whispers from a distance and comes over to enquire what the problem is.

"She doesn't want to sit in front, isn't that suspicious?"

"Yes, I've also noticed that. She always sits at the back, but not today." She demands that I move to the front of which I refuse. Now, all of the attention is turned on us.

"Well, if you aren't ready to move, you'll have to leave and get a permit from the academic dean to be allowed to sit at the back." The mean lecturer adds.

Were it on a normal day, I would have consoled myself that these two are jealous for I am more beautiful and sexier than they are. But as for today, I try to convince myself that they're jealous because I am fertile, and they may be barren, or into their menopause; of which I can't attest.

"There is no such a rule in the code of conduct." I tell them as I take my stuff and start walking towards the front. To make their day, I move to the very first row, just next to the exit and where the supervising lecturers' usually sit.

I feel abused and disrespected; that today, and possibly for the next couple of days, I will be denied the great opportunity to enjoy free entertainment from my cheating compadres', especially since this is the last time I will be in college.

An hour has passed since the exam started and it's at this time that free entertainment usually starts. In a strange way, I feel as though I have been denied a basic human right.

Seconds later, someone's phone starts to buzz. We all hear it, but we all ignore it. A minute later, it buzzes again. The supervising lecturer sitted in front of me and who has been gazing at the naked walls and ceiling for the past hour asks me whether it's my phone.

"No." I answer.

"Are you sure?"

I'm I sure? Why would I carry a phone in the exam hall when it's against the exam policy? I may not be the perfect example of a law abiding citizen, but I sure aren't that stupid to break them.

I can sense some excitement in some of the students' sitted next to me. This is a scene I have always watched from the back; one student creating some distraction so that as the lecturers give the student their full attention, other students get a chance to cheat.

"Empty your pockets." She tells me as she walks from the front desk and stands beside mine.

"I beg your pardon?" I'm not sure if I've heard her right. She however doesn't repeat herself, and as I put my hand on my jacket pocket that's hanging by the side of the chair, I feel the phone, now vibrating on my hand.

I take it out and hand it to her. How I'm I going to get myself out of this? Should I say something? I try to explain but she hushes me.

"Hey, it's okay. Continue with whatever you were doing." She tells me. Maybe this should make me feel much at ease, but how can I concentrate when I'm not even sure whether my paper will be graded or not.

It doesn't take long before the mean lecturer; the one who had a while back alleged that my reason for sitting at the back is so that I can cheat approaches the front desk. She whispers something to the other lecturer, they whisper to each other's ears for another minute while throwing gazes at me before Dr. Mean tosses her hands on air and walks away. I steal a glance at my saviour and she's now making herself busy by arranging the many students' phones left on her desk based on their makes and models.

Two hours later, there is just but a few of us remaining in the hall. This includes the lot that barely has anything to write and hopes to remember something if they stay longer, and my kind of lot which has more than enough to write and three hours is never enough.

The nice lecturer stops me as I head out, handing me back my phone.

"Thanks so much." I express my sincere gratitude towards her.

"Don't forget to leave it behind during the next session." She reminds me, unconcerned about my appreciation for saving my ass.

I'm eager to know who was texting and calling me then. Maybe it's a response regarding my internship, or could it be mama?

It's Dru.

I hit the Call button and he picks on first ring.

"We have a problem." He says.

"What kind of problem?"

"A big problem! You need to come in the house right now."

"I can't, I have another paper in the afternoon."

"And I should have reported to work over three hours ago."

"I am a farmer, my father was a farmer and so were my ancestors. As a farmer, you may one evening realize that one of your goats has failed to return home with the rest of the herd. So, what does a farmer do when something like that happens? Does he raise an alarm? Of course not! He patiently waits till morning to see if it'll return, for it should know its way back home. If it doesn't return by morning, or the next evening, then he has to start getting worried. He has to go out there into the grazing fields, the bushes and the forest in search of his animal. If he's not fortunate enough to find it, he asks his fellow farmers to lend a hand, and see whether his goat may have gotten lost among their herds. When nothing prevails, then that's the moment he starts praying, and begging for God's intervention. So one day, when the farmer is getting used to the idea of no longer having his goat around, one of the young herd boys comes to report that he saw the lost goat grazing in a foreign land. Tell me my brothers, if that was your goat, would you let the stranger keep it, or would you travel to that foreign land and demand for an explanation?"

This is my father, narrating the story of a lost goat to Dru, who like myself I'm sure is clueless about what he is up to. I'm still trying to digest how he found out where I live. Has he ever had a GPS micro-chip implanted inside me, or did he use that animal; wakamumui, that our ancestors used as their compass to enable them navigate with ease?

"You go to the foreign land and demand for an explanation." His two 'brothers' respond in unison.

"That's why we have come here today. We have heard that our long lost goat was found grazing within your home and now all we want to know is; why did you take it away from us, are you willing to return it, or do you intend to keep it?"

So I am the lost goat? It sounds real funny, and very insulting.

I have read so many books, watched so many films, listened to too many narrations; both boring and interesting, and from this weird conversation, I can predict what is about to happen.

It's now Dru's turn to explain, using his own figurative language, why he stole the goat. His narration is also quite captivating:

"It was already dark when our herd-boys came across your goat wondering by herself in the bushes. They rescued her in time before the wild animals could trace her scent. They brought her home; fed her and gave her shelter. We planned on tracing her owners the next morning but we realised that she was unwell and needed some time to rest. By the time she got better; she had already become a part of our family hence couldn't let go. Since then, we've been trying to trace her family and tell them to stop worrying for their goat has found another home where it's being taken good care of."

I can no longer withstand this kind of talk. The more I continue eavesdropping at this 'man-talk', the more I'll end up getting irritated, and hating these men more than I already do. I head to the bedroom, plug in my earphones and start revising for my afternoon paper.

It's clear that father and his men are here to demand compensation. Before their wishes are fulfilled, Dru will request that the talks be rescheduled so that he can consult with his kin. They will open his eyes by informing him that the lost goat has already lost its value, for it wasn't as pure as all young female goats should be, and by getting pregnant before it was officially handed over, its worth had decreased. This is one of the oldest tricks young lovers would pull off whenever the girl's family started taking them in circles regarding the dowry and bride price. If the girl's family demanded for far too much than their future in-law would afford, the young lovers would plan to officiate their relationship by sleeping together while the negotiations were still taking place. As soon as the girl started getting morning sickness, her parents would drastically reduce the dowry and rush the wedding, for if the community got to get wind of the news, that family would have a rough time finding suitors for the rest of their daughters.

This team of the three wise men had indeed dragged their feet over a hundred kilometres to come negotiate my worth. I have no issue about dowry, but I know they aren't after no dowry; they are aching to squeeze a heavy bride price from this man. If there should be anyone with the right to demand for my dowry, it has to be mama. She carried me in her womb for 9 months; those are exactly 270 days, or 6,480 hours which are equivalent to 388,880 minutes of a hard tough pregnancy, not counting the 15 hours of labour, a whole year of sleepless nights and many more hard times when she would cuddle me to sleep, stay by side when I was sick, help me with homework, teach me everything, build me, mould me and prepare me for the cold and hostile future, such as this.

But what did he do? Nothing but enjoy another one of those love making sessions and didn't even feel it when half of him was swimming to co-join with half of her. Yet here he is demanding to be compensated for bringing me up. Does mama have any idea where he is right now, and what decisions he's making behind her back? I shouldn't be blaming him though for he's just another victim of irresponsible upbringing that taught boys that women and children should be deemed as one's property, and although male children soon grow to make their own decisions, women have to this very day never known what they want, and so these foolish men have to think and make decisions for us.

Father calls me from the bedroom. He asks that I prepare something for the MEN. He must have some guts to think that he can command me around in my own home. I leave, head for the kitchen, bang some sufurias and cups before making up my mind that I am done being this man's slave.

Dru enquires on where I am heading.

"We have run out of milk." I tell him while still walking towards the door.

As usual, the man who thinks he has all the rights over me just because I carry a fraction of his genes is fast to correct me,

"He asked where you are going, not what you have run out of." His brothers break into a chuckle. I want to curse them or throw something heavy and sharp to their faces, but stupid enough, I don't.

I take one final look at them, staring at each one of their faces, then continue walking towards the door and back to campus to continue revising for my afternoon exam.

#8

He is my Kenyan man

Six feet tall, dark chocolate skin, handsome

He is looking for love; love from a woman, warmth from a female, companionship from his lover

To his friends he'll say, he hasn't found the right one yet, he never will, for the good ones are all taken, dead, or unborn

What about me

I'm no lady enough, he will say

I'm either too plumb; he doesn't want to sink underneath my flesh

Or, I'm too skinny; I may not handle him

I'm too dark; I can't reflect the love enough

Or, I'm too light skinned, I'm not African enough

I'm not pretty enough to be introduced to his friends, because I may embarrass him

Or, I'm too beautiful, he doesn't want them flirting with me

I'm too serious; we can't have real fun together

Or, I'm too social; I can only be a girlfriend, not a wife, or a mother to his kids

I'm too lousy in bed; that's why he is getting a substitute

Or, I'm too kinky; he can't get serious with a slut

I'm too damn conservative; I should be flaunting some of that skin

Or, I'm showing far too much skin; he can't take a whore to his mama

My boobs are too huge, I may suffocate him; if he wanted to own KCC (Kenya Cooperative Creameries), he would have bought the shares

Or, they are too mosquito bite; I should get an enlargement

My booty is too big and round, he can't stand walking beside a pig on the streets

Or, it's too small; it makes him feel like he's dating a dude

I got to look good, fresh, smooth and silky; for him

Because he's from dust, and I, from his rib

I got to hush when he is having a man-talk with the boys, because that, that is business

But I can't enjoy a chit-chat with the girls, because that is gossip

I talk too much, too often and too fast; it's time I stopped being unbearably nagging

Or, I'm too quiet; I don't know how to express myself

I've gained too much weight that I'm running out of shape, I should hit the gym

Him, he has always been out of shape; ever expectant, but, how else will you know he got a good job, drives a big car, lives a large life

It's time for football, that's what real men watch

But, my love for telenovelas proves him right; I'm far too naive

He has to cheat a bit, after all, women outdo men in number, and he is just but playing the Good Samaritan

He got to have a 'mpango wa kando' since, age is fast catching up with me, and I'm getting all creased up

But he's a man, and men never age. Like good wine, they get better with age

He tells me that I slept my way to the top; yet, he is the one who coerced me, in the board room, in exchange for my promotion

I've slept with too many men, and he would rather be with someone fresh; a virgin

Did I break my own virginity?

And did I just ask for conjugal rights?

I should stop playing miss cheap

He says that I'm no saint coz of that one abortion I procured

Him, he was wise enough to deny being the father, and assert that he wasn't ready to quit the bachelor's club

He is my Kenyan man

"Where the hell have you been?"

He finally responds to my repetitive knocks at the door with a deafening shout but still refuses to let me in. What on earth I'm I supposed to tell him, or what lie should I invent this time round? For the past couple of days, he has been pushing me over the edge and expecting me to be okay with it. Maybe I have become a bit lazy, kind of arrogant and somehow disrespectful, but which woman doesn't when she is on her last trimester? I have been digging a lot of scary information from Google and if the know-it-all engine is right, then my being this kind of irate woman is a sign that I am less likely to develop postpartum depression.

He has been complaining a lot, criticising and lecturing me, flooding my mind with the same abuse I grew up with. He no longer seems to be as excited about the baby as he was a few weeks back, and just yesterday, as he was reciting his insults to me before leaving for work, he had the audacity to ask if he was really the father.

For years I have been accusing women of being naïve for sticking with men who are not worth a thing, but this day, I have come to understand how they do it, when they do it and why they do it; now that I have become one of them.

I have no job, my condition has got in the way of my dreams, and I can't go back home for I am a shame to my family having refused to adhere to their dictatorial traditions that would have forced me to assume the responsibility of becoming yet another woman who got married because she was pregnant, and not because she found love. Here though is a man who has offered to take care of me and the baby, and so I have to be his slave, and accept that this is a man's world, and if I don't do as he demands, he can toss me out and bring in another in a minute.

I had woken up late; the kitchen was a mess, no breakfast for him at the table, or a clean matching shirt to wear. He was raving so mad and at one point, I got scared that he would practice his karate on my belly. I could have explained, and reasoned with him, but having never been pregnant himself, how was he to understand?

I didn't want to spend another minute with him and as soon as he left, I sent applications to all relevant advertised jobs on the internet and, made a few calls to companies that claim to not discriminate against color, creed, gender or physical abilities. All of them promised to notify me as soon as there was an opening; which is usually a polite way of saying, 'Sorry, but judging from the number of resumes in our database, we doubt if we'll ever be in need of your services.'

Later on I had called one of the women who wake up at dawn and trek from the slums into the richer citizens homes looking for casual work. I have seen some of them arrive so early in the morning, irrespective of the weather, and sit on the cold concrete blocks outside the gate all day long hoping to get a lazy housewife offer them spare change in exchange of doing her house chores before her husband returns. My choice was a pro; cleaned and washed everything within two hours. She however had been quick to mention that she doesn't wash anyone's underwear.

"Sitaki kupata magonjwa." She had said.

I let her know that she can't get infected by merely washing someone's clothes.

"Kwani wewe ni daktari? "

I had taken that to be rude, but sincere. She needed to respect me as her boss for those two hours she was around. A part of me nonetheless understood that it must have been hard for her; old enough to my eldest aunt, to be working for me; young enough to be her youngest daughter.

It would also have been a stupid idea to pick a verbal fight with her, and so I let her be. After all, they do a better job when left to work alone while humming some tuneless tunes than when given a chance to literally fill you in on your neighbours' dirty linen.

Everything was spotless and smelling fresh. I took time to take an afternoon nap now that the baby had been kicking so hard and regularly, and could only let me sleep when she too was resting. Long before I started dreaming, a Dru-like knock at the door had woken me up.

Peeping through the window I could see a man standing outside the door but facing the opposite direction. It was hard to tell who he was for though he looked a lot like Dru; 5.00pm was never his time to be home. He always had something more important to do in the office, or out of the office; probably flirting with girls, telling them how much in love he was with his girlfriend, that he was expecting his first child; immature girls adore such men. Or he could have been hanging out with the boys as he bragged about how he's the man to be envied now that he had two women in his life. I always suspected that he was up to something fishy, but I never asked, and he never said talked about it.

"You are back ear..." These had been my words before I saw what lay in-front of me. I couldn't believe my eyes. Was I still dreaming, or was this real? In front of me was not just him, but him and his other complicated half; his girlfriend.

He didn't say a word, neither did she, but she couldn't hide her wicked smile that screamed out loud of how much of a queen she thought she was now that she had finally found her way back into his life, but as the other woman.

Just like the first time when I had seen her, she was dressed to kill; kill his respect for me and replace it with lust for her. In my attempt to emulate the woman auntie had been advising me to be, I had politely requested to talk to him in private, which he arrogantly declined saying that whatever I wanted to tell him in private could be said in the presence of his girlfriend, since we were soon going to be a family.

"I don't want her in my house."

"Your house?" She was fast to jump in.

"Yes, my house. You are not welcome in my house." I had maintained.

He just sat there, enjoying watching as two women fought for him, though in reality, one of them was only interested in protecting her territory, and not his body.

"She is not going anywhere. She is my fiancée, and this is my house, our house." He had said.

Was his decision final? I had wondered. He was rapidly turning out to be like father whose decision always remained unopposed. There is no way I was going to let myself become another victim of marital oppression.

"If she's not leaving, then I'll be the one to leave." I had said before rushing to the bedroom to pick a few of my and the baby's clothes and my minimal savings.

"Don't be silly. You are not going anywhere." He had told me as I walked from the bedroom to the living room.

"I am not your wife and neither I'm I your girlfriend or your slave for you to think that you can control my movements." I had screamed back at him.

"As long as you are carrying my baby, I mean our baby, you aren't leaving this house." He had said as he went to lock the door and took the keys with him.

He had said our baby. Our baby. What did that mean? Was he talking about me and him, or his, mine and his estranged girlfriends' baby?

I couldn't take it anymore. There's nothing as humiliating as having a man humiliate you in front of another woman, a woman who's stupid enough to fight over a man who doesn't respect her. I dropped onto the floor and for the first time, I shed tears that I had driven away for so many years.

Like two mentally disturbed kids, the couple had gone about their business, cuddling and whispering dirty nonsense to each other before finally going to the bedroom. I pitied her, loathed him, felt sad for my baby, and stupid at myself. As the two climaxed in the heat of their magic passion, I pulled myself together and left with no idea of where I was going.

After standing for almost half an hour outside the door and pretending to not see the nosy neighbours peep through their windows in anticipation to catch a free scene of the unfolding drama, he finally lets me in.

He looks calm, composed and somehow worried. I can still smell her, but it's clear that she has left. Or could he have thrown her out after having had his good time?

During the few days that I have been unfortunate enough to stay with him, he has proven to have the don't ask don't tell kind of personality. And although I may have dismissed the idea of permanently saying I Do to him, we are already acting like a normal married couple; hating each other, saying mean things to each other, never apologising and spending too much time together without saying a word to each other.

What is there to talk about anyway? How I had foolishly left a sad but comfortable life in pursuit for a happier but bumpy one?

"Have you chosen a name for the baby?" The pretty nurse examining me during my last pre-natal visit asks. Of course she doesn't care if I have chosen a name or not, but she pretends to. It must be one of those things that she is being paid to do.

"Candace. I've always loved that name. Isn't it beautiful?" I tell her full of excitement. It's weird that I am being this friendly to a stranger. Somehow, I don't feel good doing it.

"That's such a sweet name, and unique too." She says. Of course she is lying, I can tell for sure that this is the first time she's hearing of it.

"I've never heard of it before, what does it mean?" The nurse cleaning the side table asks. It's not right for her to be this unfriendly and sincere to the very people responsible for her having a job here. I watch as the pretty nurse gives her a cautious look, a look that confirms my assumption that she is one of the lowly paid interns who has just joined the hospital.

"It's a holy name; I mean a Biblical name, a name of an Ethiopian queen." I tell her. It's still surprising that I'm in a good mood.

"That's lovely." The pretty nurse says. The other doesn't say a thing.

I can't wait to get out of this bed now that I know my and baby's health is fine. Dru rushed me to the hospital last night scared as hell. From the echoing sound of the hospital walls I could hear him demand to be told if the baby was fine, but not once did he enquire to know if the mother was also okay.

I too was scared that I may have lost the baby, or that I would lose my life. The doctors kept on examining me, asking loads of questions about my health, how I was feeling, if I had been under stress lately, had I taken any medication or if I had noticed anything abnormal with the pregnancy. All the while, the baby's father was anxiously waiting outside for either of the two answers. 'Everything is fine' or 'I'm sorry, we tried our very best but...'

He should have been in here to see what I was going through, feel my pain, and empathise with me. But out of God's punishment to Eve, it was my duty to pay for the crime she committed by enduring the pains of this pregnancy and childbirth, while he waited for tweetable news and photos to post on his social media page.

Luckily, it had been a false alarm. Had this happened in Zimbabwe, I would have been charged and fined a small fortune for having caused such a disturbing scene. 'Everything is okay, but I should keep calm, not do heavy chores or be stressed', says the doctor. Now that I am enjoying the benefits of Dru's medical cover, I am far from worrying about the Kenyan public hospital maltreatment. I have heard of so many horrifying stories about women who have had to abandon their babies in hospitals, of have stillbirths out of the ruthless treatment they receive from the midwives.

Later on, during the early hours of the afternoon, Dru comes to pick me up. He is accompanied by his mother. A lovely woman from the outside, but on the inside, she must be an awful mother. How else would you explain her son's poor behaviour towards women, or towards the soon-to-be mother to his only child? Her presence here means two things.

She is moving in with us.

Or,

She expects the baby to be named after her.

I can't say No to her moving in with us. Certainly, she has convinced him that she wants to take care of me and also help in taking care of the baby after she's born, for I know nothing about babies. Soon after she'll start wanting to control everything, from what the baby eats, to what we eat, how we dress, and who remains the queen of the house.

However, since I am not married to her son, I have every right to not name my daughter after her, or anyone else in his family.

These things are not automatic. There's no way I am willingly going to give up the identity of my daughter just because a man had his way with me and spends a few shillings to put a roof over my head.

I will let her be her own person and have her own dreams. Naming her after someone I barely know will be like tethering her entire life around living someone else's dreams and assuming her identity. I can't let her live under the shadow of her grandmother.

"You are so pretty. With my son's and your genes combined, I can't imagine how beautiful my granddaughter will look like." She tells me while forcing a hug with my belly. Her words are so sweet and warm, she reminds me of mama. Despite this, my heart fully desists from warming up to her.

'Who compliments their son's baby mama?' I wonder.

Upon the introduction of two people, one always tries to outshine the other. There's only one way of outdoing the other; learning their weaknesses. I presume that Dru's mother is trying to act all nice and friendly so that I may confide in her, and out of I opening up, she'll identify that one weak point that can be manipulated in order to make me do anything, or everything she likes.

I choose to be unfriendly, and she can't get mad if I do so, because I have all the rights to blame it on my hormones.

Toddlers love it when their parents sing lullabies to them before falling asleep. The older kids have a preference for bed-time stories. I never had any of these. As a young girl, I would always cry myself to sleep after father called me names or lectured me shortly before going to sleep. Shedding those tears gave me a lot of relief, and everytime he was away; I would stay up almost all night, staring at the big dark circles moving about the room, waiting for sleep to find its way into my eyes.

In boarding school, it took time before I found a replacement to father's hypnagogia. There were those subjects that I hated, the kind of subjects that didn't make any sense and would never play a role in my future. These are the books that I would read every night under the covers, and would wake up to find a few of their pages in different corners of the bed.

Tonight, there are neither father's insults nor boring books to soothe me to sleep. I could try some alcohol, but that may drive the baby to become a drug addict. I am lazing in front of the laptop streaming black and white 1930's TCM movies, hoping that by the time baby is done butterfly swimming, I will be drowsy enough to retire to bed.

Having rained heavily a few hours ago, there is a total blackout in the entire neighbourhood. I am watching Rosemary's Baby, one of my all-time favourite films. No pregnant woman should be allowed to watch this film, but I am doing so anyway. I wonder how it feels to have the devil's child kicking inside your belly.

Maybe I am hallucinating, but everytime Rosemary is in pain, I too get in pain. The pains become so intense after an hour that I can no longer concentrate on watching it to the end.

Dru is away on business, or so he says, and his mother has been dead asleep since 8.00pm. I don't have the energy to call out her name, nor the strength to crawl into the bedroom where she's sleeping. I reach out for my phone to dial her number. She hangs up on me before the second ring. I dial her number two more times, and just like before, she hangs up.

I tightly hold on to my tummy while lying flat on the mat for a couple of minutes till the pain disappears. I'm scared that if I get on my feet and move a little, the pain will resume. It's a silent night, and I'm thinking to myself that if only I could increase the volume of the computer speakers to 100%, and wait for the scene where Rosemary is screaming the little devil out of her belly, I could wake up someone.

"Oh my God, what is going on? Are you alright? How are you feeling?" Dru's mother rushes into the living room wearing nothing but her robe which is completely open in front, revealing all of her assets. Thank God it's a bit dark to have a clear view. I can't fully see her face, but from the tone of her voice, I can tell that she is genuinely scared for her grandchild.

"What are we going to do...I don't even know how to drive...Do you have anybody we can call...Okay...relax...just relax...take a deep breath, and hold on tight...I'll be right back."

She dashes out of the house and a few minutes later comes accompanied by two men whom she is still feeling in on what's I'm experiencing, as though she possesses telepathic powers.

"I don't know what to do, my son is away, and she is not even due...please do something...we need to get her to the hospital."

Dru's mother rushes to light the candles as the two men turn on their mulika mwizis to illuminate their way to where I am laying.

"Ooh no! Is this blood?" The guy holding on to my lower body asks in disgust as he lets my legs fall back on the floor. He's staring at his hands.

"That's not blood you fool! Her water must have broken." The guy holding my torso blasts him.

#9

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete

Proving nature's laws wrong

It learned to walk without feet

Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams

It learned to breathe fresh air

Long live the rose that grew from concrete

When no one else even cared

©Tupac Amaru Shakur

"During the phone interview, you mentioned that you had worked with kids. Would you mind expounding on that?" The only lady in the panel asks me. She is directly sitted on my opposite side of the table, maintaining a very strong eye contact as though she wants to fall in love with me, or wants to exchange notes on who shapes my eyebrows or which eye liner I use. Had this been an interrogation, she would have been the good cop. The guy sitted on her right though would definitely be the bad cop, and the one on her other side, the neutral cop cum the keen observer.

This is my third interview in a week. The first one had been on Monday. I could tell that I was disqualified the very moment I entered the board room. I had been late for I had to walk for over two kilometres after the Matatu conductor dropped me off before my stage for refusing to pay him more money, which I couldn't, for what I had on me was not even enough to take me back home. I had also worn a black trouser and a baby pink blouse instead of the boring grey skirt suit, my hair was all natural yet they preferred ladies with permed hair and, of the few times that I counted, I yawned at least 5 times and ended up infecting everyone else in the room with these yawns.

The second interview had been on Wednesday. This time round I was a lot more prepared, and walked in the interview room as though I already had a position in that company. It was during the final minutes of the interview that I realized that I hadn't talked the talk as I should have. They had become more polite and started over-flooding their sentences with so many If's and May's. At that very moment, I became aware of the reality; that we would never be colleagues.

As of today, I am ready to turn things around. This is going to be my job. It doesn't matter whether I'll have to tell lies to impress or over exaggerate a little. God knows that I don't just want a job; I need one, or even two.

"My mother passed away when I was 11 years old, and being the firstborn, it has always been my responsibility to take care of my younger siblings; four siblings." I answer the lady.

She sends her belated condolences, expressing how sorry she is. The bad cop guy says that he's also sorry, but they would prefer to hire someone who has a professional motherly connection with kids, not a big sister kind of role model.

"For the past four years, I have been volunteering over the weekends at a children's home near my home area. And, I am also a mother. I have a daughter." I tell them.

"Now we are talking. Our preferred candidate is one who can be perceived as a mother figure by these kids before they can find someone to take them in, or adopt them." The keen observer says as he sits upright and starts giving my CV a more serious look.

"But aren't you a little too young to be a mother? You CV indicates that you are 22 years old, how old is your child?" The mean guy asks.

"I believe that motherhood doesn't come with age but with one's experiences in life, and their levels of maturity. I could say that I have been a mother for the past 11 years, but since my sisters and brothers are not technically my children, then the right thing to say would be that I have been a very good mother for almost a year, ten months to be exact."

I feel like I should add more lies, but if I do, they'll be forced to give me this job out of pity, and not based on my assumed qualifications.

"Thanks for your time. We'll be getting in touch with you as soon as we're done interviewing the other candidates." The lady tells me.

There's some hope in her words, though not fulfilling enough, but a lot better than the usual disturbing phrases, 'If you make the cut or, we may get in touch.'

If they find someone, other than me, with more experience interacting with kids-and everyone I know of seems to be better with them, then they won't hesitate to deny me this job I'm so desperately in need of.

I momentarily hesitate to get off my seat. I want to be a part of this so bad! Not that I care about their humanitarian project that they use to siphon donations from Western sponsors, but I'm all in regarding the job, and the money. It's time I concentrated on making me happy before even thinking of getting involved in yet another weird relationship, starting a family or being anyone's mother.

The bad guy exchanges looks with his two colleagues before looking back at me and asking that I leave.

Still, I don't get off the seat. They once again exchange looks; concerned looks.

"Is anything the matter?" The keen observer enquires.

"Would you like to add something? Or do you have any questions for the panel, any final remarks?" The lady asks.

"No, I'm sorry." I get off the seat a bit embarrassed of my childish stubbornness. Reaching for the door handle I'm hit by the unfortunate thought that if I leave like this, they will be left laughing behind my back, joking about my character and even giving me a nick-name. And, whenever they are reminiscing about their interviewing experiences, they will always be reminding each other of this particular experience when a crazy girl refused to leave their office. At the end of the joke, they will wonder what ever happened to me.

I turn back and walk a few steps towards the big desk that separates them from me. I sit at the edge of one of the chairs.

"I deeply apologise for my behaviour. I know that you are not convinced that I can handle this job, but I certainly can. The thing is, I am not the kind of person who talks a lot so; it may be hard for me to convince you. I perceive myself as more of a doer, and my work output will prove you wrong. All you have to do is give me a chance."

There are a few moments of silence before the bad guy breaks them with a,

"I'm not convinced."

He then adjusts his chair and starts swaying from side to side.

They let me have the job!

It's my third day at work and I'm doing the usual rounds to get acquainted with how things run in this place as I become familiar with the environment, my colleagues and the kids. Looking into these little angelic faces makes me want to tear up. As I hold one of them and carry her on my arms, I feel a few drops of milk wet my bra.

It's almost a month since I lost the family I never thought I was ready to have. I remember him coming to pick us from the hospital two weeks after I had a C-section and Candace made her way into my world. No one expected the baby to be fine and ready to go home within such a short time, but she was.

All my life I would stare at day old babies and think that they were the ugliest creatures alive. But Candace, she was special, and beautiful, and charming, and everything that I had ever wanted but had no idea I wanted it till it came my way.

She had been born prematurely, but healthy. Doctors said that we could take her home in two to three weeks, which we did. Looking at that tiny girl had made me realize how special motherhood was, and could not wait to be with her and be by her side, for the rest of our lives.

Mama had even called the next morning. Her genius instincts must have alerted her that she was now a grandmother. She was so excited at the news and wanted to know everything; everything regarding how I was doing, how I was feeling, how we were all doing and if the baby looked like me. I had asked if she would come pay us a visit of which she changed the topic immediately.

"I am so proud of you." She would repeat after every few minutes.

I couldn't clearly understand whether she was being sincere, or she was being sarcastic. Maybe I didn't know her that well as I had always presumed.

"Take care of yourselves, and do not hesitate to call me in case of anything. I mean anything." She had said before hanging up.

It's 7.00 o'clock in the morning. I am awakened by the love making groans and moans coming from Sera's bedroom. I envy this girl. She has just joined the Beyonce fraternity of GROWN WOMEN who makes chunks of money, pay their rent, take care of their own bills and no longer has to do the walk of shame for it's now her turn to bring in the boys.

I am thankful to her for taking me in, especially after the whole world, which comprises of the few people I know and those whose lives I screwed, ditched me.

Today marks exactly one month since that fateful day. The new baby with her new parents and grandma were so excited as they drove from the hospital back home. Dru was behind the wheel alongside his overly friendly mother who sat on the front passenger seat. Baby and I sat at the back. I could barely get my eyes and hands off the beautiful angel. Everyone said that she looked like me, but to this very moment, I hadn't been able to pin point a specific feature we shared, other than having both our skins being a bit darker, silkier and very lovely, and our eyes a bit bigger and attention grabbing.

It had been raining for quite some-time, which made the atmosphere seem so peaceful and romantic, but a lot of bad things had been happening. A few drunkards had been struck by lightning as they sought shelter under trees and, a family of 15 had vanished into the deep bondage of mud when their compound was affected by a mudslide. At least two greasy car accidents would also be reported on daily basis and with the public transport fares being hiked by 100%. I felt grateful that I didn't have to travel with my daughter in a matatu at such a time.

As a result of the heavy rains and traffic, the usual 45 minutes drive from the hospital back home seemed to take forever. I recall my eyes getting drowsy, putting baby Candace on her car seat before falling into a deep sleep.

I don't know what happened, how it happened, when it happened, or why it happened; but the next place I saw myself was in the hospital bed, the one I had abandoned earlier that very same morning.

Everyone had been taken away from me. Everyone, including the man I had yet learned to like, the mother in law whose over-friendly nature always upset me, and the daughter I was yet to pass my life lessons and wisdom to.

"Is there someone I can call?" A nurse had asked me after I had regained consciousness.

She was a well trained nurse, but had never had a chance to be a mother; otherwise, she would have empathised with me. She lied about not knowing the condition of my daughter, that of Dru or his mother.

"The doctor is on his way, I'm sure that she'll be of help." She had said.

The doctor came, and like her colleague, gave lame excuses of how we had all been rushed in different hospitals. I guessed that he was waiting for a family member to show up and share with me the bad news. No family showed up.

On the second day, the nurse assured me that the baby hadn't been harmed and that she and the rest were being treated in a different hospital. She added that as soon as a family member showed up, they would organise for transfers. The only near-family who showed up was Sera.

Her face told it all, and the newspaper she brought with her filled in the missing gaps.

'ROAD ACCIDENT CLAIMS A FAMILY OF FOUR.'

It didn't matter that the paper was speculating that I had also died. I should have.

I was mad at God, still is. He must have hated me so much to let me suffer this much, or for allowing Satan to tempt me to this extend.

I had found myself pregnant when all I wanted was to be girl, not a woman. It's like some supreme power out there had been playing games with my body. At one minute I thought I was pregnant, the next I wasn't, back to being pregnant again, to a miscarriage, and another pregnancy... This heterotopic kind of pregnancy only occurs in 6 out of 100,000 pregnancies, and though I had made myself believe that it was a curse, deep down I knew that it was a miracle. I had wanted to get rid of it so bad, but not even abortion could get in the way of my Candace being another beautiful soul born into this world. Family had abandoned me and so had friends but, despite having faced all this so strongly, the supreme power had decided that I was no fit to be a mother.

I was back to where I was before, or even worse; all alone, with no one to call, talk to or cry with.

Were it not for Sera, I would have drowned myself to self hate. She had hugged me so tightly it pained, tried cheering me up with her seraphic smile, didn't say a word but stared me for hours when she thought that I wasn't looking, and sat by my side till I was discharged. She had taken me back to her house, and let me be.

On the day of the funeral, she had woken me up, picked a nice mournful outfit for me to wear and dragged me to church, then the cemetery. Had Dru's family been more illiterate, they could have caused a scene by demanding that I leave the burial grounds. But, no one in that family said a word to me. No greetings, no condolences, no questions, no nothing. They didn't even show any concern towards this young mother who had just lost her only child. Maybe they were scared; scared that I could use the same charm I had used to drag their three member family into their graves.

The whole funeral seemed a little creepy to me. Technology and industrialization has driven people of one lineage so far away from each other such that the only time they get to catch up is when a relative of their gets married or passes on. That funeral was no different from a family get-together. I wasn't at all surprised when I heard the lady sitted next to me whisper to an elderly woman in front of her.

"Whose funeral is this anyway?"

"What, you don't know? It's Maria's, my sister's daughter."

"Just Maria's? Then how come there are three coffins?"

"The bigger one is for her son Andrew, you know Andrew right, everyone knows him around here. He was a good man. The smaller one, it's for his daughter. I hear she was only three weeks old. Life is really short. Who would have ever imagined that the tiny boy who was always jumping the fence to steal my mangoes would be gone this fast? May God rest their souls in peace." She concluded before taking out her crucifix pendant and kissing it.

"Wow, that's tragic! And what about the mother, his wife I mean?" The younger lady had asked.

"That's a long story my dear, you'll have to see me after this." The older woman had responded before opening her funeral programme and joining the mourners in singing another dirge. After the chorus, she had turned to the younger lady and asked,

"I see that you have some of our family features but I don't seem to recognize you. Who are your parents?"

A close friend of the family had then taken to the dais to share a few words, which took him almost a whole hour, sharing lots of lies about the departed. He called them real heroes, role models, shared the special times and moments they had shared, mentioned how angelic the new addition to the family had been and how they had all left a mark that no one else would ever be able to fill.

He had referred my baby as Candace Wanjiru Otieno; alleging that she had been named after Dru's mother, and that she had already assumed her father's surname. After a whole 57 minutes of an attention seeking eulogy, he had concluded with the old cliché; 'with those few words'.

The whole funeral had been absurd and I couldn't have taken it anymore. No one had proven to be humane enough to acknowledge my presence, offer their condolences or celebrate the one life that had survived the accident. I had to storm out of the sombre family re-union crowd to be alone.

On our way back to Sera's, all I thought about was how I should have fought those bunch of mourners and had my daughter's body all by myself. I would have given her a more intimate and loving send off. Her bones were still weak, and burying her meant that she would be decomposed long before the cement dried. I could have cremated her and forever had her ashes close by.

'What if I go back after everyone has left, and exhume her body.' The thought had persistently crossed my mind.

My friend Sera let me mourn in the best way I could. After a while, I realized that I was becoming more of a burden, for I could not mourn forever.

I woke up one morning; a week after the burial, prepared breakfast, did all the housework and by the time she was getting up, I was almost done.

"You didn't have to do this." She had told me.

"You need not worry about me anymore. I'll be fine."

She wasn't fully convinced, but it made her a bit happy.

"It's great to have you back." She had told me while giving me her friendliest embrace.

"Thanks for taking care of me. I'll never be able to pay you back."

"You don't have to thank me for anything. We are friends, more than friends actually, you could say sisters. So don't mention it, don't even think about it."

For the rest of the day, I got busy catching up on what had happened over the past three weeks, and what I wanted to happen over the next couple of weeks, months and even years: Stop surviving and start living.

I knew that my decision would be questioned, but it was up to me to decide what I needed in life. And after not so long, I gained the strength to move on. I convinced myself that it was better to hold dear the memories I had of my daughter, than have her little body on my backyard. Then, I was able to start a new life for me.

********

"Hi, morning." Sera greets me as she walks her one night stand to the door. He doesn't do morning greetings. I wave at them.

"You're up early."

I wait till the visitor is out of the door before I respond,

"Well, couldn't sleep a bit with all the noise coming from your bedroom."

"Sorry about that."

"No worries. Will be out in a minute. You're off today right?"

"Yes, why?"

"Good. So you'll have no excuse to not help me find a house."

"What about the rehearsals."

"They start much later, in the afternoon. And they just can't start without us, wouldn't hurt to make them wait for the very last time."

"So you really are moving out? You've been paid?"

"Not really, but tomorrow I might..."

Project Runaway, Jane by Design, Fashion TV...this is what these washrooms remind me of. Everyone, almost everyone is dressed or trying to dress to kill. Fancy shoes, classy jewellery and accessories, expensive clothes, nauseating perfumes and embarrassing make-up is just but a tip of the iceberg of how these girls have planned to celebrate their end of the exhausting 8-4-4 education system.

The ceremony is to start at 9.00 am, but with more than a whole hour to go before then, I'm surprised to see that everyone has arrived, including those who had a phobia of attending the early morning classes. I don't feel embarrassed being here. I am out of place. I had come in here to dust my shoes and check if my gown fits. Now, I am surrounded by havoc. All I have on is a pair of comfortable jeans, an a bit sexy top, and very pretty and comfortable sandals. I expect my name to be called out a few times and asked to the dais to shake the hands of a few not so important people and receive a few awards. During yesterday's rehearsals, the dais seemed to be somehow slippery and it crowned my day to see a number of fashionista wannabes slip all the way down while posing for photos. Today, I doubt if any of them will have the privilege of stepping up there and enjoy the same attention that the journalists' cameras will be giving me.

I wouldn't want to sound jealous, but it makes no sense that these girls have to spend a fortune on a new wardrobe for their graduation when they will be spending the better part of the day flaunting their ugly but highly coveted black graduation gowns. There are enough signs that today, just like yesterday, the previous day and the entire week, will be as sunny as hell. Judging from what is going on in this washroom, within the next few hours, these girls will be unleashing the worst of stenches.

"Are you wearing jeans on your graduation?" One of the girls asks me. I notice that it's not just her, but all of them are dressed in trouser or skirts suits, the ones that dictatorial companies force their employees to wear all week long as if it's the clothes that make a company productive.

"Have I broken a fashion rule?"

She doesn't answer, but within that small crowd I can hear one of them whisper,

'Damn, she's so rude, and arrogant. If only she had been a little nicer, I could have lent her something classier.'

Technically, I am not a rude person, neither I'm I arrogant. Those two presumptuous terms are affiliated with me by people who do not meditate at all, or who misjudge a lot. Such people are created to believe of themselves as being outgoing, social and extroverts. In reality, they are nothing but a bunch of annoying know it alls. They know how to talk, but never have an idea how they ought to act. When they come across a quite person; a person who meditates, thinks before speaking, empathises rather sympathises, and one who would rather have their actions do the talking, they refer to them as being meek, an introvert and anti-social.

That person is me.

When they are introduced to me for the first time, they think,

'Awww, she's so quiet, angelic, can't hurt a fly.'

For a while, they continue holding that presumption of the angelic me, until one day, they mess with me. As soon as I hit back hard enough, they claim that I am being rude when in reality; I'm trying to protect my precious ego from their venom.

From then on they refer to me as a pretender, a silent criminal, or a rude and arrogant person, which I'm not. I am a person who knows when and how to let loose and make use of her defence mechanism. But since that defence mechanism is coming from someone who was initially presumed to me too naïve to hurt a fly, it turns her into a viper.

Today marks the beginning of a new chapter in my life. I may not be as happy as I had planned, but I definitely have a reason to celebrate the end of the many struggles I have had to endure for the past two decades.

It would have been lovely had my family and distant relatives showed up to witness the big milestone. I am the first and only person in the family to get a bachelor's degree. How I wish everyone had come, including my cousin Charles who has been enjoying the limelight for years after becoming the first in the family to get a Diploma.

Mama would have been so happy. This is not just my degree, but our degree; mine, hers, grandma's, and every woman in the family who sacrificed her dream to bear children for her husband, play the role of a wife and forget all about her childhood aspirations and ambitions. We may have never talked about it, but I know that she has always had big dreams for me. I am hoping that wherever she is, she gets to tune to the TV station the graduation ceremony is being aired on, and see me, or hear my name being called out.

Father too would have been proud. Not that I care, but it would make a difference hearing him say something good about me. Thinking of it, I'm really not so sure. I was the best student in the entire district during my KCPE but, he had anticipated me to lead in the Province. During my O-levels, I had emerged among the top 100 in the province. Still, he was mad that I didn't pass well enough to bring his favorite newscaster home to interview me; of which he would have spoken on my behalf.

I see the many rented mini-vans driving into the compound filled with happy fans of these young ladies and gentlemen I've been studying with for the past four years. Most of them afforded either a Second Class Upper or Second Class Lower grades, yet, their people are proud of them. If only I had been born into a different family, they would have even booked me a ticket to vacation in Zanzibar. They would sing embarrassing songs in my honour which I would hate, but years later, I would cherish.

The graduation ceremony is over. Everyone is exchanging hugs with their family, friends and other fans who want to know how it feels to wear this awesome gown. They are taking photos one after another as they receive bunches of flowers, congratulation cards with cash stuffed inside and several glittery blingblings being adorned around their necks. On my hands I have just my handbag, several certificates, two envelopes I'm yet to open, and the three VIP invitation cards I was supposed to give the three most important people in my life, none of whom turned up. I have not even a single stem of rose flower on my hands neither do I have any blingblings. I have never liked them, for they make one look like a Christmas tree, but today, with everyone adorning not just one but a couple of them, I feel jealous. I'm even tempted to buy some for myself.

"Are you also one of the graduates?" A middle-aged man who's standing with his extended family presumably waiting for his child to show up asks me as I try to creep unnoticeably from the graduation grounds.

"Yes I did." I answer him.

"Really? Congratulations." His wife tells me.

"You could easily pass for a high school student. Congratulations." The man adds.

On a normal day, his statement could have landed him into big trouble with his wife. But who cares, everyone is in such a good mood today.

I'm thinking to myself, at least I got one stranger to congratulate me! Now I can walk in to the restrooms, remove the gown, and walk out of the crowd without anyone having pity on this poor soul that has been stood up by her family on the most important day of her life.

Sera has invited me over to her graduation party later in the evening but, I don't want to be a part of another person's celebration. I should be the celebration.

"Neema, Neema!" I turn to see my lovely sisters running towards me screaming my name. This is unbelievable, and such a wonderful surprise.

"Where have you been, we have been looking for you everywhere." Asks Soni who is almost running out of breath.

"I didn't know that you guys were coming." I answer as the two throw themselves on me, hugging me so tightly like we've been separated for years. Not far away I see Caro, looking at us. My sisters feel the discomfort and pulls back.

"Is she your friend? She's the one who told us that she had seen you come this way." Ciku tells me.

I watch as her family walks towards her, but she still doesn't get her eyes off me. I decide to make the first move and wave. She responds with a wave, and a smile. The precious moment is soon interrupted as my sisters continue bombarding me with questions.

"What was in the envelope? Was it money?" Soni asks, taking the envelope off my hand and starting to open it herself.

"Aki you look so nice! I'm so jealous. Everyone is so proud of you!"

"Kwani who else is here?" I ask Ciku.

"It's a surprise. Wait and see..." She responds as they both drag me to see the surprise they have for me.

"Hey wait, here're your photos! Should we buy them, or snatch them and run away." Asks Ciku as she stops near a wall where hundreds of photos shot during the ceremony are displayed.

The ambitious photographers had taken a few photos of me throughout the ceremony of which now hung on a wall amongst other students' photos. I look lovely in all of them, and it feels so good that someone had captured this special moment, though without my consent, and was expecting to sell them to me at a much exaggerated price.

"Uncle Muriithi also took others, but we have to wait before he can have them processed and printed." Soni tells me.

Interesting how being smart can make you everyone's darling. My amazing family had hired a 14 seater matatu to transport everyone who mattered in the family to my graduation. It feels great to have everyone want to hug me, adorn me with the ugly blingblings, take a photo with me and as for those with heavier wallets, buy me flowers and shake my hand with money, literally.

Are they this happy because of my success, or because I got rid of the dishonour I had brought upon the family.

They may be celebrating the fact that I am a girl once again; childless and husbandless. Or maybe they are truly happy for my success.

We are all sitted in a circle sharing jokes and with everyone wanting to share a special memory they have of me. Father isn't left behind.

"And here's to those who dare to dream, and make their dreams a reality." Uncle Muriithi starts toasting before we get disrupted by a ringing cellphone. It continues ringing as everyone who has a similar ringtone checks to see if it's their phone.

"Whose phone is that?" Uncle Muriithi, the self-appointed MC asks.

That's my ringtone, but being just another one of Nokia ringtones, it could be anyone's phone. My bag is too far from me, and since I normally don't get day calls, or even booty calls, I don't mind checking.

"Neema, is this your phone?" Mama asks as she keenly looks at it from top to bottom, as though looking for my initials.

"You don't have to pick it. Let them leave a message." Soni says.

"Kenyans don't leave voice messages." Ciku tells her.

"I was talking about leaving a text message you..." Retorts Soni but she is cut short by father.

"Why don't you answer it? It'll only take a minute."

This is so precious of a moment to leave behind in order to pick a call. On the screen though is a 020 number, meaning that the call is most probably coming from an official office line. It could be a job, or something greater. After all, I am made to believe that I am some sort of a celebrity now that the ceremony was being aired live on TV. By me having been the lady of the day, I won't be shocked that someone wants me to join their company. I already have a more than great job, but I won't really mind being poached by a better company.

I decide to answer.

"Hello...yes, this is Neema...what is this about...yes, yes I did...what kind of problem...a mix-up...but that's impossible...how did it happen...a switch...I'm sorry but that's impossible...I don't want to talk about it...are you sure about what you are saying, do you even have the proof...I am calm...of course I understand...mhm...okay..."

Mama interrupts me to ask what the call is about, I say nothing. She doesn't insist but goes back and sits.

"...let me call you back..."

I go back to my sit and to my surprise, everyone is staring at me, expecting me to share the news; bad news, good news, or in this case, the very unfortunately unexplainable news.

"You don't have to keep it from us, we are your family." Uncle Muriithi assures me.

Maybe this is it, the time to prove whether they can really stand by me.

"That was the hospital calling; the hospital from where I delivered."

I notice that their once joyful faces all turn gloomy at once.

"They tell me that there was a mix-up, and that, I was among the women who took home another woman's baby. My daughter is still alive."

-THE END-

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

The last piece of poetry 'The rose that grew from concrete' is originally by Tupac Amaru Shakur.

My heartfelt thanks to everyone who contributed towards the making of this book, both actively and passively; you all know yourselves.

