She had the chocolaty, flawless beauty that would make any man love her even if she had the bitchality of the worst bitch. I could see her thighs clearly and I thought they were a little too fat, but her beauty had insured her against any biological vagaries that greatly biases minds of men in things that dictate men’s minds’ on sex, looks and such.
She sat by the window wearing either a distracted or bored look. Or both. She had natural hair on and was fiddling with her Nokia X or E series rather abstractedly. Next to her sat a bespectacled, fat, motherly woman who looked every inch a retired primary school teacher.
Another tall, slender chick came from behind the bus and settled for the two empty seats to the left aisle of the bus, in front of my object of desire. See I like tall, slender women with perfect feet and some touchable (read spankable), stiff ass. This one didn’t have an ass enough for my approval, but she was athletic in an attractive way. Not desirably beautiful and with a weave, she was nonetheless worth checking out at the final destination.
She looked the type who dates some pervert, older than her by seven years with a substantial potbelly. The bugger makes her dance on the bed naked, dancing to some 1980s music such as Brick ‘n’ Lace’ Your Love is So Wicked or Rihanna’s Pon’de’Replay or whatever it is called. On her part she looked someone who could do something as kinky as fishing out some feather of an unknown bird and stroking the man who will be thinking he got the best deal for the drinks and the simple gifts. Good for him.
From the way she walked, settled on that seat, throwing her handbag rudely and improvising it into a pillow, using the armrest to the aisle and started using her Android powered phone, she seemed the type of endless erotic possibilities that decency does not permit me to write in this very noble blog. With experience, you detect these things instinctively.
If I can add one more thing, she looked more of the type after doing all sorts of kinky things at night the following day will be wearing the most cynically serious face in a Double M and lost deeply in thought as if she is about to buy a Boeing or discover the next big thing after Facebook and Twiiter.
Most men wish to sit next to a beautiful woman if they are travelling to a far off place. Most beautiful women prefer fiddling with their phone than talking to these men. I often feel like snatching the poor phones from them and gunpoint them to a conversation. These kids born after 1988 can be quite a bore with their phones.
So here I am in a Kampala Coach bus on my way to Kampala for Easter and proceeding to Juba for some private assignments. Off from Nairobi, and I have only been able see the two chicks. I couldn’t see any further behind. It was too dark. And of course, the bus was travelling towards Western Kenyan, if somebody knows what I am talking.
The first incident I registered came from the fat woman sitting between me and me convincing the beautiful, fat girl that I am a firm believer of spontaneity and I have never been wrong. Her seat belt was dysfunctional and she wanted some explanation. She shouted at the youthful conductor, who dutifully came forth. I couldn’t tell whether the promptness with which he came was due to his duty or because it was because the woman could have been his mother. The woman asked her curtly for an explanation. Sensing the animosity, he quipped,
“It doesn’t work, but even so you are too fat it will disturb you.” I am sure he meant it to be funny and we burst out laughing throatily. She didn’t find it funny and she gave the young man a few choice words and a seven minute lecture on good customer relationship. He walked away at the 37th-second. As soon as he detected that he was going to have a mouthful from her. The adverb ‘mouthful’ has been used in its literal meaning. I looked up the man closely and even with the poor lighting in the bus, I could decipher the following letters on his forehead S-T-U-P-I…I couldn’t see the last letter(s), though.
The second incident came in Nakuru when some Somali tried to escape with some lady passenger Ksh 1000 before he could give her the Maasai Shuka. The woman brought the bus to a standstill with her roar and walked down, grabbed the Shuka from the next Somali and walked back to the bus and ordered the bus to drive like she is a commander. I shook my head. I could hear the Somali spitting out some interesting Swahili as the bus took off.
At exactly 4.43 am, the bus was at Bungoma and my slender girl got off the bus potentially ending the possibility of ever meeting someone as important in her life as Your Majesty here. Bad for her. I was disappointed as well as my Sudanese friend and host of other randy men who were interested in her all along but had been sleeping all along.
At the Busia border, we got off to undergo the usual immigration crap. It works a little faster as my Sudanese friend bribes some agents and we skip the queue leaving some beautiful, pregnant woman fuming some radioactive billows and I didn’t like it. I hate skipping queues but my friend having bribed his way, I had just to toe the line.
As we walked into the Ugandan side of the border I could see the lively, big billboard of Museveni that must have been used in the elections a year ago. The billboard claimed that he has crushed 28 rebel groups within the last 20 years and he should be thus elected. No explanation why rebels existed in the first place and why Kony is still out there? Lack of space maybe.
We board the bus once again and to our near nightmarish detriment, Ms Fatty Beau is missing from her seat, and instead was a man with rusty teeth getting us into an unprompted conversation on how corrupt border officials can be. Stupid! That is not the breaking news. You were not sitting there.
Then the fat woman came back and confused the seats but got them right and the man takes a different seat. I am about to ask her where is she, I thought I saw them converse earlier on. Instead my Sudanese friend shouts at the driver that other passengers have been left behind. He assures us that the next bus bring them along. He resignedly shouts to him that it is not fair. My friend is not the most caring person anywhere in Africa. The beautiful girl was our only concern.
I am so disappointed. The only time I have ever felt like was when Manchester United gave eight hot ones. It is a personal loss. I had it all figured out on how I was going to handle her at the Final Destination. This conversation was going to take place:
ME 😦 Tapping her shoulder gently) Do you think that life is fair?
SHE: (Looking me sharply in the eye that my confidence shoots down by half) What do you mean…As in Why do you ask?
ME:( Smiling, a smile fished out of the Gusii Highlands) That we can travel all the way from Nairobi in the same bus and me not taking down your number? I suppose, we need again.
SHE :(She frowning and wearing a disgusting look like she detected some toilet aroma from me)Was it a must?
The she will turn and hug some tall, smartly dressed man. The man then will extend a very warm and respectable handshake to me, partially fearing me, sensing that I am a territorial threat. In fact his extended closely wrapping hug was an animal equivalent of pissing around the mate to mark the territory. So we shake hands and he asks rather friendly,
“Are you together?” She virulently shakes her head and the man waves a dismissive gentlemanly wave and he takes her by her waist, carrying her bag and they disappear. One yard and she will tell the boyfriend, imitating my sexy voice,
“He walks to me and asks me, ‘do you think life is fair?’. And I am like what’s up and he wants my number. Just like that!”
And at that point he looks behind, obviously approving my genius pick-up line but disapproving my guts and slightly distrusting her girlfriend. Our eyes meet and though mine are trained on her mid-section on her behind-the midsection. He looks at me sharply but my eyes probably remind him of some particularly nasty tiger he watched last night on the Discovery Channel. They are as red as ripest tomatoes he has ever seen. They look lethal. Dangerous. He looks away quickly. Scared.
Any intelligent man hardly trusts his woman when she tells him of men who hit on her. It is a sign of three things; she is insecure, clingy or she is cheating and covering up. And women like her are the type who can imprison the man and she will be the orbit and the axis upon which his world will revolve and rotate. And they are the easiest to lure away from their boyfriends. With experience you learn these things.
Kampala by day
Back in campus I ever wanted to bring one of my fairest crushes to Kampala. My extremely weird friend (the most probable proof that aliens are amongst us, not somewhere in the universe) warned me thus,
“Sila (as he authoritatively intones my name), what you cannot achieve in Nairobi, you cannot achieve in Kampala.”
It was a command. Terse and curt as they come. The he waxed philosophical further,
“Sheila is like a woman with child, for you to take to bed; you must love the child first. She is not a mother…Your biggest concern is to first establish who the child is.”
Of course I always listen when close friends advise me. They are mostly right. The last thing I wanted of course is that ‘I thought we are only friends’ in foreign capital and newspapers reporting that some enraged Kenyan man, beat up and severely injured the girlfriend after having a conjugal disagreement.
Did I mention that Plato is really weird one? It is also important and fair that I mention he is also green-eyed envious monster wherever beauty is involved. Sensing his envy, I had to tread a little carefully. So real reason I abandoned was the fact that I didn’t want to kill Plato with Jealousy. There is so much to be accomplished yet.
So here I am back in Kampala. Kampala does not grow correspondingly with time. I was here two years ago, now I feel like the place has retrogressed again by five years. Coming from an infrastructurally superior city of Nairobi, here I was looking down Kampala like some city in Banana Republic. Of course Uganda is a full of Bananas, so all metaphors of that fruit apply here. Including the female point of view.
It is cold, dry and humid. The temperature should be about 21. The kind of weather perfect for an early Saturday day for a young family. The day for coffee, a decent lunch and watching some decent soccer only possible with Arsenal FC. The kind of weekend that one should dedicate to a woman he loves.
From the bus terminal, we board a BodaBoda to our hosts place, some hostel upon any one of the numerous hills in Kampala. These BodaBoda guys are pros. They have been in the business for long than in Kenya. And BodaBodas in Kenya are a sign of retrogress contrary to assumption that they are a form of progress.
We get to hostels, bordering the venerable Makerere University. Our hosts are South Sudanese students in the numerous colleges and universities that are also home to thousands of Kenyans students.
Our host is an extremely dark individual. He is slim and lanky with beady eyes but has some quiet authority that has been earned going by how his colleagues treat him. And he is loaded as hell. Wonder how he has not been featured in the Who Owns Uganda?
We freshen up and he gets us to nearby decent hotel for some breakfast. He recommends Matoke for me. As a Kisii, guys in erroneously assume that Kisiis like bananas. That is a big lie. Bananas are associated with poverty and famine.
So I take to the bananas with some zeal hitherto unknown to me. The banana taste delicious. And that is the understatement of the year. I have never tasted some greater than that in a long time. After that, we get to fix their Ride so as to have some ride in town. But the Battery is low and we can fix that fast enough. They are a little organized in that they have even bought their own cars through their Saccos.
Outside the hostel, as my Sude friends take their unpalatable Dinka language (how guys don’t find Kisii sexy totally escapes me); my wandering eyes spot some absolute beauty.
She a little short and plump appropriately. Facially, can score 10 out of 10. And her body in the male world is one of those instantly desirable or to use the Nairobian slang, she is Bang’able. ‘She can gerrrit goes off in my head’.
It is only in the morning and she looks outstandingly gorgeous. She is in a deep green leso and a white Real Madrid T-Shirt, which is a good indicator that she dates a real kick-ass dude. And she will find me likable. Truly all men I know will wish to wake up next to such a woman superbly endowed. She seems to be having a sort of argument over the phone in a language I can only tell is Bantu.
I put on my sheepish smile and raise my hand in gesturing her to come down. She expertly raises the middle finger of her right hand towards my direction. I thought it is meant for somebody in the group, but she points her sexy lips to me. I assume she is too lazy to raise her whole hand and the finger will suffice. I do the same; I hear smack and turn directions. My host tells me, to leave her alone. She is as proud as a Peahen. He further instructs me that if it is women, I will find them.
Part 2 of this voyaging coming as soon as possible…