Late one September day, a young man, continuing with his travels in the orient of the Pearl of Africa found himself on the foothills of the mountain Elgon, in the town of the bamasaba, Mbale.
Moving through the towns of Jinja, Iganga, Pallisa, and Tororo had taken a toll on him. He would stay to rest his weary self before embarking on another leg of his trip. Carelessness had also contributed to this impromptu visit. It had demanded that he replace a charging system for his mobile device before the shops closed as early as he had been told they normally do before he continued to Soroti – his destination – as it had no Samsung shop that would be of any help to him.
That is how he ended up in Mbale, without a plan, which was alright, after all, he did not mind as along things went on according to plan, be it a good or rather a bad one.
A double chicken burger served with cheese and a cappuccino at a coffee shop later, followed by the booking of a room in a nearby lodge on the same street – one whose name he did not know – and a long, aimless walk later took him to what was billed by the locals and boda-boda riders as a popular nightspot; The Thatch. Some had, in their pronunciation, called it “Such” whereas others labeled it as “The Search”.
And, yes, it was as they had projected: absolutely popular. On the night he was there, it was , to generally describe it, a place for people with different colours. A small India populated by only businesslike men and a small country on the African continent populated by only skimpily dressed women, with, of course, a handful of visitors from other countries around the world. All chatting, drinking, dancing and sharing in another’s happiness as very loud music was heard coming from speakers placed almost everywhere and the videos to it were being watched by any interested parties on large screens that were erected in selected parts of the largely open air bar.
When his bed started calling, he found and asked a boda-boda rider with a good temperament to help him return to it. Having forgotten the precise name of the street on which he had found residence for the night, the rider, with ease, took him out of town and to the entrance of a factory that shared a name similar to the street. It was on their journey back into the midst of town that something caught the visiting young man’s attention. The streets which had emptied quite early ha been taken over by ladies who only came out at night to make money by extorting it from men with a dire need to cater to their carnal appetites. Theirs was a nocturnal business. It was on that street that he asked to be left.
Suddenly, it became too early to go back to bed and, most unfortunately, alone. Before the young man jumped off, the rider, like someone who cared, left him a caution; “Fuck them. Do not fuck with them. They are thugs. They will steal your money.”
The negotiations with a slender, light skinned one who was in white hot pants – on a cold night – and wore black, extravagant hair which looked like the flag of death began and ended before the rider sped away. It was easy and made economic sense. He was not going to pay UGX 20,000 for a whole night. He needed it. He was going to pay UGX 5,000 for what she called a short. He needed it.
She sipped ona sachet of Uganda Waragi that she was holding and asked him to follow her lead through a dark alley, and left, to an array of rooms that awaited visitors like themselves. She opened one and they got in. She turned off the lights which he, with her acceptance, turned back on. He wanted to see. It was a filthy place. Two beds with wet, old, thin mattresses and no sheets and blankets on them, and similar mattresses laid on the floor or leaning against walls. He wanted to get done, and leave as soon as humanly possible.
He reached out to her, kissed her, and tounged her. She had a small tongue that was full of saliva and passion which he did not fancy. He pulled away but, like a pendulum, returned to. The kiss continued. They breathed air from deep within each other. They tasted each other’s hunger, and gave in to each other’s need. When he pulled away, again, and started to undress himself, she stopped him. She wanted to help him do it.
She loosened his trousers by feel. His body jerked as her warm fingers brushed against his pecker. Engorged and ready, it strained against his briefs, throbbing with a life of its own. Lightly, she caressed his scrotum through the briefs, squeezed ever so lightly, then brushed her fingers languidly down his thigh. His eyes shut, she could hear him grasp, his breathing growing rapid. She let his trousers fall.
He also got to feeling. With care, removed his fingers slowly across her flawless naked flesh until he got something familiar. Yes, it was a cunt. Hers. He smoothly carried her off the ground and laid her on the bed from where he started poking at it with his pecker. Then she, miraculously, reached down and guided him in. He had paid her to be be that good. They started working. Rocking. He was looking for the long ride. He wanted to give her a horse fuck. A pounding. That is what he thought she deserved. Anything close to love was not possible especially with one of her kind, and the nature of her business, and its premises. She had him though. It was one of the best fucks he had had. He moaned, hollered, finished, and rolled off.
While he was on top of her, again, and she was moving her as light as feathers fingers tentatively up to his shoulder bone, and trying to be as teasingly deliberate with him as he had been with her, and smoothing her palms along his chest, and massaging his nipples with her fingers, and wafting away and gliding slowly down towards his belly, a knock was heard on the door. A feminine voice was heard inquiring why the door had been locked. A hand was seen using the nearby window trying to unlock it so that what became its fat bearer and her skinny client could make use of the same room. Unbelievable.
They took up the bed adjacent to the one of the first couple. Without any attempts at foreplay, they started rocking away with both the fat lady’s legs up in the air and the skinny client submerged in them. At about the same time, the first couple rose to the occasion, mirrored and doubled their advancement of the missionary style: the ballerina.
Friday, September 6, 2013.