Saba saba is a place, a suburb that is home to innumerable ladies. Coastal ladies. Some young, and some old. He, a young man who had finally made it to the beautiful Mombasa, had, after joining Martin Luther, Michael Jackson, Pele, Zinedine Zidane, Malcolm X, Whitney Houston, and Gandhi – they were on the walls – to dance and guzzle in a sports bar, gotten lost while trying to find a bikini club which someone had recommended and he, somehow, found himself there. For the very first time.
Even with the lamentable choice of coastal ladies he had found himself keeping company – those of the night – this was a moment he had been waiting for. The one he had lived for. He would, before the light of day arrived, have one to himself. He liked his food like he liked his women: coastal.
He turned his spot on the roadside into a vantage point and observed before he could start making any moves. He glanced to his left, in the direction of his hotel land tried to figure out whether it would be cheaper to walk back with one of them, or call up his tuk tuk driver to get them to it after he had made his choice of arms that he would have as his body warmers, on his first night at the coast.
His failure to speak their nature language cost him a few good ones. Language barrier denied him an opportunity of having a good time with the first few he interacted with. They did not like it that he asked them if they knew English. They simply shunned him. The others were overly old for his liking and, as a matter of course, taking. He moved on.
His search came to an end when he was startled by a revelation. One of them walked her well endowed body towards him like she knew it was her he was looking for. How lucky he was! She came nearer and nearer, a graceful spectre in the raging wind. Her face wore a calm, beaming smile, as if she was satisfied of all the world. She was the gift of the coast he had loved so long and so well. No shyness, nor awkwardness, nor silence could separate him from her.
She spoke more than good enough English. And all they while, as they negotiated, she kept staring up into his eyes, hypnotising him with the plenty of magic in her tender ones.
It was her who initiated the next move. Reaching up with her hand, she guided him through the dark corridors, and up the stairs that led into a hushed room. What a sanctuary it was! How big the room was! How mysteriously dim, and shadowy!
He pushed and shut the door with his shoe, turned on the lights, and ever so gently deposited her on the textured lesu that lay on the soft bed. She undressed herself and lay there watching him undress himself and get into a convenient position above her. Then his lips peppered her with light kisses. Forehead. Lips. Ears. Throat. Breasts. Every touch of his mouth was exquisite, every sensation tortourously deliberate.
When she said she was ready, he entered her without hurry, guiding himself in slowly and gently. But once he was inside her, she could no longer contain herself. Digging her fingers into his back, she clamped her legs fiercely around his naked buttocks and drew him even closer.
His thrusts began slowly and built momentum. For him, he gladly followed the leaping tide of the water that had boldly come to his side when he stood in the white sand of the beach on which he had spent his afternoon. He was doing what he had seen the waves attempt to do. For her, each lunge was a delicious melody, a journey to yet another level of ecstasy. Making love to a stranger, a foreigner at that, was like a resurrection. She could almost feel a part of her dying while another was being reborn. Tears sprang to her eyes and she moaned softly. Her smooth creamy skin, glistening with a moist sheen, and his lengthy, bulkier, male musculature had, for only two hundred Kenyan shillings, merged into one.
Saturday, September 14, 2013.