She Said No, But There was More…

A sequel to the story “Shoot your Shot!”

Your arrival today caught me unawares. You should have rung to say you were coming. Maybe then I could have changed into something else girly. These may be my favorite pajamas but now looking at the creases and the missing button, I don’t feel so good about them. Perhaps if you’d rung, I would have played your favourite song. I think, conscious of the sad song playing. It’s an ’80s song. It’s a love song. It’s a sad song. Something along the lines of a forlorn lover committing suicide. Well you’ve never liked country music. If you’d rang earlier, I might have played Ed Sheeran. I don’t know.

I can see you fondling with your fingers at the kitchen table. Your hands reach for the album, almost subconsciously as you flip the pages.

“Should I make you coffee perhaps?” I gasp almost breathlessly.

“Don’t mind,” you say.

I had anticipated that type of response. I chuckle. Collins is still the good boy as I knew him. Hasn’t changed a bit.

“That’s a picture of us at prom,” you say removing the photo from its wooden frame.

“Yes, it’s been long.”  I say, not quite sure of what to say.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” you remark, “still petite and pretty”.

I blush.

You smile.

Yes! That smile. It was the same one that had conjured up everything. A smile I was willing to trade my life for, back then. Maybe now too. Am just not sure.

Moving away from the table I make myself coffee. I hold the cup between my hands…Just the way I like it.

“Remember Wangeci?” you ask.

“How could I forget,” I tease. A tiny laugh.

As you stare into oblivion, I realize I have lost you.

Just like I had so many times back then.

“Shoot your shot! Shoot your shot!” His voice was drowned in the noises we made.

All eyes were on you. She stood next to you. Her eyes glowed. You were lost in the moment. She looked a little shaky. Frightened even. Uncomfortable. Or maybe I was just imagining things. I always do. Renowned overthinker. And at that moment, you knelt to propose to her, I couldn’t help but feel a tear drop as my heart crumbled to pieces.

“Will you be my prom date,” you finally asked, the auditorium falling dead silent.

It took her some time. A bit too long rather- I thought. Thirty seconds for a pause.

“No,” she had given her stock reply curtly.

I remembered the jaws of everyone present in the auditorium dropped in sheer disbelief. The Damsel left the scene as gracefully as she had set in. Lofty steps down the podium, her pair of pitch black stiletto heels cracking the pin drop silence with their loud cling clongs. Maybe she didn’t realize the gravity of her actions. Maybe the silence wasn’t eerie enough for her dark side. We had witnessed classical heart shattering first hand.

As the audience dispersed and the stage lights dimmed, all that rang in people’s mind was the terror they had beheld.

“Will you be my date to prom?”

All we could picture was the courageous young man on one knee, with his arms as wide open as his heart for his fond lady. However, all we could hear night-long was the echoing of her resounding answer, “NO!”

And the video played countlessly on people’s WhatsApp statuses, Facebook, twitter and Instagram feeds. And days later, all they spoke about was the guy who’d been rejected. And weeks later all they talked about was the sad tale of unrequited love.

“Hey, I’m sorry,”

I remember starting the conversation. You were seated alone at the gazebo. You were my friend. I had to cheer you up. I can still picture the night. It was a dark night. A lonely night. Even the stars had shied away. We spoke for hours. About what, I can’t remember. But as our laughs pierced the cold midnight air, I felt at home. And every time you laughed, I knew that that was what heaven felt like.

I still remember that night. Our night.

“I should probably leave now,” you say wearing your sporty jacket.

“Already,” I ask, somewhat disappointed.

“I want to catch a bus home this evening,” you say drawing in for a hug.

“Travel safe,” I say in a bid to hide the longing in my voice.

“Promise I’ll stay longer next time,” you say on your way out.

 “Sure,” I mutter.  

Next time. Next time. I softly wished that next time meant tomorrow.

I can’t help but increase the volume of the cassette playing as I cuddle on the sofa. Maybe it would have felt warmer if it were more than just me that night.







I could not take in more of what Father was saying. I regretted even asking him to narrate the story in the first place. He disgusted me. The world could definitely do without people like him. People who realize the vulnerability of the human will and take advantage of the weak. Why did he take an oath of celibacy if he was still going to lust after the flesh? Having a wife for sexual release isn’t a sin. Why were innocent children paying for the damages of the old? Why was the Holy man punishing the little children that were called to Jesus by ordering them to dig their graves as he watched?

“I never meant to hurt them,” he said.

I looked at him dead in the eye. Did he even have a brain behind his blue eyes? Did he ever listen to his words as he spoke?

My response was a heavy blow, strong enough to leave nothing on his face in its place. He picked himself up, blood rushing from his nose into his mouth, shirt and onto the floor. He knelt at my feet, soaking my feet with tears and blood. He begged for mercy from me. He reminded me of a younger version of me. Freshly widowed. Sank deep into sinful living. He reminded me of the John who was at the feet of the statue of Jesus that stood at the corner of Alsike Catholic Church. The John who had survived a heroin overdose and was begging acceptance back into the body of Christ, back into communion.

A tiny thought of mercy crossed my mind. I remembered his teachings on the seven things the Lord hated. What was the list? Feet that rush to evil errands, a lying tongue, hands that shed blood? The Lord would hate me for shedding blood. Ah! Innocent blood! His hands were not the kind to be pardoned. My hatred and anger came back in a stronger surge that it had before. My grip on Mike’s gun got firmer. I wanted to forgive him, but the greater part of me desired to see his soul reunited with his father the Devil. I pointed the gun to his forehead.

“Goodbye Father,” I shut my eyes.


Mike had just gotten back to town from Garissa where he was working a terrorist case. He was an officer from the DCI’s office. We had been best friends since we met. He helped me get back to my feet after Sharon’s demise at child birth. As usual, his first stop was my house to check out on his ‘niece’ Yvonne. Mike was 5’9, a little too thin for his type of work and bald. He wore dark sun glasses all the time and had the sick habit of chewing on matchsticks.

I met Mike after high school, during recruitment for the National Youth Service. From there, he ventured on to studying Criminology at The Great University. I went into business. We stayed in touch, but Mike was always all over the country.

“You haven’t even gained a gram,” I told Mike as he drew in for a bro hug.

“These Garissa people don’t feed people all too well. All we have is something they call Maraq Digaag and Sabaayad. Things were so tight there. The rogue militia vigilantes were always on our necks. I miss having good old Vodka. Actually, I’m meeting up with some informants in an hour down at Marina Club. I’ll leave all my stuff here. I’ll be sleeping in,” Mike said as he dragged in his stuff.  “Are you and Faith still boning?” he teased

“Still? We have never. You keep saying that. Maybe you’re the one who wants to ‘bone’ her. Who the hell even invented that word?”

“I see how you two look at each other,” he chuckled sheepishly, “BONEEERRRSSSS! Hehehee”

“Get lost Dr Love! You’ll catch Yvonne at night. She’s getting her hair done for her confirmation tomorrow in Church.”

Unfortunately, that was the last time I saw Mike alive. The next time he was in a wooden box. Dead. His meeting with the informants was actually a trap set by a nemesis to get back at him for busting their terror attack plan years ago. His death was heavy news to Faith, Yvonne and me- he was basically part of the family. The day before the Police came for his belongings, I decided to check through his stuff. Maybe he had something for all of us hidden as a surprise, and there was. A pink teddy bear addressed to Yvonne.

However, within his clothes, I also found his pistol. The glock was actually heavier than I imagined it to be from the action movies I watched. It was shiny new, maybe never fired before. A black hand-gun.

“This might come in handy one day.” That day was here with us.


Bastille’s eyes were shut in fear. He had come to terms with his fate. My index finger danced daringly above the nylon trigger. My heart began to race. The voice in my head that tells me not to harm was suddenly quiet tonight. The old man began to weep. He looked at me with his eyes soaked in what I could only perceive as crocodile tears. I could not find it within myself to end a man’s life but fury burned in my heart like a consuming fire. I clenched my left fist and hit the man again.

As the old man struggled to pick himself up from the floor, the door to his office burst open. I didn’t even take the time to lock it.

“John! John! Look at me. John please,” I knew that voice. It was very familiar. High pitched as calming. A voice I loved to hear.

“Faith you don’t understand. This man has to pay with his wretched life,” I responded with my eyes fixed on the man that was now spitting droplets of crimson red blood.

Faith moved closer step by step. “You are not a murderer John. The John I know is a reasonable man. He is a caring person. The John I know is a loving man. The John I love forgives,” Faith slid her hand along my outstretched arm. Her palm settled on my right hand that had a firm grip on the gun. Hers were warm soft hands. “Look at me John. Look at me and show me you’re still the John I love.”

For a moment, it felt like a scene from an emotional movie. In theory, I would turn to Faith in tears and lower the gun and breakdown in her arms sobbing uncontrollably, then everyone would live happily ever after. Unfortunately, I was a father who had just learned that his only daughter has been a prey to holy predators. Maybe Faith didn’t understand the gravity of the matter at hand, but I did. I had to do what had to be done. I switched the gun to my left hand.

“Dad! Forgive him.”


It was one thing to avenge heinous acts of sexual predation and a whole entirely different thing demonstrating lack of self-control and forgiveness to the apple of your eye. Yvonne ran into the room and fell into the father’s arms. She was in tears. She looked me in the eye and begged me not to be the monster that I was turning into.

Pulling the trigger that day would only make me as wicked as the man I was judging, for there is no greater sin. The hand that steals and the hand that kills both have sin inscribed on them like names on epitaphs. Forgiveness is perhaps the will of the strongest and Yvonne proved mightier that night. In the Spirit of Forgiveness that night, Bastille decided to resign and work out his relationship with God before proclaiming Him to all nations. I decided to forgive the Father because he was just a man like me, prone to sin and Yvonne forgave all of us, for being bad examples. I would come to learn that forgiveness was not to exonerate the Father but rather, to liberate us, the victims.


Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.

Mark Twain


Reverse Confessions…




“Yes my dear,”

“Before my confession what is it that I should say?” I stammered.

“In the name of the Father…,”he started and I rushed to catch up with him in perhaps the most powerful signing in the world of faith.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

“6 -maybe 7 months. I’m not sure” I answered.

“And have you sinned since then?”

“Of course I have Father,” I shot back. Isn’t everyone a sinner?  “Venial and mortal sins alike. Some of which I can’t even remember definitely because of the lifestyle I’ve been leading.”

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“Oh. Am I not allowed to say that?” I asked, afraid that I had broken protocol and probably I’d have to restart the whole procedure in order to be forgiven.

“No! Not at all my son. Surely, everyone has committed sin. Here you can say anything and everything.” Father Bastille assured me. His deep voice calmed my tense nerves. The screen did an amazing job hiding his face because maybe I wouldn’t have the courage to lay my shameful life bare before a fellow human being.

“I’ve sinned against the Lord by my thoughts, words and habitual actions,” I began. “As His child, I have strayed away from His glorious light slowly but surely, step by step”

For the next twenty six minutes, I spat out every wrong thing that came to mind. The deals I had made at my workplace to get a few favors. The witches I had let into my life. The corrupt government officials I had welcomed to my bed. The drug addicts I shared a spot at the table with. The lies, the stealing, gossip, broken promises, the sexual lusts, the negligence, the despair, the unfaithfulness, the lack of faith, the dishonesty in my tithing and the slowly creeping doubt in the Word of God. I felt a heavy load lifted off my shoulders. I was closer to freedom from that past. That was the old John. The new John had been set free by the truth.

“Dear Lord, I am sorry for these and all the sins of my past life,” I concluded.

I heard Father Bastille clear his throat from the other side of the screen. Had I shocked him beyond words? Did he also blame me for Mike’s death the way I did? Was I beyond help?

He broke the silence, giving me a small list of acts of penance to do.

“Say these words, meaning them with your whole heart.”

So I began. Slowly. Keenly. Physically feeling freer with every new word.

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell. But most of all because I have offended you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen.”

He began again, “In the name of the Father,” and I followed suit. The words of absolution were like solid rocks. I could feel them crushing all my wicked desires into nothingness. Void.

“John, you are forgiven by our God. Give thanks to the Lord for He is good”

“For His mercies endure forever.” I said.

I stood and stepped out of the chambers. The air was fresher. The sun was warmer. I had been forgiven by One whose mercies were renewed each morning.


Unfortunately for the Father today, his fate was entirely in the hands of one whose mercies never renewed. My hatred and spite for the man lying on his desk before me rekindled with every passing minute.

“Father, it’s your confession I’m waiting for. Cut out your tongue? Forgot the words? Huh!?”

“John we don’t have to do this.”

“Say, forgive me John for I have sinned! I have never freaking confessed my whole damn fake life! Say that Father. Say it!”

“John. I’m sorry. We all make mistakes. It was a slip of judgement and before I realized, it was too late to right my wrongs. I’m sorry John.”

“What did you do?”

“One day, after the normal Friday PPI and right before meditation, your daughter came into my office. She sat and introduced herself and told me she wanted help with some trouble she was facing. As I always did, I sat back and listened. She complained of having many sexual dreams with the boys of her class and at that time she was feeling tempted by the devil to engage in fornication. She was not the first case I was handling. I assumed it was just a phase and it would pass. She was just blooming and we expect such behavior at their age.”

“I told her to at least pray the Rosary each day and ask God to deal with those evil temptations. She left and I never heard from her in a month. Till one day… uhmm… until one day…”

“One day what!?”

“I was supposed to be off duty at the Chapel but Father Christophe had not yet arrived, so I filled in for him at the confession booth. While there, your daughter came to confess. She confessed to colluding with one of my altar boys to have sex. I listened carefully and in her penances to do, I asked her to report to my office every Friday for accountability.”

Father Bastille paused, and suddenly tears started gushing from his eyes. For a moment, I was taken aback. He sat up and looked at me dead in the eye. He said, “I did not mean for this to happen. The devil had a grip on me.” I didn’t understand.

“One Friday, Jake, was dusting my office when Yvonne walked in. I had both of them together in my office. I got overwhelmed by curiosity and desire and for a moment, I craved a clear picture of what fornication looked like. After all, they did it in their secret places. So the devil in his cunning way whispered scripture into my ear, ‘All works of darkness should be brought to the light’.”


“Jake and Yvonne, you keep falling back to sin because you commit in darkness. You all know that light cannot mix with darkness. The angels who report sins to God after our confessions cannot attest to acts that were committed in the dark because they couldn’t see them. Jake, lock the door. Today we will have a secret form of confession. It’s a deep secret among priests, and I know I can trust you both to keep it between us. Right guys?” Bastille said this, his heart pumping with unimaginable desire. He could taste lust in his throat. His innocent victims nodded, but a whiff of tension filled the room. It was the Father. He wouldn’t hurt us- or so they tried to believe.

Jake took his shirt off first and unbuckled his belt. Yvonne folded up her skirt and let down her baby pink knickers. She looked nervously at Jake and approached him, trembling like a tremor. All they were asked of, is to pretend nobody else was present. Jake’s hands slid under her school blouse and did their scouting until they finally touched gold. Their eyes locked and suddenly, they were unafraid anymore. They entangled in a tight embrace. Their lips touched, and it was downhill from there. And Jake the innocent Altar boy gave it to Yvonne the only way he knew how; slowly and silently.

The man of the cloth experienced something new, something sweeter than communion wine. Sweetness that could only be likened to the juice of the forbidden fruit.



Shoot your shot! Shoot your shot!

Dedication to the purest souls I know. Happy Birthday…

I remembered the jaws of everyone present in the auditorium dropped in sheer disbelief. Had our ears heard well? Hands of the few were cupped at their mouths. Even the deejay had stopped the music. No. It couldn’t be.

I guess the king of FIFA was equally as heartbroken as everyone that night. He had leapt from his seat at the back of the room that had played a role in hosting the maiden karaoke night. About a minute ago, he was on top of the seat, screaming and shouting at the top of his lungs! “Shoot your shot! Shoot your shot!”

The Damsel in the story left the scene as gracefully as she had set in. Lofty steps down the podium, her pair of pitch black stilleto heels cracking the pindrop silence with their loud cling clongs.

Maybe she didn’t realize the gravity of her actions. Maybe the silence wasn’t eerie enough for her dark side. We had witnessed classic heart shattering first hand. Like a ndrama. Like a vindeo.

As the audience dispersed and the stage lights dimmed, all that rang in people’s mind was the terror they had beheld. “Will you be my date to prom?”

And alas! The very first rejection was experienced by both the high and the low, the great and the small alike. All we could picture was the courageous young man on one knee, with his arms as wide open as his heart for his fond lady. However, all we could hear night-long was the echoing of her resounding answer, ” NO! “.



The sun shall rise and we shall try again!
~Torrie Munuve

Dear anti-feminist (II)

Something I believe in!!! And you should too.

Geekly Stylish

Dear anti-feminist,

I hope you are safe staying at home and helping flatten the curve. Once again I have come to clear a few of your concerns. I hate being redundant but it seems you may not have quite gotten my point. This is not an attack I’m launching on you, but rather a plea for you to give me a listening ear. According to Merriam-Webster[ bonus for including references], feminism is the belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities. These rights may be social, economic or political. It, therefore, extends that a feminist is a woman or a man who believes in the social, political and economic equality of the sexes. However, I am made to believe you do not think this is the case. You think that feminism is a war. You think that feminists are people who just seek to punish men for…

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Let Me Introduce Myself: The Dreamer

All this trust cannot go to waste,” I told myself, counting the crisp notes of 1000 shilling notes, “it’s an asset. My greatest asset.

The bell had just rung and it was games time. Michael, like 8 other classmates of mine had just received that month’s pocket money from his parents. He knew the temptations that came with having such a lump sum literally at his fingertips coupled with a poor spending habit. I was his ‘personal banker’- keeping all his money and dispensing it to him in sizeable bits throughout the month. I loved my job, honestly, but it didn’t pay enough- just an occasional soda or a sandwich on a lucky weekend.

“Once in a while you should treat yourself with all the money you get,” Malcolm suggested that evening as we settled at night in the hostel, just about to call it a day. “Just fake a break-in into your cabinet and tell all the ten guys you keep their money that it is just bad luck. I mean, they know the risks,” he continued, sounding more persuasive with his very bad advice.

As I lied in bed that day, Malcolm’s bad advice kept running through my head, partly because he snored loudly and I could help but be reminded of his existence and partly because he had a valid point. Many guys had trusted me with their money but I gained nothing from that. I had principles, I could not just steal from my friends. In fact, I believed that trust is the glue that held every relationship together. However, if there was a way of helping them save without doing all the free donkey work, I would literally be killing two goons with the same bullet. The night was warm and humid, and sleep was proving evasive. One thought led to another and another and finally, to a grand idea. “I AM A HUMAN BANK!”

Banks are a core industry in the economy. Common knowledge. However, banks had a very limited reach in the secondary education sector, covering only deposits of fees and loans to these institutions. Beyond that, banks couldn’t spread their roots. I could. How had I never thought of such an amazing idea, I mean, Mike always called me a banker.

I knew ideas as good as these disappear with the dreams but I was one step ahead. I had my scrapbook of dreams and ideas, and that night a new entry was made. “The Dream Bank Idea.”

The next day was the day of laying foundations. I used my sketchy business study notes to draw up a plan. I would be a sole proprietor. I needed to market the service, draft policies, keep records, be accountable for the money, security, and most importantly, I needed a way to make money. At the end of the day, I realized that this work needed more than a pair of hands. I had to recruit members. I announced a vacancy and called for interviews. I needed an able partner.

Being a CEO was fun, but deciding on a partner was not. All the applicants talked of bringing trust and customers. However, one man stole my heart. He promised to come up with a solution to security and record keeping. I chose him. Victor. Later the following day, Sarvic Bank was born. Sar- for Saruni and Vic- for Victor.

Over the next two weeks, I realized that algebra was not the only thing that kept my heart happy in school. I equally enjoyed buying people’s trust in exchange for my service. It was the trust tango.

It was not just about the money that came with the idea. It was the saving culture that sold my service. “Let Sarvic help you buy that mobile phone you want in one year, and all it costs, is your trust and cooperation,” I remember telling the President’s Award club members during the financial meeting.

In one month, Sarvic had thirty seven subscribers. We deposited the amount with the School bursar and made 1850 from account opening fees only.  As we grew and expanded the customer base to over 200 at the end of the year, all the interest earned from loan servicing, opening, withdrawal and closure fees, Victor and I were perhaps the ‘Zuckerbergs’ of our school.

“Victor, this is just the beginning, just… Kionjo,” I told Victor as we were closing the books for Holiday. He nodded reassuringly. I loved him for always believing in himself and in our ability. As we parted ways and I looked back on the amazing year it had been from one seized opportunity to tons and tons of satisfied customers and an improved saving culture, I could not help but be grateful to The One who watched over me. I knew greatness awaited. I still know this … and believe it with all my strength.


Man of the Glock!

“Man of the cloak! Meet the man with Glock! You’re going to pay for what you’ve done. You pig! Filthy Pig!”

The hypocrite was sweating profusely. Maybe I didn’t even have to blow his brains out. He’d probably drown in a pool of his own sweat and fake tears. Maybe also urine? Had he shit his robes? I hope he had. Holy robes defiled! That would be nothing compared to the sins he committed. He defiled the institution of God. The same hands that served the Lord served his rod. He took a dump in God’s holy sanctuary- and I wanted to send him straight to Hell where he belonged.

This is not your ordinary movie. No ‘CIA-tie-you-to-a-chair-in-an-underground-torture-chamber’ type of unrealistic shit. This was in the Priest’s office at Alsike Catholic Church. 8.40 p.m. on a cool breezy Thursday 12th April 2012. Father Bastille and I were having a closed door meeting. I was asking the questions. He was answering them. Later, I would come to call this reverse confessions.

“Forgive me John for I have sinned. I have never had a good confession. These are my sins…” he should have started, but he didn’t. Instead, I had to point a Glock 19 at his sweaty arrogant face, and for the next twenty six minutes, fight the urge to pull the trigger and give the church office an interior design makeover with splashes of bright red blood and brains.

“John, I know you are angry, but the Bible says not to let our anger cause us to sin and …”

“Shut the hell up you dog!”

“Please, let’s sit down. Put the gun down and tell me what you want. Please. Please John. Nobody deserves to be treated this way.”

“You’re right. This is not the way to treat a molester. Get on top of the table.”

He stared at me, shock clearly written all over his pale face. “Get on top of the damn table!” For a moment I felt a thrill of being in control. I felt the gun gain weight in my left hand. Streams of rage bubbled within my veins. My chest grew larger. I felt an obligation to punish Bastille. He had to pay, even if not for all his victims, for Yvonne. My sweet Yvonne. Her mother would never forgive me. Sharon. I felt obligated to Sharon. She never gave her life for our child, for this animal to steal her innocence in such a manner. In a fit of anger, I swung my right hand across his table, sweeping away his belongings in a second.


“Daddy I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore,” Yvonne told me amid sobs over the phone.

“Baby, listen to me baby, I’m almost home. Baby I’m coming home, you can tell me everything once I get there. Yvonne baby, listen to me. I love you so much. I’m coming home right now.”

I didn’t hang up. I could hear her sob as I sped through the bypass highway. I had a feeling she wanted to end her life. I could not get home in time and I knew it. I called Faith, she was always there for us. She helped me raise my daughter.

“Faith, please get to Yvonne right now!”


“You don’t have to do this John. You’re a reasonable man.”

Was that why he did it? Was that the reason why, for three months, he was taking advantage of my twelve year old daughter in an unimaginable manner? Was it why each Friday he would have my daughter strip before him and have his altar boys commit treacherous acts to his satisfaction? Was this the reason he would shameless ask my little angel to kiss his rod until he got off? Because I was reasonable? Because I would understand?

All this made me sick.

“Look! Stop! I’ll get on the table. Please, listen to me. Let me tell you what happened please. Forgive me please.”


to be continued


Broken can’t fix broken


You think you are doing fine in acting like some part of your life never happened. You stop listening to the songs that take you back to that time, you stop singing along to the songs you used to sing along to and stop reading the notes that came from that one person that you want to erase from your mind. If anyone ever asked, you would frown and just give an excuse, “I just dislike them” you’d say and close off any farther questions. No one ever bothered to bring up the time you did love them or maybe you also ran away from the people who knew you at that time, the time when you knew happiness for what it was.

Everything is all ok until that one lonely night when your demons are slowly crawling from their crevices, you stumble upon that one song that takes you…

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Mchovya Asali…

Part 3.

“Anne!” I gasped, jumping away from Saatvik’s firm grip on my goodies. How had she gotten to Hall IX and back that fast? My heart was throbbing out of control. Not only was I trembling, but suddenly I felt all my internal organs melt out of their positions.

Anne stood at the doorway, her hands cupped at her mouth in utter bewilderment. She could not believe her eyes.

She looked me in the eye. Her pupils dilated with rage and gently filled up with tears. She clenched her fists in fury. Faster than a blink, she was flying across the room, destination – my face.

I had never been punched in the face before. Actually, never have I ever been punched. However, Anne made her fists acquainted with my nose in a rather bloody way. Part of my face felt numb as I fell to the floor like a log.

Ann got on top me, leg over, and dominated. She showered me with a well balanced rain of slaps and blows. I did not fight back. I was guilty. Wasn’t I? Was I? Was it actually my fault? I mean Saatvik made the first move. Where the hell was he anyway.

As if he read my thoughts, he pulled Anne away from me. “Babe relax.”

“Don’t babe me you dog!” She protested, trying to free herself from his strong arms. She was crying beyond control. “You are a freaking dog. You…you…and this God-damned biiii….” She blasted, veering in my direction again.

“I’m sorry Anne. I’m so sorry. Forgive me…”

She couldn’t hear any of it.

All I could see between my half bloody half teary eyes, was Saatvik taking the side of Anne whereas we were all in this mess because of his seductive approaches. Suddenly, I hated him. I hated them both. Why was she hitting me anyway? So as she approached the second time, the story changed.

My hands locked on her neck. I bit my salty lower lip as I squeezed her neck as hard as I could. I heard her choke her way to unconsciousness. She managed to escape nearly by digging her claws into my hair and pulled. The pain surged through my brain sharply, I let go.

I clenched a fist and threw a hefty blow that met her left ribs. A second and third followed before she let go of my braids. I stood still to see whether she had decided to stop fighting. I was wrong.

She headed for my neck, digging her claws into it. She scratched like a cat, and I loathe these creatures. I kicked her in the leg. She slapped my face. She got hold of my loose dress and pulled it, exposing my lingeries. As I tried to preserve my dignity, she pushed me to the floor and jumped on me in quick succession.

I pushed her over, and gave her a dose of her own medicine. As I pressed my palms heavily against her chubby cheeks, she clutched my dress, again, ripping it at the top. My beautiful sisters lay bare in the open. I had two options, win the battle and lose the war, or surrender and be under the mercies of this Jezebel. I chose the latter.

With my hand over my bare chest I retreated to a corner, embarrassed yet angry. Saatvik tried to ‘console’ me but I wanted nothing to do with him. After all, I knew what that snooping dog was really after. Men are such dogs!

Anne picked herself up and wiped her tears off her face amid sobs. She looked around for her bag and picked it. She was headed for the door but she turned back and faced me.

“How could you?” She asked disappointed. “What did I do to deserve this? What happened to sisterhood? You disgust me. You and this dog of man! And you,” turning to Saatvik who actually seemed really unbothered, “forget about us. Fuck both of you. Fucking snakes!” She blasted, and broke into tears.

Anne stormed out, banging the door behind her so hard.

What had I done? What was wrong with me? How had lust taken the better part of me?

Saatvik had no shame trying to comfort me with an embrace. I was however, too weak and disoriented to shove him away. My emotions were equally as bruised as my face was.

When Anne walked back in for her keys that she had forgotten, she met what could be easily confused for a warm embrace of romance. Her roommate with her hands on her breasts in the arms of her boyfriend.

“I can’t believe it. You are such a slut Julie!”

“No, Anne. Please, it’s not…” I protested.

“No. No. Have him. Have babies with him. Have the whole room even. Have everything!” She said, breaking into a sarcastic smile then laughter. Then left.

“Julie I’m so sorry…” Saatvik tried convincing me.

“Get the hell out! Go away! Get out!” I screamed at him.

Saatvik slowly moved away. I didn’t want to see him ever again. “Julie…”

“Get out or I’ll scream”

He left. I locked the door behind him.

I sat on my bed. My body ached in all different places. My face was sore. My heart was sullen. Maybe I was to blame after all. I had tasted the fruit forbidden- sure was sweet, but I wanted more.


Evening found me backed in a corner of my room, fighting self-blame and thoughts on how life would be from that day. I had resolved to crying but it did a poor job taking the pain away. I wanted to pray but I wasn’t really sure whether prayers from sinners like me reached the footplates of heaven.

Just then, a text came in.

Anne: I will kill you. I’ll certainly kill you bitch!


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Mchovya Asali …

Part 2


“Well, I have to leave Julie. It’s been a pleasure getting to know each other well.” I was still lost in his wide eyes. He leaned in for a hug. Why not? I stood up and got engulfed within his wide chest and masculine arms. I could feel the air under my breath getting warmer by the moment. My body felt different. I could feel the weight on my chest and the pace of my pulse increase. He slid his hands to the sides of my stomach and let them rest on my waist. A tingling sensation ran down my spine so sharply that a small groan escaped my lips.

Still in his arms, our eyes locked. I felt embarrassed and excited at the same time. What is this feeling? That very moment, all I wanted was to make a bad decision.

I shifted my attention to his pink lips. They drew closer. He had very warm fresh breath. Was this really happening? This felt like one of the dreams that kept me in between blankets even past my alarm time. I enjoyed this feeling. There was no other place I would rather be than there, at that moment. Nyashinski’s Malaika in the background of the awfully silent room was like butter on toast.

His nose touched mine. I shut my eyes to enjoy this moment of bliss. I had lost all conscience. His grip on my waist got firm. He pulled my body towards his. I could feel his rod against my waist and thighs. A wave of heat moved up my body and caused me to press hard against him.

I felt his top lip touch mine. I let him kiss my lips. It felt like heaven. I felt shock waves all over my body. The itch in my armpit was nothing compared to the impulse of tingling sensations that were doing rounds all over my body. I dug my claws into his back, clutching onto his sweatshirt.

These five seconds of forbidden passion were ruthlessly interrupted by loud footsteps outside my door. For a moment, I imagined Ann walking in on us. I was so frightened. I suddenly pulled myself away from him. I got back to my senses. What was I doing?🙊

Prince Charming’s face was riddled by bewilderment. I really felt embarrassed. I dug my face into my palms. I was so stupid. There was no one outside the door. I couldn’t look at him straight in the eye. Even though I was regretting my actions, every inch of me wanted to get back on him.

He cleared his throat, breaking the pin-drop awkward silence. “I’m sorry,” he started, “I didn’t mean to. I got carried away…”

“No, I’m sorry”

“I guess, I have to leave now. Thank you for hosting me.”

As he was leaving the room, he turned back and smiled, “It’s Saatvik. Not Steve. That’s Ann’s way of pronouncing it.”


Ann never got to know about that. I wouldn’t dare tell her. Life was getting uncomfortable watching both of them enjoy themselves. I couldn’t stand that sight. Was I getting jealous? I envied Ann. All I could think of was Saatvik. His name ironically means pious. He didn’t seem to have any reverence for his deity. A sinner he was, like all of us.

I had resolved to let bygones be bygones. “School has more guys than this Steve guy. I’m pretty and I can find true love. Who needs a man anyway? I had been fine on my own.” These and many other thoughts just highlighted how much of a clown I had become.


A week flew by so fast and it was another Friday. In my usual Friday afternoon attire of snoosey loosey. (Now hold up😂 don’t google that. I made it up.) A crazy sense of deja vu struck when the door was knocked. However, this time, before I could get to the door, a key rolled in the keyhole and the door flung open. It was Saatvik 😏 but with Ann😒😣.

The duo was packing to go home for the weekends. I sat silently, listening to their weekend plans that ranged between getting totally high and totally wasted. I occasionally stole a glance from Steve who would give off a smirk that would send me blushing quietly like a fool. He had some charm. Some charisma.

Ann realized she didn’t have her phone charger. She had left it at Joy’s room in hall IX. “Babe, lemme rush for my charger at Joy’s. Won’t be long. Both of y’all don’t misbehave alright?” She giggled, passing it off like a joke. Had she known the secrets the walls of our room held within themselves, she wouldn’t have dared.

I stared hard at my phone. My anxiety was getting out of hand. I saw him stand from the corner of my eye and slowly move towards me. I could smell him from where I had sat. On my bed. He sat beside me, slowly, smoothly.

I couldn’t ignore him any longer. He placed his left hand on my thigh and gently caressed it. His right hand snatched my phone from my hands. Even though I pretended to be unbothered by this, I wished that he could throw me against the wall and hump the life out of my body. Just saying.

“How have you been, since the last time?”

Lonely. Sad. Definitely jealous. Currently as horny as Delilah herself.😂😂😂 But I couldn’t answer. I didn’t answer.

He placed his hand on my cheek and turned my face towards him. My eyes met his gleaming eyes. This triggered my heart’s pace. I was completely under his will and I think he knew.

He stood up and went to the door. He shut it tight. I was staring at my thighs, blankly. He reached out for my hand and pulled me to stand.

“Ann is going to find us…” He placed his index finger on my lips. “Sshh.”

I was barely a centimeter from him, turned on like stadium floodlights in a night game. His palms slid behind my ass and held them like the fine pair that they were. I felt a pull towards his shlong. My hand ran through his silky hair to the back of his neck. He squeezed me gently. I loved this. I loved all of this. I took a deep breath and broke into an uncontrollable whine.

He leaned in for a kiss. On my neck. Bliss. He whispered into my ear, “I know you want this as bad as I do.”

I honestly did.

There and then, the door creaked open.


…to be continued