A Prostitute and An Ailing Heart (FICTION)

 

Image source: Wikimedia Commons

A Prostitute and An Ailing Heart 

Today I didn’t shed a tear. But I’m not sure whether my heart hurts lesser than it did a week ago when I sent her a text message saying I wasn’t going to let another man fuck my girlfriend. That I’d rather be the first to leave. Her exact words as I stormed out into the cold Kakamega night still ring on my mind:

“I don’t get it why you are so mad.’’ She shouted, “You snatched me from Frank!”

I only realize have covered the 4-kilometer stretch to town when I approach Tuskys. It's about half-past 11.

On normal nights, police roam this town and pick up any pedestrian for a free sleeping place in their stinky, cold cells, and offer free breakfast to their guests. One slice of bread and a tiny cup of brown, sugarless, lukewarm water that some people call tea. Before they let you walk free at 8 am. Kakamega police don't pin fake "evidence" on people, fortunately. At least it has never happened to me.

This night, however, I meet no police. I walk in the middle of the road. A drunk bodaboda guy, after swerving skillfully to avoid knocking me, insults my mother.

The gig I had landed last Saturday, thankfully, did me well. Two thousand shillings in the pockets and another 17 thousand in the bank isn’t a small achievement. At least not for a man who survives on singing in local weddings and harambees.

I still needed somewhere to sleep. I decide to walk to Club Tingiza. There, I will ask Carol, the counter lady, to let me sleep on the leather couch once the patrons had vacated. So I make a right turn and take the long route around Muliro Gardens.

Although the town is fairly lit and a few drunk people roam about, the silence behind Muliro Gardens at night is always kind of scary. The junction between Cooperative Bank and Ambwere Plaza is where I am supposed to get a bodaboda to Tingiza.

“Boss. Boss!” A feminine voice calls after me just as I am a few steps from approaching the bodabodas.

I know who she is. A prostitute. One among the 30 or so lined up along the street. The majority have their behinds facing the road. Some are concentrating on their phones. The dim lights from the gadgets give hints of their facial outlines. Some chatting with their colleagues. Others bargain with their male customers. This one is calling out to passersby like me.

I reduce my pace and stop when I see her tap-tapping towards me. I use this chance to study her. She is rather plump but altogether desirable. Her short, tight skirt covers just down to the curves where the buttocks end and the chocolate hips begin. The bra has done a wonderful job squeezing those fleshy tits into tight balls and pushing them up. They give me an instant boner.

“Hi”

“Hi”, I respond, feigning a lack of interest.

“Wife will be asleep before you get home. Look. For two hundred, I will give you a shot. And I let you clean up in my shower before you head home.”

“What if I want to spend the whole night? How much?”

“Five hundred for room and one thousand for me. But if you buy me, Smirnoff, I let you pay 500”

“What if I take you home with me?”

“I don’t do home service.” Curt reply.

We spend the night at her lodging. Her name is Sylvia, a very talkative lady who doesn’t know how to shut up after a lousy bed ride. She croaks into the middle of the night about her soldier ex-husband who kicked her out of their house, about men who cum even before their shafts reach the honeypot. About men who take more than 30 minutes to ejaculate and waste her profits. About her hate for babies, police, handjobs, her job, etcetera.

For me, fucking Sylvia is a way of getting back at Alice. I laugh at her jokes just to cheat myself that I was having fun. I pretend to be listening to her stories. She doesn't seem to care that I am not saying much. At last I fall asleep.

When I open my eyes at around 5:30 AM, Sylvia is sitting on the bed with her back leaning against the metallic headboard. She has removed her wig. She is not beautiful. I doubt if she had slept at all.

A text message from Alice had came through while I was asleep. “Kam pic up ur things moro evening.” It reads.

I toss the phone aside and ordered Sylvia to remove her pants. She yields.