Life of a Bullet



Michael: Sunday. 6:03 a.m.

What wakes Michael up is a blowjob. Not the sound of birds chirping through his bedroom window. Not the distant sound of hooting cars as they speed along the nearby highway. In the next room, his three children bicker and fight and laugh and say, “I’ll tell mama.” That isn’t what wakes him up either.

A blowjob does the trick.

The soft touch of his wife’s lips on his penis. That warmth as she takes him whole in her mouth; it is like a warm but moist blanket, clothing him in comfort and prompting him to wiggle his toes with welcome pleasure.

Martha: (Sotto Voce) You like that?

Michael: (Still half asleep) What do you think?

It is mornings like this that he remembers why he is still married. Mornings like this when his penis rises up before he can. He makes a conscious decision to wake up completely because he is afraid of disappointing her.

Before he knows; before he can even fight off the last webs of his morning sleep, Martha pushes the bedding away and climbs on him. She sits astride his waist, holds his somewhat hard but not all that hard penis and tries to direct it inside her. It is not an easy task.

Martha: (A little frustrated) Come on Michael. You are not even hard.

Michael: (He knows he is not hard, but he plays dumb) Are you sure? I feel pretty hard.

Martha: You haven’t even opened your eyes yet. Don’t you want to do this?

He opens his eyes wider and smiles at her. He is hoping that she doesn’t notice that his smile doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. He doesn’t want to kill her with just how plastic it is. He forces his palms to clasp over her breasts and allows his fingers to caress her long nipples. His eyes wander to her inner thighs hoping that those warm, strong, thick, fleshy and light skinned pillars leading up to her genitals will harden him a little more.

His hands work their way up to the back of her neck and he pulls her closer to his lips. Her lips are always moist and warm. He wonders how that’s possible. He has been married to her for seventeen years and he has never once found her lips dry. They are always warm. And moist.

Her tongue finds its way into his mouth and he feels her nipples caressing his bare chest. His hands fly past her back to her ass which he squeezes and moans as she presses her genitals against his. Now he is hard. Now he is properly incentivized.

Her hard nipples pressing against his chest. Her warm, fleshy thighs astride his waist. Her moist vagina laying in wait for his soldier to rise up and march majestically inside her. Her tongue lashing inside his mouth like a fiery whip. Lashing out all sleep and hardening him like a rock. He is her rock.

Her warm palms clasp his hard penis and this time, it is easy for her to put him inside her. And it is easy for him to slide in like he owns the joint. He smiles at this thought. Sliding in like he owns the joint. He reminds himself that though he married her and together they made three children, he never owned her. He always reminded himself that they were partners. And goddamn! She knows just how to work him right. She sits upright and makes circular motions with her waist as she tightens her vaginal muscles, prompting a low groan from him. He is like a wounded animal.

Martha: You like that baby?

Michael: You know I do.

Martha: You like it when I belly dance for you?

Michael: I love it especially when you fuck me as you belly dance for me.

After a while, her movements become slow and controlled and he takes that opportunity to pull her away from him and pin her down on the bed. There is a look of playful mystery in her eyes. She knows what’s coming. She is expecting it. She wants it. She needs it. She demands it.

So when his both hands pin her by both wrists on the bed, when his strong thighs part hers exposing her vagina to his erect soldier and when his eyes devour her whole; she releases an involuntary moan. And when he takes her, it is with strong strokes like he knows exactly what they both want, and how they want it.

He is not fast. Her eyes are in his. She does that when he tries to assert control. She makes sure that she maintains eye contact. Like she is saying, “You can ram me as hard as you want, but you can’t really control me. You can’t really have me.”

She likes how challenged that makes him feel. And how hard he tries to convince her that he is in control. So he rams himself balls deep inside her and another moan escapes her lips. And another. And another.

Martha: Oh baby, you’re like an animal.

Michael: Isn’t that how you like it?

Martha: Just fuck me! (Her lower lip goes into her mouth, one of her hands clasps her breast and squeezes her nipple and the other grabs his ass and pushes him dipper inside her) Oh yeah. Faster baby! Faster! (Now both her hands are on her breasts, squeezing the hell out of those nipples and trying to get them into her mouth. She is growing wild.) Fuck me! Just fuck me!

He pulls out and turns her around. She chuckles naughtily as she gets on her knees and elbows and thrusts her vagina against his penis as he kneels behind her. He takes a moment to notice the wet cream on his dick and on the walls of her pussy; his penis spasms as it gets a notch harder; then he directs himself inside her and grabs her waist.

He moans deeply like a wounded carnivore and looks up at the ceiling. It is warm inside her. Really warm. And really tight. He feels like he is getting a warm, moist and firm hug from smiling female angels. He spanks her hard and her fingernails dig into a nearby pillow. Her light skinned ass is getting pink. He spanks her again and she squeals delightfully.

Pretty soon, there are these slapping sounds as he works her hard from behind and she buries her face into the pillow to avoid attracting the children’s attention with her moaning. He leans over so that he can tease her clitoris as he takes her from behind and also so he can play around with her nipples.

He can feel her muscles tightening. She is losing control. She is losing the game. She is letting go. Finally letting him be the king. He increases the power and speed of his thrusts. Her thighs are shaking. She is sinking deeper and deeper into the bed.

Martha: (With a loud hoarse voice that streams desperately and in a guttural fashion from her throat) I’m cumming!

She tightens up and freezes helplessly as an electric wave of pleasure takes her over followed by another and another. And another. That’s what he wanted. For her to give up control and surrender herself to him. She collapses weakly on her tummy chuckling like a schoolgirl and he collapses on top of her panting.

Martha: That was un-fucking-believable.

Michael: What? You waking me up with a blowjob?

Martha: That. And also how hard you make me cum. It’s almost embarrassing. Especially because I know it always takes you hours to cum.

Michael: (Rolling off her and lying beside her facing the ceiling) Don’t worry about me. It is your pleasure that gives me pleasure.

Martha: Bullshit. I could go down on you but your dick is all creamy and shit.

Michael: Just say creamy without adding “and shit.”

Martha: (Another chuckle) You are an idiot. (She turns and faces him; places her knee on his lap and strokes his still hard penis) We could go another round but my pussy is getting kind of sore.

Michael: From last night?

Martha: From the last seventeen years of being married to you. You’re like a human Viagra.

Michael: Should I take a bow?

Martha: Haha. You can let it go to your head. Tell you what baby; why don’t we meet here tonight and I’ll let you fuck my pussy sore again, huh? Heck, you can even get it swelling, I don’t care. I’ll just stay indoors and complain every time I have to go take a piss.

Michael: (As he sits up) Be careful what you wish for darling.

He rolls out of bed and Martha watches him with a playful smile on her face. At thirty-eight, he still has a hard tummy; a shadow reminder of the six-pack he had when he was still a youth as defined by law. He winks at her and she winks back.

One hour later, he leaves the house dressed in t-shirt and jeans and sneakers and bids his wife goodbye for the day. The kids are still in their room bickering, fighting, laughing and saying, “I’ll tell mommy.”

Holstered cautiously at his waist is his Service weapon. A Government Issue 9mm 1911 single-action, semi-automatic Colt pistol.



Stephen. 6:23 a.m.

Stephen sneaks into Cynthia’s room, just to check up on her. See if she slept OK. He does that a lot especially when sleep evades him at night. He opens her bedroom door a crack and peeps his head inside. His daughter seems comfortably covered up in bed.

He smiles at nobody in particular, opens the door a crack wider and slowly ushers himself in the room. He then turns his back towards the sleeping girl to close the door and when he turns back around, he is visibly startled to see her seated up in bed staring at him.

Stephen: (Starts) Shoot! (Takes a deep breath) You startled me.

Cynthia: (Brightly) That was the idea. Was wondering when you would come checking up on me today. Came to see if I died last night?

Stephen: (As he walks slowly towards the bed) What? Nope. I came to say hello to you. Like I do every morning.

Cynthia, Stephen’s thirteen years old daughter and only child, has Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML). That means that the disease has reduced her into a bony little bundle that elicits sympathy from anyone who spots her. He sits next to her in bed.

Stephen: It’s Sunday. What do you want to do today?

Cynthia: I don’t know dad. Just lie in bed and feel sorry for myself.

Stephen: Now why would you want to do that? You won’t be sick forever. The doctors are….

Cynthia: The doctors are saying many things. But I have been sick since I was four years old. I can’t even remember a time when I didn’t have Leukemia.

Stephen: (Reassuring) It’ll go away.

Cynthia: Who are you trying to convince? Me or you? Is mom awake?

Stephen: Not yet. Or she would be in here with bucket loads of meds for you.

Cynthia: Let’s do something fun today. Just you and me.

Stephen: That’s what I had in mind when I walked in. But your mama will be furious.

Cynthia: She’ll be OK. She always gets mad, but she always turns out OK.

Stephen: Alright. Then I should probably change into something more “outdoors-ish”.

Cynthia: (With a mischievous glint in her eyes) What? No! You look great in your vest and shorts. Besides, if you go back to your bedroom you risk waking mommy up; and then she’ll remand us both in the house. Who wants to spend such a bright Sunday indoors?

And so twenty minutes down the line finds the thirty five year old Stephen and his thirteen years old daughter heading down Thika Road from Zimmermann towards Nairobi City. The radio is on with the volume cranked up and the father and daughter and singing their lungs out like;

Stephen and Cynthia: (Singing Dolly Parton’s “Think About Love”) I can’t forget you, ever since the moment that I met you. You’ve been on my mind and I need to, somehow let you know that I think about you all the time. So when you think about love, think about me. I can give you more than you’ll ever need; sooner or later every heart needs some company. When you think about love, think about me. When you think about love, think about me.

At some point, Cynthia’s voice trails off as she stares blankly out the window. Her father notices the ubiquitous sense of sadness engulfing her face and entire body and turns down the volume.

Stephen: Everything OK Cynthia?

Cynthia: Yeah dad. Everything’s fine.

Stephen: (Turns his eyes on the road for a second, hits the breaks as he drives over some irritating speed-bumps on the highway, then turns to look at his daughter again) Hey, do you know why you’re my most favorite person in the world?

Cynthia: Because we sneak out of the house on a Sunday morning in pursuit of cheap thrills and leave mom all alone?

Stephen: Well, there is that. But there is also the part where you’re the strongest and bravest person I know. You never keep your heart from me.

Cynthia: It’s just (Pauses) I don’t know dad. (Her voice trails off again as she lets her eyes gaze on the various buildings along the highway) Hey, can you slow down a bit? I want to take in the view.

Stephen: What view?

Cynthia: The buildings, dad. The trees. The scantily dressed women just going home now from a night of clubbing. All the normalcy. I want to get as much of it as I can.

Stephen: The normalcy? What’s so intriguing about it?

Cynthia: Well, I don’t know. I was reading this book and the argument was that somewhere down the line, life flat-lines after you discover the purpose for which you were born. I know it’s some heavy crap but, it makes sense. I guess I’m just a little sad that I will never get to have a normal life, you know? A life that doesn’t involve medicine and chemotherapy and sympathy from strangers…

Stephen: What do you mean? You will have a long life. And I will be right there with you as you enjoy every second of it. I promise.

Cynthia: (Sympathetically like she pities her father for making a promise he can’t keep) That’s a lie dad. I am going to die. I know it. You know it. The doctors know it.

Stephen: No! You’re not going to die! Your mom is doing everything she can to make sure that you live…

Cynthia: (Shrieking and gesticulating passionately) We don’t have the money! We don’t have the fucking money dad so stop lying to me!

Stephen: I will get the money, alright? I swear I will get you all the money in the world! (He pulls the car over furiously to the side of the highway attracting a loud hoot from an oncoming car which has to swerve violently out of the way to avoid hitting them. Stephen pulls down his window, puts his head out of the car and yells at that driver) Fuck you! (Then he turns to his daughter and continues desperately) You can’t give up! So many kids get Leukemia and they heal and they go on with their lives and their fathers… their fathers get to walk them down the aisle. I swear to God I will get you all the money…

Cynthia yanks her door open and shoots out of the car as her father calls after her, “What are you doing?! Where are you going?” And he cusses “Goddamn it!” as he turns the engine off, steps out and runs after his daughter. She is running in tiny but quick steps away from him and early church goers stop to witness this spectacle.

Stephen: (Catches up with her, grabs her by the shoulder and turns her around) Stop! Stop running! Where are you going?

She turns around panting furiously, and then her face contorts in a painful grimace as she bends over and vomits violently all over the kerb. Stephen rubs her back gently as she vomits and growls at the bystanders;

Stephen: Seeing anything you like you idlers? Go on; get the hell out of here! (Waving them off with his free hand) Go away!

Once she is done puking, he hands her a handkerchief with which to wipe her lips clean.

Stephen: What was that Cynthia?

Cynthia: I just can’t sit there and listen as you lie to me.

Stephen: I wasn’t lying.

Cynthia: Where are you going to get the money? Are you going to rob drug dealers? Extort criminals? Take bribes? Because the salary you get isn’t enough to pay for my medical bills. And we have already exhausted my health insurance. (Spreads her hands out desperately) You’re broke. Mom is broke. And even Uncle Michael is broke too. You have all done everything you can do for me. Just face it. There is nothing left for me to do now except die.

Stephen: Oh don’t be dramatic.

Cynthia: Then don’t lie to me. Just let me sit in the car and wallow in self pity, alright? Please?

And so they get back to the car and Stephen drives slowly at 60 km/h in the light Sunday morning traffic as she sits in the co-driver’s sit staring at the normalcy going on outside and listening to the Dolly Parton song on repeat.

Cynthia: (With a distant voice) This song makes me so sad. I know it is supposed to make one feel something else. Something good. Something warm. Romantic even. But I can’t even know what “romance” means. I know the dictionary meaning. I have seen it in movies. Heard it in music. Seen it in couples in hospitals when I go for chemotherapy, but I will never feel it. I will never know what I really feels like to fall in love. Like that line in this Dolly Parton song; “Sooner or later every heart needs company”, I will never know what it feels like to need somebody else like that. (Turns to her father with tears welling in her eyes) Daddy, I will never be old enough to meet somebody. And right now I am too busy trying not to die to fall in love. And cancer wards aren’t the ideal places to meet a guy. And I mean, look at me. I am skinny and sick and I vomit all the time and sometimes there is blood in my urine because my kidneys are all fucked up! (Spreads her palms out as if to ask “why”) Who the hell’s going to be stupid enough to love me? Do you feel Dolly Parton’s vulnerability as she sings those words? So when you think about love, think about me. I can give you more than you’ll ever need; sooner or later every heart needs some company. I will never know what that means. I will never feel such vulnerability towards somebody. I will never feel so vulnerable with anyone in this world enough to tell them, “When you think about love, think about.” And it is simply because I never had the opportunity to fall in love. It is not like I had a chance and blew it. (Her voice slows down to depict sincere belief) It’s only that God saw it fit to create me sick.

Stephen: Come on Cynthia, it is just a song.

Cynthia: Is it though? Is it really just a song? When you are terminally ill like me, when you live each day knowing that you will not see your sixteenth birthday, then you spend every waking moment trying to understand what this whole “life” thing is all about. And since you spend most of your life indoors, trapped inside the house or the hospital ward, you grab every opportunity to read everything in books and magazines and on the internet about what life might be. You read about love, about family, about laughter and knowing what to care about and what not to care about. You read the Bible in pursuit of meaning and the most painful thing is beginning to understand it all and knowing that you will never ever feel it. That you will never really really live.

Stephen: That thing you were talking about? Vulnerability? I take it that you are telling me all these because you trust me with your life. What’s more vulnerable than that? What’s love if not that?

The tears that had earlier on welled in her eyes have by now trickled down her cheeks staining her face; but she now brightens as she smiles subtly at her father.

Cynthia: I am just a bony little girl, filled with disease in every bone of her body. I don’t even have a strand of hair left on my head. I vomit every day and I feel like I am eighty because I am always fatigued. Why would you love someone whose whole essence is so broken?

Stephen: Same reason why you sit there and expose your entire soul to me. We are each other’s everything. (As he presses a button on the radio to listen to another song) And we are done listening to Dolly Parton today. Won’t have you getting all gloomy on me this very bright morning.

Next song on the playlist is Sage ft Octopizzo’s “So Alive” and Stephen is about to hit “next” again on the playlist streaming through the car radio from his flash-drive when she goes like;

Cynthia: What’re you doing?

Stephen: What do you mean?

Cynthia: Get your hands off that button. I love that song. Matter of fact, pull over. We’re karaokeing the hell out of that song right here on the highway. Believe that.

He smiles thinking she’s kidding but the serious look on her face dictates that she isn’t.

Stephen: But it is on the highway. Wait till we get to town at least.

Cynthia: Come on pops. Don’t be an old man. Take the next exit then pull over at that petrol station in Pangani.

Which is what he does and three minutes later, his old and beat Honda CRV is parked right beside the highway at the petrol station and Cynthia is seated at bonnet singing her heart out with an imaginary microphone in her hands;

Cynthia: (Singing along to the loud music streaming into the street from car stereo) I dream of a sky where the lights never die down. I’m awake in my sleep and I’m falling to the ground. I want the answers to the question of the reactions; whether it makes sense or the path is fatal attraction. Is it the whiteness of the crowd or the steam in my mirror? Is it the broken hour-glass could it be more clearer?

She jumps off the bonnet signifying that she’s hitting her version of the crescendo, grabs her imaginary microphone and bends over performing heartily and getting her voice to emanate straight from her belly as she hits the chorus powerfully;

Cynthia: Coz I feel so aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive, no one can stop me even if they triiiiiiiiiieeeed, coz I’ve been trying much too long, you can beat me down I’ll stay strong, coz I feel so aliiiiiiive, beat me down I’ll stay strong!

She stands upright now, grabs her father’s hand as she dances around him and glees at him, “Come on daddy; dance with me!”

Clumsily, he joins her as another small group of bystanders gather around to watch this morning display. When the second stanza commences, she fixes her eyes on her father’s as if challenging him nonverbally to jump in anytime he feels like.

Cynthia: (Singing as if she is all alone in the world) Through the rain and the hail and the fire, through whatever they bring till I get my desire. Is it the whisper of an angel or the pounding of my heartbeat? Is it the playing of a record where the drumming and the base meet?

And when the chorus is about to commence again, she winks at Stephen, “Come on old man; sing with me! I know you want to!” She sees his eyes wander to the gathering crowd that’s wondering who these crazy people are. This middle aged dude in a vest, flip flops and a pair of shorts and this skinny and bald girl who sings like she’ll die tomorrow. He understands why they might be wondering that but his thoughts are interrupted by Cynthia’s soft touch on his chin as she says, “Don’t mind them. Just live a little.”

And in a “Fuck it” moment, Stephen throws caution to the air, grabs his own imaginary Mike and gets to work;

Stephen and Cynthia: Coz I feel so aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive, no one can stop me even if they triiiiiiiiiieeeed, coz I’ve been trying much too long, you can beat me down I’ll stay strong, coz I feel so aliiiiiiive, beat me down I’ll stay strong!

Stephen: (Rapping {mostly lip synching} Octopizzo’s bit) Eh! Walinidharaaaaaaau (Smiles back at Cynthia who’s entire body language screams, “I’m so happy right now” and raps on because he doesn’t want this happiness to ever dissipate) Lakini huskii saa hii mtu wangu kuna vile nimekafunga ka’a Ramadhan; huwezi nisahaaaaaaau. Juu nikiingia kwa booth, mi ni Yule boy hukick hizo masnare design ya Jackie Chan so ata mnikate mguu (Ei) hamwezi nidefeat (ei). Finya backspace kwa comp hamwezi nidelete (ei). Kuja na Pinyes still hamwezi kunibeat; na izo wealth zote mko nazo hamwezi kunireach.

(Translation according to my understanding which really isn’t anything to write home about: They looked down on me, but I have scaled so high that you can’t forget about me. Coz when I hit the booth I’m that guy who kicks the snares like Jackie Chan. Chop my legs off, you still can’t beat me. Hit backspace on your computer, you can’t delete me. Bring ‘Pinyes’, you still can’t beat me; and even with all your wealth, you still can’t reach my level.)

Cynthia: (Joins in because this part applies to her. She lip synchs as she waves her bony hands about like a little rapper) Wanadai mi’ ni m’skinny I need to gain some weight (Freezes and puts a “whhaaaaaaaat” expression on her face and spreads her palms out) Wait.

(They claim that I’m skinny and I need to gain some weight. Wait.)

Stephen: Mi’ ni maskini my pocket needs to gain some weight. Coz raha wanabonda. After raha wanahara wanakonda; ka’a ng’onda. Mi’ ni hustling daily; kukula smart nimake sure nimenona, kuliko anaconda. Siku hizi wakiniona ni sura wakakuanga wamebonda. ‘Izo mipaka tunazivuka bila bada bada!

(I’m just poor and my pocket needs to gain some weight. They have fun, after which they diarrhea and thin themselves out like serpents. I hustle on the daily, eat smart to ensure I get fatter than an anaconda. Now when they see me, they just frown. Coz I cross ‘em boarders with no worries at all.)

Cynthia: (Does her enthusiastic performance again; this time raising her voice to the highest notes she can hit; and though she ain’t Sage, she puts heart to it) Coz I feel so aliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive, no one can stop me even if they triiiiiiiiiieeeed, coz I’ve been trying much too long, you can beat me down I’ll stay strong, coz I feel so aliiiiiiive, beat me down I’ll stay strong!

Cynthia: (Loudly from the bottom of her heart) Fuck leukemia!

Stephen: Mind your language!

Cynthia: Not right now old man! I feel so alive! I’m so happy right now! (She bursts out laughing and disappears inside her father’s chest in a hug.) I feel so happy.

Stephen: Had this been a movie, this lovely scene between father and daughter would have been cut at this point and the movie would have gone on to another scene. But now we have to ask ourselves; now that we have embarrassed ourselves so much, what next?

Cynthia: (Heading back into the car) I hear IMAX is cheap this early in the morning. And I hear the 2nd Volume of the Guardians of the Galaxy movie is pretty awesome. What say you we hit the movies?

Stephen: I didn’t bring my wallet.

Cynthia: (Opens the door, ushers herself in and bangs her door shut) You always have some money in your M-Pesa.

Stephen: (Ushering himself behind the wheel and starting the engine) And you always know what to say when it comes to my money, don’t you?

Cynthia: We can swing by Cold Stone for an ice-cream too.

Stephen: (Giving up as he drives out of the petrol, into the highway and off towards the city) Yeah. Sure. Why not? Feel like pizza too? We can swing by Pizza Inn and grab a giant one to feed the entire city. Oh, here’s another one. Why don’t we go to Uhuru Park on a boat ride, then after we’re done, we could just buy the boats and take them home with us. Anything to render bankrupt.

Cynthia: I love you too old man.

Stephen: Then buckle the hell up.

Cynthia: You too!

Michael: 11:01 am

He knocks at the door to this apartment in Parklands and waits. But not for long. He never has to wait long before the door can swing open exposing Sally; a twenty nine years old lady with the brightest smile he has ever seen.

She is in a man’s shirt when she answers the door and there is no evidence of her being in anything else. Not that that’s necessary seeing as how the shirt covers her thighs sufficiently even though it is not completely buttoned up. It fails to cover up her cleavage. A cleavage that appears to push the point home that she has one of those succulent pair of breasts that appear to salute majestically at everyone who notices them.

She is currently holding a bowl of half eaten strawberry ice-cream which she appears to be enjoying immensely.

Sally: (She leans against the door frame, sucks her lower lip and smiles at him swaying from side to side like a little girl) Hello Mike.

Michael: Hello Sally.

Sally: (Takes another scoop of her ice-cream using a tiny plastic spoon) Care for some ice-cream?

Michael: Maybe after you invite me in.

Sally: Invite you in? What’re you, like a vampire? I have to invite you in? (She is shorter than he is and a little slim without being skinny. So now she moves closer to him and it looks like she is looking up at him from under his chin. Her eyebrows are raised with girlish “You can’t see through me” challenge)

Michael: I’d invite myself in but you’re in my way.

Sally: Then do something about it.

She shrieks as he grabs her by both thighs, hurls her over his shoulder and carries her into the living room, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel.

Sally: (Laughing) You’re going to make me drop my ice-cream.

Michael: That’s what you get for playing with me. (He spanks her and she shrieks a little more) Bad girl. (He dumps her gently on the couch and follows her down there with petite kisses on her lips and neck.) I could ask if you missed me but I hate asking questions whose answers I already know.

Sally: Have a high opinion of yourself, do you? (Passing him the bowl of ice-cream) Place this on the table for me baby? (He takes the bow and places it on the glass table next to the couch) Now come here you. Bring those lips to mommy.

She kisses him tenderly and he reciprocates with a little trouble because now is when he is trying to kick off his shoes. So he is multitasking and apparently, he isn’t so good at it.

Sally: You’re kissing me as if you’re trying to hold in your fart or something. What’s wrong?

Michael: Where do you get these things girl? I was just trying to kick my shoes off too.

Sally: (Pushing him away) Well, the moment is gone. Get off me.

Michael: Really?

Sally: Yeah. I’m going to the kitchen to fix an omelette. Feel like having some?

Michael: (Head in hands like one in mourning.) Ah fuck. Fucking shoes.

She gets off the couch and stands in front of him. He leans back and watches her because there is this look in her eyes that seem to spell, ‘trouble’. Slowly, her left leg leaves the ground and steps on the edge of the glass table and his eyes roam to her smooth legs ___ up and up they go ___ up to her fleshy thighs. They look like majestic pillars. Pillars made of chocolate colored silk. Like a chocolate covered boulevard leading up to her recently shaved vagina.

She has no panties on and her lips are curved in a way that reminds him of a smile.

Michael: (Short of breath) Goddamn!

Sally: (With one index finger at the tip of her tongue. Her eyes are on his. The wet finger makes its way down to her chest, pulls the halfway unbuttoned shirt to one side and plays around her nipple slowly) How about that omelette love?

Michael makes as if to stand up but she rests her leg on his shoulder, pushing him back down gently. Her pussy is in full view now and she is looking at him like, “What are you going to do about it?” He makes as if to touch her leg but she slaps his hand away.

Sally: I’m like a stripper. You can look, but you can’t touch.

Then slowly, she unbuttons her shirt all the way down and lets it lie carelessly on her shoulders as she plays with her boobs with both hands. Then she caresses her flat tummy and her finger makes its way down to her clitoris but she doesn’t touch it. Instead, she plays with the lips around it as she watches Michael seductively and when he can’t breathe through his nose anymore; when his lips part with a soft moan of lust, she stops. It’s like she was a TV screen on which a nice movie was playing and suddenly it goes off because KPLC has just decided to fuck with everyone.

Smiling, she takes her leg off his shoulder and buttons up.

Michael: (Protesting) Why did you stop?

Sally: That omelette ain’t going to fix itself silly.

Then she turns around facing away from him. And slowly, really slowly. Like tortuously slowly, she stands with her legs apart and bends over to pick the bowl of ice-cream from the table. And he just sits there with his legs apart for fear of squashing the erection in his jeans. And he takes it all in. The thighs. The ass. The pussy.

Again he wants to touch but she playfully skips out of reach and runs into the kitchen laughing. Her laughter is like the sound of pearls falling on glass.

Michael: (Shouting at her from the living room) You’re mean, you know that?

Sally: (Shouting back from the kitchen) I have a pretty good idea.

He tries to get up but the bulge in his pants sends him crashing back on the couch. “Damn it.” He unholsters his gun, places it on the table, finally kicks off his shoes and then struggles out of his jeans. He stands up and the bulge in his boxers is still quite gargantuan so his dips his hand in there and positions his penis facing south. That way, the boxers restraining his penile freedom won’t hurt his boner.

That properly taken care of, he walks into the kitchen, his erection guiding him like it is a compass needle pointing true north. It is quite reminiscent of Daniel Radcliffe’s character’s erection in that weird but grossly entertaining movie, “Swiss Army Man.”

Sally is breaking a couple of eggs when he stands behind her and circles her waist in his huge arms.

Sally: (Chuckling) Do you have a flashlight in your boxers?

Michael: The answer to some of these questions can’t be truly experienced without touch.

He kisses the side of her neck as his palm makes its way to her chest… slowly seeking to embrace the majestic breasts thereon. She tilts her head backwards and half closes her eyes. Involuntarily, she squeezes her thighs together as his palm clasps her breast and his lips work up to her earlobe.

Sally: (Moaning) I am never going to fix this omelette, am I?

Michael: Why work on an omelette when you can feast on a sausage?

Sally: (His rock hard erection presses into her back as she chuckles) That’s a bit corny, isn’t it?

Michael: Maybe. But this isn’t. (His extra palm works its way down to her thighs which she parts without his asking. He feels her inner thighs. So soft. So smooth. So delicate to his touch. He lingers there for a moment longer than he should.)

She directs his hand to her pussy with her free hand as she clasps her breast with the other.

Sally: (Raucously) Don’t keep me waiting. I’ve been ready for you for a while now. Feel how wet I am?

He needs no further prompting. He slides down his boxers and his penis leaps out happily. Finally! A moment of freedom! A moment of air! Who the fuck invented this restraining idea of boxers anyway?! Time to enjoy liberty! He makes her lean over the kitchen counter, part her legs and pull up the shirt.

Then he directs his rock hard newly released prisoner into her pink dungeon of utter pleasure. The moist warmth with which the dungeon greets him prompts him to moan satisfactorily.

Michael: Oh yeah.

He is slow in his initial thrusts. He is like a missionary. A man with a Bible trending on new grounds. Trying to convince the natives to believe in a magical man in the clouds. So he is cautious. Sensitive to the needs of the Natives.

And she is responding with moans released through her nose. Her mouth is clamped shut. Her brow is creased. Her eyes are half open. Then her lips part and a sharper moan escapes her. “That’s it” is what the moan appears to say.

His thrusts are slow but powerful. Balls deep. He can feel her moisture at the base of his penis. He takes his time. He wants to feel it all. The Massage of Glory bestowed upon him by her Tight Walls of Delight. This is timeless.

When her lips part and the sharper moan comes out, his thrusts increase in speed. The missionary has paved the way for the colonialist. The needs of the Natives don’t matter so much now. Now is the time to ravage the grounds. Time for power not smiles and ass-kissery.

He digs her hard. He digs her deep. This is fucking. Not love making. Time for that is later. Right now, may lust reign.

And her response is wild. She tears the shirt away from her body and her nails squeeze the kitchen counter hard.

Sally: Fuck me! Fuck me you bitch! (He digs into her with the power of a combined harvester) Is that all you’ve got? I thought you were a man! Are you a man?

And as if to prove a point, he grabs both sides of her waist and rums her buttocks hard against his massive thighs for a couple of minutes of powerful digs. Pah! Pah! Pah! The sound of ass against thighs. Then he pulls out, turns her around and lifts her up. Her thighs on either side of his waist.

He is strong and she is slim. Light. So he finds it easier to slide his manhood into her as he carries her into the living room. He rests her against the wall as he still fucks her brains out and as she hugs him tight and digs her nails into his back.

He can feel the skin peeling as digs her nails into that place underneath his neck. He doesn’t care what the wife will think. Matter of fact, the fact that she is marking his body turns him on. Makes him even harder if that’s even possible. He groans like a trapped animal. She moans with ecstasy. She likes his deep guttural expression of vulnerability.

He carries her to the couch. Dumps her there. And then stands over her. Admiring her naked body. That even toned body. Skin so smooth. So even toned it whets his appetite even more. Breasts firm and majestic that he somehow thinks of a crown. They are an expression of authority those boobs. They seem to scream to the world, “These are the breasts of a queen you motherfuckers!”

And he buries his face in them. Takes time to work the long nipples. Suck on them and grit lightly on them with the tip of his teeth. She is writhing on the couch with want.

Sally: Don’t torture me. I want you. (The demand in her voice is gone. Now she is pleading.) I want you so bad

So this time when he takes her, it is with utmost care and attention. He takes her with tenderness. Love even. He slides inside her with the caution of a man working his way around a landmine. Not because he is afraid of the explosion that would follow one wrong move, but because he is afraid of corrupting the delicate vibe he finds himself in.

He is as naked as she is now. Every bit of their skins touch. His belly is on hers. She has pressed her thighs together; squeezing his penis inside her. He moans. He likes it. She circles him with her arms and pulls him in with a passionate hug. She feels like she won’t let him go. Like she can never let him go. She hasn’t felt this intimate with anyone in so long.

Sally: I want us to be one thing. Please make us melt into each other.

He can’t see her face but he can feel the liquid trickling from her eyes down to her ears. She is crying now. He knows why. He can feel it too. Like he is opening up to her with every pore he’s got and like she is doing the same thing. For a moment there, they are one thing. Two bodies. One being. Connected by a moment of utter affection and vulnerability.

Sally: I love you (She whispers with a bit of a broken voice)

He frees himself from her hug and holds her palms. Both of them. They make slow love as they squeeze their palms into each other’s. Her eyes – with fresh tear welling inside them – are now like these two cute puppy eyes, and they are looking into his with the utmost vulnerability. As if to reassure her of the existence of his affection for her, he kisses her tenderly and moans as she contracts her vaginal walls and rotates her waist to give him the feeling like her pussy is sucking his dick. Squeezing it soothingly.

Sally: Let go Mike. Bring down all those walls you carry around with you. You don’t have to feel alone when you’re with me.

And as if on cue, he feels every tension in his body dissipating. Every little trouble he has ever gone through, every pain he has ever experienced, every loss he has ever felt, all the negative energy; it is all pulled towards his balls from every corner in his body. Every tendon relaxes. Every pore opens up. His toes curl up. He squeezes her palms even harder. And in a moment of utter freedom and utter vulnerability, he freezes as he explodes inside her with one huge moan and one earth shattering orgasm. An orgasm that makes his body suddenly spasm semi violently as if he is having a seizure. As if to calm him down, she hugs him tight again and caresses the back of his head as she says;

Sally: Shh baby. Shh. You’re alright now. Everything is OK.

And like a newborn in a mother’s arms, Mike rests in Sally arms for a while. And she lies under him; her thighs now parted. He stays inside her a while longer and she can feel the warmth of his cum inside her. When his phone rings thirty minutes later, they are both lying on the carpet on the floor. She is curled up in a comfortable position; resting her head on his chest. He is stroking her hair.

Sally: Answer the phone. It might be important.

Michael: Nothing is ever important on Sunday.

Sally: Might be your wife. Answer it.

Michael: It ain’t Martha.

Sally: (She sits up and reaches for the phone on the glass table and her eyes widen with terror.) It’s Esbon.

Michael: (Grabbing the phone eagerly) Shit. (Answering the phone) Hey Esbon.

Esbon: Remember those guys from the Gaza gang; the once I warned on Facebook the other day?

Michael: Yeah. Where are they? (As he speaks, he gets up urgently and starts struggling into his clothes.)

Esbon: Come to Buruburu. Bring backup. And bring an extra box of bullets. They are armed. Heavily. (Line goes dead.)

Sally: I’m coming with you.

Michael: (Putting his jeans on) No you’re not.

Sally: I’m a cop too.

Michael: And these Gaza kids are dangerous. They have cops like you for dinner then drink their evening wine from their skulls.

Sally: (Irritated) And what do you have that I don’t?

Michael: (Looking her right in the eyes) Are you ready to look in the eyes of an eighteen year old girl as you shoot them in the head in cold blood? (She hesitates.) That’s what I thought. You are not coming with me.

Sally: Well then at least call Stephen.

He is done dressing now. He struggles into his shoes and holsters his gun.

Michael: (Heading for the door) I’ll call you tonight.

Stephen. 10:56 am

Stephen and Cynthia are among the few people who stream out of the IMAX movie theater along Mama Ngina Street after Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 is done. They still have a half eaten bag of popcorns with them and Cynthia has a half drunk plastic glass of lemonade with her.

Stephen: I don’t think we are supposed to take the lemonade home with us.

Cynthia: Well, I felt a little nauseated and I don’t like wasting things that have been given to me for free.

They are at the stairs now at the lobby. Semi-giant stairs that always appear to be inviting people for a seat.

Stephen: Let’s sit down for a minute, yeah?

Cynthia: Your back hurting old man?

Stephen: Nope. But sometimes it is always OK to have a seat and look as life unfolds in front of your eyes.

Cynthia: (As they sit) Don’t know what I loved more about the movie. The music or the action?

Stephen: The exploration of fatherhood as a theme in the movie did it for me. Also it had Rambo in it. I can never have enough of Rambo in my life.

Cynthia: I don’t know which cave you have been in the last couple of decades, but people in the 21st Century now call him Sylvester Stallone. I can write it down for you if you want. (Stephen cracks up and she follows suit) Or I can say it real slow for you to get it. Sssylllvesteeeeer…. Got it? Stalloooooone.

Stephen: (Still laughing) Yeah, you little shit. I got it. Raaambooooooo.

As they sit at the stairs, a young lady in a dress passes them with a thoughtful look on her face. A couple of teens, who look too much alike to not be siblings, also hurry up the stairs towards the movie theater. Youngsters in their twenties in IMAX t-shirts pass by laughing about something a dude in an IMAX t-shirt has said to them.

Stephen: You know, you can just sit at these stairs and watch the rest of humanity all day; but you really won’t feel life unless it emanates from within you. Like now, I am watching teenagers waltzing into the movie theater holding hands and I think they look great. Some are in love, some are related, but they all look so… happy. I am seeing these gorgeous ladies who work here, their laughter sounds like something angels would produce from their throats and I think it sounds…beautiful. And yet it is all so normal. It is what people do.

People laugh. People cry. People walk around holding hands. People sit at the stairs at IMAX and chill. People think. People hug each other. But unless you have a sense of beauty within you; unless you walk around with your heart beating the very essence of life into each and every artery, vein and capillary in your body, you won’t feel it. You won’t feel the beauty in the normal lives of people happening all around you. It will just be shit happening all around you.

You will be too busy chasing something. Money. Love. Sex. Power. Respect. The meaning of life. And the next thing you know, you will be seventy, and you won’t know what life is all about. Because you have spent your entire existence blind. It has been all around you, but you have missed it all. That is why you hear that a sixty year old person has suddenly divorced his wife and chased after twenty something year olds. Or has committed suicide. Or has killed everyone in his entire family. Because they woke up and wondered, “What the fuck am I doing here?”

Cynthia: (Looks at her father, flashes the lemonade down her throat, digs into the bag of popcorn and shoulder thumps him) You OK old man?

Stephen: Yeah. (Soft chuckle) Yeah. Because you breathe life into me. Without you, everything around me would be plastic. Life would be plastic. But now because you are here with me, everything feels so beautiful. Like the feel of morning sunshine against a cold skin.

Cynthia: In another life you would have been a poet.

Stephen: How do you figure?

Cynthia: Well, you would rather go on and on and on about life and morning sunshine and cold skins and shit instead of just telling me that you love me.

Stephen: You’re a smart girl kid. What do you think?

Cynthia: I think we should drop everything and go to Uhuru Park for a boat ride. Just like the old days.

Stephen: Old days, here we come.

11:21 am

Father and daughter are riding a boat as they sing loudly; “Row row row your boat. Row row row your boat. Gently down the stream, Gently down the stream, Merrily merrily merrily merrily, Gently down the stream!”

Cynthia: (Pointing excitedly into the water) Oh my God dad, there’s some fish!

Stephen: You know it is funny how excitedly you point at fish every time you see them; one would think you have never seen fish before.

Cynthia: Coz they look so beautiful every time I see them. (Points at one with multi-colors) Aww! Look at that one. It is so cute. (Presses palm against chest) Aww.

1:03 pm

They are at Sarit Center in Westlands enjoying boneless chicken biryani at Swahili Plate. Stephen’s phone rings and it is his wife calling.

Stephen: (Exclaiming) Your mother has called me seventeen times today alone. She is totally going to murder me.

Cynthia: Well, she just wants to spoil the party. Don’t answer it.

Stephen: I have to. I married her. There is an unwritten rule that if the woman you married calls seventeen times in one day, you best answer. Or you just might lose an important part of you.

Cynthia: Ew!

Stephen: Seriously?! (Answers the phone with exaggerated excitement) Hey baby! Have you woken up yet?

Wife: Where the fuck are you guys? Where the fuck is my daughter Stephen?

Stephen: I just took her out for lunch babe, relax.

Wife: Don’t tell me to relax, alright? Don’t fucking patronize me like that! Tell me where you are. Right now!

Stephen: We’re out for lunch. It’s OK. It’s not a big deal, OK? (Cynthia, who knows that her father is in trouble, presses her fingers against her lips to stifle a chuckle and Stephen smiles at her. This has happened to them before)

Wife: And you have been out for lunch since 6 am?! Huh? Goddamnit Stephen! Sometimes I can’t tell who the child is between you and the child. It’s like you don’t care about the fuckload of shit you expose her to! She is immuno-deficient you ignorant monkey! Tell me where the fuck you are, right motherfucking now or I swear to God I’m cutting your tiny dick off you cunt!

Stephen: (Makes a face at his daughter but directed to his wife who can’t see it because she is on the other side of the call. But this time, Cynthia laughs out loud) Calm down baby…

Wife: Is that her laughing there? Oh, so I am a big joke now to you both, huh? Look Stephen, I know you love her. And I know you are just trying to make her happy while she still lives. I get that. But I just want her to live longer. I want to protect her. Why don’t you get that baby?

Stephen: (Pause followed by a thoughtful reply) We’re at Sarit. At that Swahili Plate place you and I come to sometimes. Just grab an Uber. I’ll order something for you.

Wife: OK. (Loud sigh) I love you.

Stephen: I love you too.



Michael is driving towards town urgently and at the same time trying to call Stephen who doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to answer the phone today. Which is understandable because he is currently off duty. Finally, he picks up.

Stephen: Damn it Mike! Who died? You keep calling like someone finally shot your dick off.

Michael: I’m sorry bro. I know this is your day off and you’re probably hanging out with your daughter right now…

Stephen: Damn right mate. What’s happening? Everything OK?

Michael: Esbon called.

Stephen: (Sighs) Shit. (After a pause) Where?

Michael: Buruburu. You carrying?

Stephen: I’m with my family on a Sunday afternoon asshole. What do you think?

Michael: I have an extra piece in the car so don’t worry about it. Where should I pick you up?

Stephen: Sarit. At Swahili Plate.

2:15 pm

Stephen hangs up with a worried look in his eyes. His wife who joined them not so long ago spots it and asks;

Wife: Was that Mike?

Stephen: Yeah.

Wife: What’s happening?

Stephen: Esbon called.

Wife: (Jaw drops) Oh God.

Cynthia: Who’s Esbon?

Wife: (To Cynthia) Honey, you want to wait here for a sec as dad and I talk for a bit?

Cynthia: (Perturbed) Oooookay.

At the sidebar away from Cynthia, Stephen’s wife is saying;

Wife: Whenever Esbon calls, someone dies.

Stephen: It is those Gaza kids baby. They killed another cop in Kayole the other day. Esbon knows where a few of them are and Mike and I will bring them in.

Wife: No he won’t. You know why? Because those kids are armed! And dangerous baby! They drop cops like they’re doing it as a hobby.

Stephen: Don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine.

Wife: No you won’t. (Stephen looks away. This conversation is frustrating him. She cups his cheeks in her palms delicately and forces him to look at her) You know Esbon. He tells these criminals on Facebook that they will be killed and true as fuck, these kids die. So you know what these kids do? Huh? Whenever they see a cop, they pull their guns out and start shooting. It is a fucking war out there Steve baby and I don’t want you to dive in it with your vest and shorts and slippers. It is your day off goddamnit!

Stephen: They killed Sheila the other day…

Wife: (Rolls her eyes) I don’t give a fuck about Sheila. She is just a name to me. I give a fuck about you. (Thumps his chest with her finger) You. Stephen. You. My best friend. My husband. The father of my kid. I give a fuck about you moron! And now you want to what? Just waltz into a warzone in a vest? Is that what they’re teaching cops at Kiganjo nowadays? To be idiots? Sometimes I think you just want to die before Cynthia. Because you are too much of a pussy to bury your daughter. That’s what you want, isn’t it? For your daughter to bury you?

Stephen: (Getting mad) I know you are smart; so I know you didn’t just say that out of stupidity. You’re just trying to be a bitch. Fuck you very much for your vote of confidence in me. (Looking over her shoulder) Mike’s here. Gotta go.

Wife: (She looks behind her and spots Mike chatting excitedly with Cynthia. Turns to her husband) You’re going to be extremely careful, right?

Stephen: I promise.

Wife: (Delicately) You and Cynthia are all I have. I swear to God if you let anything happen to you I will… (He interrupts by planting a heavy kiss on her lips shutting her up.)

Stephen: I will be home for dinner.

Wife: Good. Coz I plan to fix some pork. Just the way you like it. Let me talk to Mike real quick, yeah?

Stephen: Alright baby. Who loves you the most?

Wife: A motherfucking idiot who just won’t grow up.

She walks over to the table where Cynthia and Michael are talking and says a bright, “Hi Mike” to him. He replies brightly and they hug tightly. Then she goes like, “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?” “Yeah sure.” He says. “It’s good to see you again Cynthia.”

Cynthia smiles politely at him as Stephen’s wife pulls him away to a safe distance.

Michael: Yeah, what’s up?

She looks over her shoulder. Stephen and Cynthia are now smiling at each other. She always likes that about him. How he manages to get Cynthia smiling even on her worst days. Then she turns to Michael and punches him hard on his belly pushing all wind out of him.

Groaning painfully, he leans against her. It is either that or he’ll get down on his knees to gain some air. She doesn’t want the attention that will attract. So she hugs him as he harbors the painful grimace on his face.

Michael: (Having trouble speaking) What was that for sister?

Stephen’s wife: It is his day off. (Spits contemptuously) Brother. If anything happens to him or to you for that matter, you’re both going to be in so much trouble.

Michael: Yes ma’am.

2:34 pm

The two cops are heading down Jogoo Road towards Buruburu. Michael is seated behind the wheel. Stephen is loading Michael’s extra gun. An AK 47.

Stephen: You know when you said you have an extra piece in the car I thought you were talking about a pistol. But that wouldn’t be so dramatic, would it? And who’s Michael if not a man with a flair for the dramatic?

Michael: What would you rather have in a firefight? A Colt or an AK 47?

Stephen: Depends on the Colt I guess.

Michael: You are an idiot

Stephen: Is this thing even registered?

Michael: That wouldn’t be dramatic enough, would it? I grabbed it off a dead pastoralist in Baringo the other day.

Stephen: Goddamn you Michael.

Michael: What do you want from me? When Esbon calls, the earth slides off its axis. You know this. I’m sorry.

Stephen: So are you still with cheating on Martha with that hottie from Narcotics?

Michael: Her name’s Sally. And yeah I’m still hitting that.

Stephen: That’s surprising. I thought you’d have moved on by now.

Michael: Me too. But something happens to me when I am with her. I get to the zenith of vulnerability when I am with her, you know? And it doesn’t matter where we are or what we are doing. When I’m with Sally, every damn bit of me opens up and lets her in. I can’t hide anything from her and she knows everything about me. You know what she told me this morning?

Stephen: That your feet smell?

Michael: Close. Jack-ass. She said that she loves me.

Stephen: Shit.

Michael: No. Not shit.

Stephen: Why not? Now she is attached to you; you idiot. That’s how cops end up killing each other over extra marital affairs!

Michael: I love her too.

Stephen: (Furious gesticulation) Ah fuck!

Michael: Exactly.

Stephen: Well, what the hell happens now? Did you tell her?

Michael: No! No way in hell was I going to tell her that! I still have a wife. And three kids. What the fuck am I going to do?

Stephen: Do you still love Martha?

Michael: Yes. I still love her. And the sex is still great. But there is always a rift between us. We don’t talk the way Sally and I do. We don’t fuck the way Sally and I do. Simply put, I am not vulnerable around Martha. I am when I am with Sally. In retrospect, I never knew what love meant till I met Sally.

Stephen: What are you going to do?

Michael: (Helpless chuckle) I have no idea. (Quick subject change) How about you partner? How is my sister? And the kid?

Stephen: Well, you saw the kid. She has one foot in the grave already but she is so full of life, sometimes I forget she is sick. She has more life in her than I do. And I will probably live till I am ninety. If those Gaza kids don’t murder me today. Like this morning we are boat-riding at Uhuru Park, right? And she sees these fish in the water and gets so excited. Like every bit of her lightens up! She becomes like one of those glowing sea creatures in the “Life of PI”. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my whole life. She has seen fish so many times in her life, but that doesn’t get in the way of her excitement every time she sees another fish. It doesn’t get old with her. She is so fucking beautiful and it will kill me when she dies, man! It will fucking eviscerate me.

Michael: I am sorry bro.

Stephen: And my wife; she is scared man. But she hides behind this terrible language. “Fuck” this, “Motherfucker” that… but she is so scared of losing Cynthia that sometimes I think she feels like she has lost her already. She always wants the kid in the house to protect her I don’t know, from germs and shit. But all she is doing is imprisoning her. I mean, the kid won’t live to see 2018. What’s the use of keeping her inside a safe room away from the world? If I were to die by year’s end, I would want to spend my life among people. Even if that meant curtailing the time I had left by half. I am just trying to get the kid to live.

Buruburu. 2:47 pm

Their car is a dark Toyota Harrier which they park in front of a nightclub. They are watching a distant restaurant where according to Esbon their informant, three members of the Gaza gang are enjoying lunch. There is a butchery and a bar in the premises so the kids are in there enjoying nyamachoma, ugali and Tuskers. That idea appears to piss Michael off immensely.

Michael: Maybe we should just waltz in there and execute them in front of everyone.

Stephen: That should work out great. I mean, someone will surely record us and upload us on YouTube. Then the video will go viral. We’ll trend. And that will be really good for our careers. It’ll be Eastleigh all over again.

Michael: That’s a good thing, right?

Stephen: Michael?

Michael: What?

Stephen: I was being sarcastic.

Just then, three youngsters trot out of the premises under the cops’ watch and their faces (Michael’s and Stephen’s) brighten up with recognition. There are two boys and one girl. None of them older than eighteen. They are in flashy clothes, jewellery and phones. They all come together and one of them takes a selfie as they put their fingers out and stick their tongues out and make weird little facial expressions for the camera.

Michael: That’s them.

Stephen: Yeah. That boy in the red designer shirt is Eddie. He is one of the kids who killed Sheila the other day. The girl is Maria. She and a bunch of other kids clobbered some dude, shot him, stole his shit then took pictures of the entire thing and uploaded them on Facebook and Instagram. Stupid kids. Who commits a crime then confesses to the world just for a bunch of likes and comments on social media? The other boy is Dickson. His father is a doctor at Kenyatta Hospital. His mother teaches Biochemistry at the University of Nairobi.  Little Dick here chose the life of crime over his family. So he left their mansion in Runda, moved to Kayole and is now one of the biggest deals in the Gaza Gang. He has eight recorded kills. And I am sure he is eager to make it nine.

Michael: So in short we are dealing with stupid, eager, bloodthirsty little shits who will kill us for blings and shoes and likes on Facebook?

Stephen: Touché.

Michael: So how do we do this?

Stephen: I guess we get out and start shooting.

3:23 PM

Eddie is lying dead on the ground. His sixteen years old body is riddled with bullets. His glassy eyes are fixed at a point in a wall of the nearby nightclub. There is a pistol in his dead hand. Blings on his neck. Expensive shoes on his dead feet. His red designer shirt is now clinging to his body because the blood is still oozing from the gunshot wounds. It is not easy to tell which red is the color of his shirt and which red is the color of his blood. The shirt is now just a tattered wet mess of red. A pool of blood is still forming under him. Esbon will have fun uploading the picture of his dead body on social media with the caption, “Three weeks ago, I told Eddie that he will be dead very soon if he doesn’t give up his life of crime. Now see what happened to him. #SayNoToCrime. #ForACrimeFreeKayole.”

Maria is squeezed against the wheel of a nearby bullet riddled Mercedes Benz S-Class. Her eyes look longingly into the restaurant where they were having lunch a while ago. She wishes she could make a dash for it, but she is not sure if she can get there without getting shot first. Fucking cops! Everyone in the vicinity is lying on their stomach. Nobody wants to get shot.

She has two pistols in hand which she likes to fire simultaneously. She likes to think she is Angelina Jolie in one of her roles as a badass chic. So she gets up from her hiding place and fires in Stephen’s general direction. Stephen is sheltering himself behind a kiosk. Bullets are raining from Maria’s guns. He waits for her to reload.

There is no grotesque sight than the sight of a teenage girl with tens of bullet holes in her body. From tens of bullets from an AK 47 semi-automatic rifle. These are the kind of bullets that fuck a young girl’s body up. And they are everywhere. In her head, face, hands, legs, chest, stomach… Stephen really fucked her up.

When she ran out of ammo and had to reload, he ran to her hiding place. He found her hiding against the wheel of the Benz. Furiously trying to reload her two Berettas. He asked her to stand up. To put her hands up. She obeyed. She was scared. He could see it in her eyes. But all he could think of was Sheila. That young female officer murdered in cold blood by the Gaza Gang. And so his finger squeezed the trigger. Pah! Pah! Pah! Pah!

And her young body danced as bullets ravaged it. Even when she fell lifeless, he didn’t stop shooting. He shot her in both eyes. He shot every bit of her body until his AK 47 ran dry. Until the chamber was empty and the gun went, “Click click”. The disappointing sound of an ammo-less gun.

When Esbon uploads the picture of her dead body, people will be disgusted. But they will all agree that crime pays not. Human rights activists will be angry. But there will be that phrase. “Even criminals have rights.” An acknowledgment of the fact that these kids are criminals. That is enough for Stephen. And for Esbon.

It is only when the gun is empty that Stephen feels a pinch in his ribs. He looks down. There is blood on his vest trickling down his shorts and leg. One of Maria’s bullets penetrated the kiosk and pierced something important in his body. And in a moment of cold panic, he thinks about his daughter. Cynthia. Not much younger than Maria. The girl he just killed.

Suddenly his legs aren’t so powerful anymore. Suddenly they can’t take the weight of his body. His fingers release his gun and it clatters loudly on the tarmac pavement. He supports himself against the bullet riddled Benz and sits on the ground.

About a hundred meters away, a gun goes off.

Michael chased Dickson who kept firing carelessly behind him. Turns out that if you shoot at someone who is chasing you, you are bound to miss. Widely. Like embarrassingly widely. Especially if you are a panicking teenager.

Michael takes a knee, breathes through his mouth, relaxes, aims his gun at the running Dickson, and fires once. He is calm. He is collected. He has been to the target range a million times. He has been a sniper. He has done this before.

Dickson throws his hands up as the bullet hits him. He crashes hard on the ground and his pistol scatters away from his hand. The bullet has caught his lower back. He is panicking. He can’t feel his legs. His spinal cord is fucked.

But he can hear the approaching footsteps. Michael’s shoes. He sees his shadow.

The cop turns the wounded criminal over then grabs him by the collar of his shirt yanking him up.

Michael: Open your mouth.

Dickson: No.

Michael: Open your mouth Dickson!

Dickson: You’re a cop. You’re not supposed to do this.

Michael: I am a cop. I can whatever the hell I want to do with you. And right now I want you to open your mouth.

Dickson: No. Please don’t.

Michael shoots him in the shoulder. He screams. Good. The gun can fit in his mouth now. Michael shoves the muzzle of his government issue Colt inside Dickson’s open mouth.

Michael: This shouldn’t hurt. The bullet will burn your mouth and spray your brains and teeth all over this tarmac. But you won’t feel any pain. You will just…die. You don’t deserve it. A painless death. But I have sons your age. You are the son of a doctor and a university lecturer. You made bad decisions. I guess you could be anybody’s son. Even my kid could make a bad decision and end up on the wrong side of a pissed off cop’s gun. I’m sorry kid. But actions have consequences. I know you won’t believe me. But I am sorry.

Dickson: (Muffled by the gun in his mouth) Please. Mom…

Michael: She isn’t here kid. Now it is just you and me. And this gun in your mouth.

Their eyes meet. And just when Michael is about to pull the trigger, his eyes soften. Like a father’s. And Dickson’s relaxes. Like those of a man who has accepted his fate. Actions have consequences. Bad actions tend to have giving blowjobs to guns as a consequence.

The gun goes off. The tarmac under Dickson’s head turns red and grayish. Blood, brain matter and teeth. Esbon will capture this eagerly. Brain matter all over tarmac on a bright Sunday afternoon. This will be all over social media. As Michael walks away, he can see the caption. “Here lies Dickson. The son of a doctor and a lecturer. He had the opportunity to be anything in his life. He chose crime. I hope the fast life was worth a bullet in your mouth and your brains all over the road. #IStandAgainstCrime. #ACrimeFreeKayole.”

3:29 PM

Michael finds Stephen lying on the ground next to the Benz surrounded by a few people. His work ID is in limp hand. Someone is administering CPR but Stephen isn’t responding. The bullet nicked an artery. He bled out too fast. Cynthia will be heartbroken.

As Michael takes out his phone to make a call, he sees the text from Stephen. It reads, “Call Sally. The hottie from Narcotics. Tell her you love her too. Before you find yourself lying on the ground bleeding out. The life of a bullet is short. Make it mean something brother J.”

The life of a bullet is short. Make it mean something, brother.


  1. OMG!!! Wow! This is good.

    I like Stephen’s wife…did it have to end like that though? Just broke my heart.

    If I ever get the chance to sing like that, I’ll sing Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It makes me a little sad, sometimes I like that feeling.

  2. Wow. You are a writer! Damn! You took me to heights and valleys and just when I wanted Michael to dump Sally.. You killed Stephen.. I’m not ever going to forgive you..sigh!

    Good job

  3. Wow…am impressed….I could not move my eyes from my computer.What an interesting piece Charles.Am aproud of you

  4. I’m amazed and impressed at the same time. You so different from other writers that I’ve come across their blogs

  5. Wow! Again taking us to backstage. The backstage life is. The backstage before the hottest thug was short.

    How do you do this? Use non-missionarry style to explain missionary and colonialism.

    Are you all seeing or what?

    I could blame it on the ‘Mexican’ maize but not even Trump could make work it work that fast.

    Teach me your ways ooh Charles.

  6. I love the description.
    “The missionary has paved the way for the colonialist…” Hahaa the blending Jeez!
    Did you just kill Stephen?

  7. Wow! Stephen is meant to show us what family means to a cop and you surely gave justice to the life of cops and their families out of work!
    I could read your articles over and over!

  8. Wow what a great piece Crime free society is what we are advocating for
    The article is full of life, it goes by the saying, If you are no longer fearing death, What else?. Release yourself as Mike does to that hottie, Stephen’s wife was right that Maria is a Motherfucker
    Good piece, indeed thats a complete episode.

  9. You got me up’at 5 a.m to read this article that everybody won’t stop talking about.. Damn!!! You good!! I absolutely love this article!! I just love how you left us all with suspence about Stephen!! Good job Charles;-)

  10. never read your work before, this was my first time….but dude….can I have all your writing??? This was awesome!! I literally couldn’t get my eyes off the screen!!

  11. This is really good Charlie! 😊 And the explicit content is not as erotic as you made it seem at first haha

  12. What a piece …but you killed Stephen,,please resurrect him and let Michael die,I don’t hate him though…

    You got a talent:]

  13. Don’t you know how to raise a heart then break it into a gazillion almost hopeless yet still-thinking pieces?
    Here, you have outdone yourself Chanchori!

  14. Jeeeez! I love movies, I share movies, but this is the kind of movie I wouldn’t won’t sharing then someone comes back claiming he hasn’t watched yet. I dare this movie gurus to produce this article as it is, please.

    Its so heartbreaking for my guy to die, though. But is he dead really?

    Chanchori, say something…..I loved it.
    episode 2 “motherfucker” lol.

  15. Hey, am still watching please, Stephen can’t be dead.. consider this.. the though of his daughter gets him going, holding on to that little life till help came along.. he wakes up in a hospital and you know, family and shit like that.. just don’t lose this character Stephen..

  16. A blockbuster waiting to happen..
    You got talent Charles
    Keep making us improve our reading culture.. Kudos..

  17. i love how Charles connect realistic happenings in Kenya e.g Kayole and Gaza and then in some weird way recaptures it into his artistic masterpiece. Charles you are going places way above the moon…..big up Chanchori

  18. “Sally: Your kissing me as if you’re trying to hold in your fart or something. What’s wrong ?
    This really made my day hahahaa
    Great piece of article Charles Chanchori

  19. Please stop killing these characters … But then again just kill them… Argh just do what you damn please… And keep doing it. After all you are the master

  20. Nooooooo!!! you cant just kill Stephen.
    But damn! this is a great piece. It brings out all the emotions, anger at Michael for cheating on a good wife, so sad that Cynthia doesn’t have long to live and there’s nothing anyone can do. Very very mad at Sally though…all in all, great piece.

  21. What a great piece, I think I did an hour… Evening made. God gave you brains. I wish you best endeavors man. We are the readers, take the pen and don’t pen – off. That’s the life of a pen too.

  22. I can’t believe Stephen is dead!!!
    Anyway, he lived. OMG! What will his wife do to Michael???!!!!
    I loved the sex between Mike and his wife. I was turned of by that between him and Sally. A side chic only does what the wife doesn’t and when she’s given the same position as a wife, she’ll just behave like the wife.

  23. No way. Please continue? You can’t kill stephen. How did his family react, especially after the wife warned him against it? Did Martha find out that Michael was cheating, did she leave, did he leave? Please write another continuation piece. Please Charles.


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