The first word that enters your mind when you enter your wife is, “murder.”
Two Hours, Five Minutes Ago
The highlights of your days are sometimes those long drives home in the evening after a day at the office. Those moments when you sit in your car, one hand on the wheel, listen to Classical music and just drive.
It is one of the reasons why you fired that driver your wife hired. He was invading on your personal space with his desperate need to talk and talk and talk. Why is it so hard for some people to just shut up?
Plus he couldn’t stand Classical music. Sometimes when the both of you were stuck in traffic, the Classical music would lull him to sleep. He had to go.
Your wife offered to hire you another driver but you flatly refused. True she had a case for herself. What if you had one of your epileptic fits behind the wheel as you drove at 120km/h? you wanted to tell her that that would never happen but you didn’t want to lie to her.
When you marry a woman fourteen years younger than you, they come into your life seeking to fix things up. And not in any way that helps. Nope. They don’t have a head for business. Besides, when you marry a woman fourteen years your junior, you don’t marry her for her head. Just for her face, chest and bum. And if there is a god in the mountains, for her legs.
As soon as you have sex with her for the first time, statements like, “Have you ever subscribed to a gym?” start flying. And you are mega screwed if you say something like, “I have a headache.” On the verge of tears, she will cup your cheeks and ask, “Have you taken any medicine? Have you been to a doctor?” And your least favorite, “Are you stressed?”
At first, you found her wish to fix you cute. But it grew old after a while. You would come home and tell her about your day. You would whine about that girl who brought in your tea twelve minutes late and she knows you like your breakfast at 07:34h not 07:46h. A week later, you would finally notice the absence of the tea girl and ask your secretary about it.
“Your wife called.” The secretary would say. “She said that you instructed her that the company would need to find a new tea girl.”
You didn’t remember telling your wife that. She might have brought the tea late, but you liked your tea girl. You had met her two sons Brian and Kasicho and her husband Tena. You had always thought that her husband has the biggest hands in the world. Must come in handy for a construction worker, you had thought.
So now as you drive home, you relish those moments where it is just you and good old Classical music. You can feel the tyres of the BMW roll against the loose gravel as you enter your estate. You don’t understand why you always notice that sound and why you have no problem with it.
“Babe,” you call out as soon as you walk past your door. “Baby, you in here?” There is soft piano music playing and a fire going in the fireplace. You used to think your big house is a slice of heaven. Now it is just a place where you go to sleep when darkness knocks. Sometimes.
She strolls in from the kitchen with a glass of wine in hand. “You are not supposed to be drinking.” You say. She is pregnant. Again.
Your wife reminds you of that woman from the novel Second Class Citizen. All it takes for her to get pregnant is a single touch.
The slight bump is beginning to show through the robe she is in. You wonder if she has anything underneath. You doubt it very much.
She smiles. It is one of those smiles that touch only one side of her face. It is beautiful in its mystery. “Hi baby,” her voice has always been on the lower side. Sort of heavy for a woman her age and features. You don’t think it is fair to judge a woman’s voice by her age and features but then the world has never been fair.
She is twenty-eight. When you married her when she was twenty-two, it felt like the whole world was against you.
Your Mother: What are you going to do with this child? I have panties in my drawers that are older than her.
Your Father: These young girls, you are supposed to fuck ‘em not marry ‘em.
Your Older Sister: Never took you for a pedophile, but then nothing you do surprises me anymore.
Your Younger Sister: Don’t even talk to me.
Your Best Friend: Hey! I was supposed to hit that after you are done with her!
You: You guys done? So we can get to drinking now?
“Have I ever told you you look more handsome with each passing day?” she asks, walking further into the living room. She has small and shapely feet. You always liked women with small feet. Huge feet in your women always freaked you out. Your first born daughter wears shoe size six. She is thirteen years old. You have sworn never to mention her feet because you know she’ll be shoe size eight by the time the state can recognize her as an adult.
“Yes baby,” you say. “You have mentioned it a couple of times.” She has mentioned it more than a couple of times.
Her feet sink into the thick carpet. She takes another sip from the wine glass and places it on the nearest table. You notice that her eyes haven’t left yours this whole time.
Something is up. You can feel it in every one of your pores. This house suddenly smells of tension.
You: What is happening? (You have always been more of a straight-to-the-point kind of guy.)
Her: Nothing baby.
She walks up to you, cups your cheeks in her warm and slightly sweaty palms and kisses you lightly on the lips. Hers are wet and soft against your dry ones.
You: Where are the kids?
You have five children now. Three from your first wife and two from this one. And now she is pregnant with another. Haiya.
Her: They are with Marie. (Marie is your older sister. She lives in the neighborhood.)
You: Even Flo? (Flo is the lastborn. For now. She is barely one year old.)
Her: Yeah. I wanted us to have the evening to ourselves.
She loosens your tie and rests her hands on your shoulders. The warmth of her palms seep through your shirt. They remind you of her tears as they seep through your shirt to your chest.
Her: How was your day?
You: So far so good. But it is far from over from the look of things.
Her: We should fuck. You want to fuck?
She drops it like that. Casually. She undoes the robe and you catch a glimpse of her body. The inner sides of her breasts, her slightly bulging stomach, her inner thighs…
Her: (Places her hand on her stomach) They say that the baby loves it when the mom is having sex. The heartbeat increases as I orgasm. The baby loves the sound of an erratic heartbeat. Little perverts, aren’t they? (She chuckles)
You: You really shouldn’t be drinking. Not sure the baby would love that.
Her: Ah. (She brushes the air) It was just a glass of wine.
She takes your hand and leads you to the couch. You sit and she kneels in front of you. She takes off your shoes. Slowly. Every movement is slow and deliberate. Calculated.
Her: For a man with such small feet, you sure have a big dick.
You: That is a myth.
Her: What is a myth?
You: That comparison between feet and dicks. It is not true.
Her: You don’t have to argue with me love. I come from the “size doesn’t matter, it is what you do with it” school of thought.
Her hands climb higher. You catch a glimpse of her smooth skin, and there is an involuntary bulge in your pants. It is moments like this when you hate your small head for not having a brain.
Her hands climb higher up and she slowly starts taking off your belt.
You: I Should I ask questions or should I sit here and let you play games with me?
Something is cooking. You can smell it. It hangs thick in the air. And it stinks.
Her: Just sit there and take it.
Your belt is off. She starts unbuttoning your pants. The zip slides down and she runs her hand over your bulged manhood. It just couldn’t lay low and act tough, could it? It just had to rise and jump around and wave its hands and say, “I’m here! I’m here! Pay attention to me!”
Her: Hey baby…
Her hand starts disappearing into your pants and you feel her warmth all over you.
Her: Tell me about Shammi.
Her: Shammi. Tell me about Shammi.
You: What, right now?
Her: Yes. Right now. I want to blow you like she used to.
You: But I have told you about Shammi before.
Her: I want you to tell me about her again.
Deep breaths. Now you know what is happening here.
You: Are you scared that I am going to lose interest in you now that you are pregnant? So you are trying to spice things up?
Her: No baby. I just want to act crazy because I am pregnant. Humor me.
Her hands stray to your waist. She slowly peels your pants off of you and dumps them beside your shoes and socks. You can’t believe how hard you are. You marvel at the ability of your boxers to stretch that much.
She kisses the bulge through the boxers.
Her: I am waiting.
You: Shammi was this girl I was seeing before I met you.
Her: Jump right to the steamy bits baby.
She starts unbuttoning your shirt.
You: She used to give the craziest blowjobs. I haven’t met many women who like giving blowjobs. Must be because of the word. Blowjob. It is a job. Maybe if more people used the word “fellatio” instead, it would sound classier and….
She places her finger on your lips and follows it up with a kiss.
Her: Don’t bore me with your brain baby. Tonight I just want to get right down to the dirty bits.
She looks you right in the eye and you think she has the brightest, brownest eyes you have ever seen. She is absolutely beautiful. You think you don’t say that enough. And when you do say it, you wonder if she believes you.
Her: That’s my man.
She kisses you hard. The I-just-want-to-ram-my-lips-against-yours-like-a-nymphomaniac kind of hard. You can feel her tongue in your mouth. It has a taste of grapes and sweet warmth. You take the back of her neck and take control of this situation but she pushes you back on the couch and keeps her hand on you now bare chest. Oh, the warmth! The warmth!
Her: Stay right there and let me do everything.
Girl after your own heart.
She takes off your shirt and starts planting kisses from your neck, down your chest, your stomach…
You: She gave world class blowjobs. She would take warm water, or menthol gum and when she went down on you; your dick would just be confused…
She is peeling the boxers off of you. All hands are on deck.
Her: Don’t stop.
You are the one who is supposed to be saying that to her.
You: She would kneel in front of you and you’d feel like a king. She would take all of you in her mouth. Sometimes I used to wonder how come she was so good. How much practice must she have had? But instead of being jealous, I would find it thrilling, imagining how many people she must have given this very queenly experience.
Her: Did she do this?
She cups your ball-sack in those warm palms and you feel the warmth of her mouth on your brainless head.
You: Oh yeah.
Her: Tell me about the fights. (Her voice is barely a moan now)
You: She was into make-up sex. She was a fiery girl. When she was happy, she was the best woman alive. When she was mad, even Lucifer would fear her.
Her: Ain’t that how you like them, baby?
You: Sometimes in the middle of a fight she would tear my clothes off and climb me like crazy. And when she took me in her mouth, I would always think that she is going to bite my dick off. And I would be scared but I would also be more thrilled because I was putting everything on the line. The thrill of being at her mercy like that, knowing that she was a crazy woman who could leave me dickless in a second really got me going.
She is on her knees, taking you in and out of her mouth with expertise you have never noticed before. She swallows all of you, gags a bit, comes out for air and goes back in. You understand. You must understand. Blowjobs are a real job. As you watch her work, you think that the person who came up with the phrase “giving head” must have been a colossal idiot and the one who came up with, “lousy head” or better, “lazy head” must have been more on the money.
Like any job, you think that the reason why so many women have left you unsatisfied is because they were lazy. Now you get it. It is only good if effort is put into it. It is one of those things that you just have to classify under, “If you are going to do it, do it well. Or just don’t even try.”
You are a working man. You have employees in your company. Sixteen of them and if there is a god in the mountains, they should increase to twenty in July at the commencement of the next financial year.
You understand that anyone doing a job for you will be very motivated to keep doing it and doing it well, if they are properly compensated. So if you are getting a very very very dedicated blowjob, the rewards better commensurate the effort. Now you understand that.
Even as she kneels there and gives you the best head (that statement again) of your life, she is teaching you a lesson in human resource management. And you hate your mind for veering off.
Her: How did it end between you and Shammi?
You: I met you, remember?
She looks you straight in the eyes as she slowly stands up and peels off the robe. It falls off her shoulders and collapses in a bundle at her feet.
You meet her eyes, then her breasts. She has had two children so far and still those breasts demand attention. Gym and nutrition has kept her easy on the eye. You want to get up and have her against the wall or on the carpet in front of the fire, but she places her foot on your lightly.
Her: Stay put.
You stay put. Your eyes run up her legs, thighs… she has recently shaved. Damn, she looks good!
She sticks her hand out and you take it. She gets you on your feet and slowly makes you lie on the carpet. You go with it, because nights like this don’t come around so often. Not anymore.
She stand over you, her feet on either side of your waist. You pulls her hair back and squats. She takes you in her hand. She is still warm. She is still looking you straight in the face.
As she directs you inside of her, she says;
Her: You know why they say men are trash? Even after giving him the best blowjob of his life, he will still look you in the eyes and lie.
She closes her eyes and looks up and you enter her.
You think of Shammi. You think of your first wife. And the word that enters your mind as you enter your wife is, “Murder.”
Her: (Breathes hard as you sink deeper and deeper into her) Oh, baby.
You want to sit up but she pushes you back on the carpet, places her hands on your chest and slowly rides you. She goes up and down, then starts doing these circular motions that drive you nuts.
Her: You know baby, (she is breathing hard and talking at the same time) she doesn’t fuck you like I do, does she?
You know she knows.
There is no point in playing games.
You: How long have you known?
Her: That you and Shammi are still doing it? Long enough.
You: How did you know?
She takes your hand and places it on her breast.
You squeeze. Gently. You rub her nipple with your thumb. She smiles. She likes that. You know she likes that. She bends over and kisses you on the lips.
Her: You know baby, someone wrote a book called, “Every Cheat’s Guideline: Things You Should Know if You Are Going to Cheat.” You really should have read it.
You: Didn’t get around to it. Was too busy acting stupid.
Her: No. You were just too busy chasing the thrill. When you fuck someone who isn’t your wife, you shouldn’t shower with soap. It leaves a certain smell on you. When I kiss you on the chest in the evening, you should taste a bit like salt. When you don’t, I ask questions.
You: What now?
Her: Now, now you fuck my brains out.
You sit up. She holds you close to her chest and take ownership of those breasts. Back and forth, back and forth she rides. She moans. It is louder than usual. You wonder if she is feeling that good or if she is putting up a show. But for whom? You wonder if her pregnancy will allow her to do this in a month.
You hold her tight, get on your knees as you carry her and place her on her back. You slowly slide in. the piano music, the firelight, it all makes you want to go slow, but she keeps saying, “faster”, “harder”. So you go faster. You go harder.
When she orgasms, it is epileptic. When she orgasms again, you think she is being electrocuted. You think the baby must be really enjoying this. The mother’s heartbeat must be wild right now.
Later, you are lying side by side, panting and sweating in front of the fire.
You: Did you send a private investigator after me?
Her: Nope. You remember that time your company opened a new branch in Kileleshwa? She was at the evening party. In a dress that hugged her body like a skin. You remember?
You: You know I do.
Her: She was beautiful. (She chuckles) She had this flowing hair, the dress had this slit that exposed those thighs to your eyes and whenever she smiled at you, she would bite her lip a little.
You: I remember that too.
Her: Did you know she wore contacts that evening?
Her: Do you remember the color?
You: Can’t say I do.
Her: Green. She wore green contact lenses. I couldn’t stop thinking how then her eyes reminded me of a reptile’s. Later, I saw the two of you enter her car and I guess what got to me more wasn’t that the two of you drove off, it was that you let her drive.
You: It was her car.
Her: Still. You let her be in control. I hated that.
You: That was two years ago. Have you been watching us that long?
Her: Didn’t have to.
You wonder what that means, but you don’t push it. She stands up.
Her: I am going to pour you a glass of wine.
You watch as her ass bubbles as she walks away from you.
Her: (She looks over her shoulder, hair hiding half her face and smiles.) What?
You: What happens now?
Her: How about you have a glass of wine before I answer that? Trust me, you will need it.
She comes back a minute later with a bottle of wine in a bucket of ice and a glass. She pours you some and a little for herself.
You: I don’t want you drinking.
Her: I know.
She hands you your glass and smiles again.
Her: How else are you going to know I haven’t poisoned it?
She gulps all of hers at once and belches. You take your time with yours.
Her: I should hate you.
You: You should.
Her: But I don’t.
You: But you don’t.
There is something missing. She knows something that you don’t and as long as that is the case, you are trending carefully.
Her: Tell me about your late first wife.
You: She is dead.
Her: I know she is dead. That is why I called her your “late first wife.”
You place the wine glass on the table, get off the floor and slip into your boxers. You hate that it took you this long to see that she knows everything. Even the bits that you worked so hard to hide.
You pick up her robe and slide it around her shoulders. She is still looking you right in the eyes. You cup her cheeks in your palm and bring her face closer to yours.
You: Should I kiss you or kill you?
Her: Killing me would be more satisfying for you. Kissing me would be more satisfying for the both of us.
You: You did send a private investigator after me, didn’t you?
Her: Not for the reasons you think. It was not hard to follow you and Shammi myself.
You: But you sent the investigator into my past. How much does he know?
You: How much does she know?
Her: That you killed your first wife.
You: Does she know why?
You: You think I killed my first wife for Shammi?
Her: Nope. You killed her because she found out about you and Shammi. She was going to divorce you and take half of everything. Plus full custody of the children.
You smile at her. She has more guts than you ever gave her credit for.
Her: What she didn’t know was that you don’t do anything without Shammi’s knowledge. And consent.
You grab her throat. You squeeze. She gasps. You push her back until she is against the wall. You squeeze some more. Still, her eyes don’t leave your face. even when they register pain and even a little fear, they don’t leave your face.
She doesn’t beg. Her hands sure squeeze against your own, her legs kick out, but it is all reflex action. She is not even fighting back. She is daring you to go through with it.
You relax your hold on her throat and she collapses on the floor gasping.
You: I should kill you.
Her: (Gasping) Yes you should.
You: Why won’t I?
Her: Because I know something about you that only Shammi knows.
Gasping and breathing throatily, she gets back up on her feet and rests against the wall. She manages a smile.
Her: I should have seen it earlier when you let her drive you away from your own wife. From your own party. From your own family and friends. I should have seen just how much you let her take control, but I didn’t understand the significance of it all. But I do now.
You: Where is she?
Her: You are smart. You should rephrase that question accordingly.
You: Is she alive?
You: Can I see her?
You: I want to see her.
You: if you don’t let me see her, I swear to God…
Her: You will what?
She stands real close to you then whispers in your ear;
Her: Kill me? Then who will control you? Who will hold your hand when you feel lost? On whose shoulder will you cry when you doubt yourself? Who will fix you when you are broken? Who will you submit to? Because you and I both know that you need to submit to someone.
You: And you think killing Shammi will make me submit to you?
Her: You take too long to let anyone in. It will be years before you can find another Shammi or me if both of us are dead. How long can the monsters in your head allow you to be alone before you go crazy? I am the devil you know baby. It is up to you.
You: I want to see Shammi.
Her: Then go down on your knees and beg.
Her: I hang her upside down then made a slight cut to her carotid artery. She has been like that for about an hour now. She is slowly bleeding out. Should be dead in minutes now. If you want to see her alive to say goodbye, you will beg me to allow that. You will let me walk into that place where she is with a loaded gun and you will watch as I finish her off. Then and only then, will I discuss the next move with you.
She fits the role like a glove. So you go down on your knees and beg your new dominant to allow you to say goodbye to the old one.
You: I will do anything you want, just let me say goodbye.
She tells you to put on some clothes. She drives you to an abandoned structure a few kilometers away where you find Shammi beaten to a pulp.
Her: I had to beat some information from her.
She says casually.
Shammi groans. She is hanging upside down, the cut on her neck slowly draining her dry.
You: Shammi? Can you hear me?
You don’t recognize the broken mess that is your voice.
You: Baby are you in there?
She groans again and calls your name.
You want to touch her face, hug her body, hold her close and never let go, but she is broken and bloody. You hiss at your wife;
You: Where are they? Them that did this to her, where are they?
You know for certain that this task is too physically arduous for her. She must have hired some people to do it.
Her: I will show them to you. For now, say your goodbyes.
Shammi: (Groans weakly) You finally found someone to overthrow me.
You: I am sorry.
Shammi: It is OK. We always knew there was a possibility of this day coming. (Chuckles painfully) Just didn’t think it would be her.
You: I thought she was dumb when I married her.
Shammi: Don’t know what to feel about her. I actually think I am proud of her.
You: (To your wife) Cut her down.
Her: No. She will die hanging upside down like a cow in a slaughterhouse.
Shammi: It is OK baby. You take care of this one. I like her. I think she will take better care of you than I ever did. Than I ever could.
Your heart goes out to her. You feel your eyes clouding up as Shammi whispers hoarsely at you;
Shammi: If you dare cry right now, I swear to whatever god might be in the mountains that I will reach out from beyond the grave and squeeze your balls to juice.
You: (Chuckling) My new dominant will not like that.
Shammi: Now go on. Get out of here.
Shammi: Get out of here, right now.
You: I am sorry.
Shammi: Just fuck off, please.
You leave. You walk away from the only woman you have ever really let in. The one who taught you that, “if there is a god in the mountains” phrase.
To the world, you are a successful businessman. You have a fleet of cars, a big house, a beautiful wife who gets pregnant faster than you can say ‘fuck’, beautiful and smart children; a big family that loves you.
But now you are walking away from the only woman who ever really let you see the real you. Broken, insecure, afraid, lost, vulnerable.
To the world you are powerful. To her, you would be hopelessly gone if she wasn’t there to support you when you broke down perpetually.
You walk away from her and you don’t stop even after three gunshots ring out in the dark. You want to cry, but you don’t. Not yet.
Your pregnant wife leaves the abandoned structure fifteen minutes later with her gun in hand and a small bag. She tosses the bag in the backseat and the gun on the dashboard.
You: What is in the bag?
Her: Her teeth and nails. We can’t let her body be identified so she doesn’t get tied back to you.
From the boot, she pulls out a jerry can of petrol and walks back into the structure where she douses Shammi’s body. She pours more petrol on the floor and on the walls and strikes a match.
She doesn’t let you stick around long enough to see the structure get engulfed by the flames. Still, you don’t cry. Not yet.
She takes you to another abandoned structure, kilometers away. In the dead of the night, she parks in front of it and says;
Her: In there. That is where you find the private investigator and the guys I paid to beat Shammi up. I spiked their drinks but they should be getting up any time now.
She arms you with a hockey stick. She smiles at you. She kisses you on the lips. “Go to work baby.” She says.
Her: I will stay in the car. Can’t stand the sight of blood.
You get in there. You find one woman and two men tied to chairs with their mouths gagged. They are struggling to free themselves but their binds are too strong.
You don’t say a word. They see you coming and their eyes widen with terror. You urge to spill blood must be displayed all over your face.
You lift the hockey stick and bring it down on them. You hear bones cracking but you don’t stop. You cannot stop. You understand why they did what they did to Shammi, but that doesn’t matter.
You groan as you bring the hockey stick down on them, again and again. They try to scream but their screams are muffled by the mouth gags. The woman shakes her head, trying to plead. She is the investigator who blew the lead off your whole thing.
She knows you secrets.
You break her hands. Her legs. You kick her on the chest and upset her chair. You bring the hockey stick down on her body, breaking ribs, collapsing her lungs, breaking her skull, breaking her… you do her a favor. You beat her to death.
You don’t extend the same courtesy to the men though. These you beat within an inch of their lives. Then you go back to the car, retrieve another container of petrol and douse them in it. You strike a match and you stay.
You watch them burn.
You douse the rest of the place up and burn it down. This time you stick around and you watch. As the flames eat up their bodies, finally, finally, finally, you let yourself go.
You cry because you were created so messed up, you cry because you have just lost your best friend, you cry because you need the person who killed her and you rest your head on her chest and let her comfort you.
Her: Shh. Baby, Shh. Everything is going to be OK.
She lets you lay your head on her chest. She lets your tears soak through her clothes. She lets your shoulders shudder. She strokes your head, rubs your ears and lets you depend on her.
She leads you back you back into the car and starts the engine.
Her: Let us go home baby.