In the wee hours of September 30 1989 at the Pandya Memorial Hospital in the sun-drenched downtown Mombasa an infant with a peculiarly over-sized backside sprang from the loins of its mother.
Slightly over nine months before a couple had gone horizontal in a fit of mounting passion,exchanging saliva which inevitably led to the even more passionate exchange of bodily fluids.
This bundle of joy which cried incessantly upon taking gulps of the acrid air,almost chocking,was the crystallization of that intimacy enjoyed by two mortals united by holy matrimony.
The delivery,as the doctor and the nurse would confirm,had been so bumpy that the two intensely feared for the mother.As a matter of fact,it had taken a whooping three hours unnerving the bloke who had fired the fertile seed and was impatiently waiting outside.
Evident on his visage was the deep relief after the message, delivered by one of the nurses ,that the delivery had been successful in spite of the complications involved.Seeking to quench the tremendous curiosity that consumed him to the core of his being,the father of the infant sought to know why the delivery had been so protracted.
The doctor attributed the protraction to the over-sized rear end of the infant which stood like two stalactites protruding from the floor of a limestone cave in a ghastly manner.
That’s how the vivacious Kenyan version of Kim Kardasian at the centre of the unrelenting booty chatter came to this queer world where men pee in basins at night because they are too lazy to do so outside.She spent most of her formative years in Mombasa where I also spent part of my pathetic youth and managed to land an oppressively beautiful Taarab songbird;a petulant,capricious and wholly possessive being who threatened to disrupt my ability to pee on suspicion that I was playing her.
Fearing for my dear life,I quickly packed up my accoutrements and fled to Nairobi:a world of its own teeming with dangerous and malicious beings.The rest is classified.
So Vera Sidika came along.She hit puberty at the tender age of nine what in technical jargon is referred to as ‘precocious puberty’.Yes–the linings of her uterus begun rejecting menstrual blood and other cellular debris earlier than normal;a fact that rattled and inspired befuddlement in her parents.
It during this turbulent period ;a biological inevitability powered by nature or perhaps by the gods,that the pronounced convexity of her sitting allowance hit her like a cruise missile that Obama has deployed in the Middle East to target terrorists.This curvaceous twins caused stupid men ,who lack the life-sustaining virtue of self-control-a gift of the holy spirit as I was taught in my C.R.E lessons,to panic and spray their inner garments with sweetness related dampness.
At high school,schoolboys and male teachers suffered immensely.Delightfully conscious of this fact she deliberately ask for permission to go outside during lessons under the pretext that she was hard-pressed to empty her gall bladder which ,she unabashedly told her male teachers, was burning with urine.
As she exited the classroom in her tight mini that Njue wants banned,her hips would wiggle amorously plunging the entire class into a trance that they found extremely difficult to recover from.
According to street-gutter grapevine,a young man on teaching practice from the University of Nairobi-notorious for pimps,unable to withstand these unholy stunts made advances at her and without much effort managed to smear her luscious thighs with extremely underdeveloped beings;a fact that Vera herself strenuously denied and which I am indisposed to confirm or deny.I care less!
Away from her presumed High school peccadilloes,I met Vera in Nairobi at a plush eating joint,the kind of which only men with deep pockets and who can afford goat meat patronize. You see,I stopped patronizing brothels that masquerade as drinking joints meant for ‘family men’ yet are teeming with scantily dressed snakes which slither around on the lookout for sexually-deprived mortals.
Our eyes locked as she made her into The Royal Hotel situated in the leafy Karen area where I hear the indefatigable former prime minister, Raila Odinga, owns a colossal mansion.
She trained her eyes on mine at first with the coquetry of a nymphomaniac and then with intense disgust and condescension as if I was an Al Shabaab operative with an incendiary device hidden in my pants.As the gentleman that I am ,I cooly partook of my lovely Heineken bottle silently scheming like Oliver Pope in ”Scandal’.
The lass who had shot into the limelight after a dramatic stint at ”Big Brother Africa” and who made Larry Madowo stupid when she graced his equally stupid show ”The Trend”.I will never forgive Larry for allowing the febrile vixen roundly self-praise and peddle a yawning narrative peppered by obvious pantomimes.In the reality show,Vera rejected the appellation of a socialite arguing that it didn’t do justice to her circumstances.
She sauntered towards an unoccupied table in an imperiously super-confident gait evidently savoring the effect on her male counterparts.I could see why her Nigerian boyfriend,a bloke whose face remains shrouded in mystery,could not resist her antics or to put it more bluntly her pair of twins which I gather are alive with silicon implants.An American surgeon sliced her milky and sitting body parts with a scalpel and had them sewn after putting the implants inside.
She looked beautiful but not as beautiful as Karin Giannone,a South African born British journalist who despite being twenty years my senior stole my heart and later broke it after she coldly rejected my romantic overtures on the premise that her heart was somewhere else locked in matrimony.
Her rejection put me on an emotional slippery slope from which I am still reeling wondering why God allowed some malign forces to thwart my only hope of happiness.Call it the tragedy of love;loving a woman who doesn’t love you back.DAMN!
TO BE CONTINUED…