Image courtesy of pixabay

I had just completed campus. Upon finishing this critical fete, it was time to move into the world and be swallowed by the ills that were incessantly spoken of. I was excited at the prospect of what awaited me outside. I was looking forward to a life absent of classes, lectures, and bottomless empty pockets.

At one time in my existence, when I was a dreamer, I had had the dream of a car at 23, a house at 25, and a slay queen at 22.3.

I was 23, and the only thing I had managed to achieve was an empty stomach and a beautiful girl I had dated for 3 years. She was a queen that one, not a slayer. I was her king and she had managed to slay my feelings, so can we call her Jamie, since she had been the king slayer for three years?

Being a year behind me meant I left her in campus to at least go and try to lay the foundation of this maturing affection. We had dreams of having kids together, you know. Everything was planned out, get a job, and wait for her to graduate, plant a seed in her then look for better conditions to nurture the blooming of that seed.

The devil is a liar.

So, after completion, I moved in with my cousin in Coffee Sugar, yaani Kahawa Sukari. We had always been close and the thought of moving back to the village was as unpleasant as it was an unappealingly bad idea. He kept telling me that but I knew it. Moving back meant losing so many opportunities in terms of jobs and feasting my eyes on these Nairobi light lasses. So I didn’t need any convincing.

I stayed.

For a month, I watched movies, asses, sent some few applications, watched more movies, asses then forgot about the Kingslayer.

One of them came through. The application. I got invited for an interview, went, did well and secured the job. One month after leaving campus, I was employed and excited. It was time to secure ze bag.

I had to move out.

The idea of looking for a two bedroom house with my cousin crossed our minds but it was shelved because living with relatives gets complicated faster than UK drops a bottle of Glenfiddich. So we decided to conquer separate estates in this land of stones and suffering (shamba la mawe). It was the right decision as evident by the sampling that has happened over the years.

He moved to Kangemi and I moved to a village at the periphery of the City. A village that had a reputation for hosting thugs and killers. The forgotten of the society chose this village to settle in. Everyone here knew everyone else. It was like a big family gathering. An unpleasant, unnecessary but compulsory family gathering. Aunts snooped around, uncles drank themselves silly, grandpas gave words of wisdom and grandmothers prepared the local brew and mukimo. People communicated in the local dialect but I always feigned ignorance anytime someone mistook me for one of ‘theirs’.

Since the reporting date was closing in, I asked my aunt to look for a small house for me in an estate she lived in. She was excited because by living close to me, she would spy on me on mum’s behalf.

A single house was available somewhere and I moved in with a 3*6 bed and a mattress of the same dimension, a basin, one green plastic chair, one sufuria, and a kerosene stove. Life was just starting.

I suffered.

The washrooms were shared between houses. I hated sharing anything, so I showered in the house, left the water to dry by the time I got back from work and used the office washroom.


So one day, after leaving the office, I arrived home around 6 to find a lass sitting on the verandah outside my single, one bedroom apartment. 😂

She is wearing a tank top and a kanga is tied around her waist. In the compound are four houses, mine, hers, another one belonging to a ‘thuggish’ looking neighbor and the landlord’s. Having mastered the art of sweeping them off their feet, I stretch my hand, upon which she stretches hers and contact is made, it’s not electrically intense, but it’s different. Her features look soft but her hands are rough, not too much so, but just to signify that she isn’t afraid of using them, on anything or anyone.

I introduce myself, we converse for a little while after which numbers end up being exchanged. One moment we are talking about the weather, how our days were, the next we are sexting, and before any of us realize it, we are exchanging fluids.

There’s something about her that is elusive. I keep getting the feeling she is living a double life. This emanates from the fact that she is never straightforward about what she does and also the fact that she is never around the house. That’s why we text a lot because one on one conversations are somewhat impossible.

Mwende is a slim thick girl with a round face, a somewhat hoarse voice, long slim fingers, an almost empty brain, and a beautiful personality. She is easy to talk to and her conversational flow is something I haven’t experienced in quite a while.

She isn’t the prettiest girl I have ever seen but she isn’t the worst either. She is a strong 5. I haven’t been one to be attracted to a 5 but I accommodate her because she makes living in this new place bearable, she is the first girl I knew here and she has skills. Mind BLOWING skills.

After three weeks, I move out of the compound and delete Mwende’s number.

Several months after leaving, we meet up at my barber’s salon. She is getting her nails done and immediately she notices me getting in, she looks away as if she doesn’t even know me. I am somewhat relieved because it’s a Sunday, I am hangovered, the Kingslayer is behind me and I am honestly not in the mood for any confrontation.


“Do you know the girl who was getting her nails done as you walked in?” My barber texted me when I got home

“Yes, from sometimes back. She used to be my neighbor. Why?” I texted back.

“She is an intelligence officer. She isn’t even Kenyan. Me hsukia she is from Burundi.” He responds after an eternity.

“Haha, trust me, I know her, she doesn’t have the intelligence required for that kind of work.” I text back immediately.

He responds by sending me a URL link to an investigative article written by a local media house about several deaths linked to her and her country of residence. I know it’s her because of the description given in the article and the fact that there are several photos of political leaders in her country with her in the background dorning assault rifles.

I don’t text him back.

I order a cab and head to the place I used to live before, where she and I had met. I find the house locked and upon inquiry, I am informed she moved out the following day after I did and that the house had since been occupied by someone else.

I get out my phone to call the Kingslayer and a message pops up.

“I am pregnant. It’s yours.”


The authorKen

Leave a Response