Wanja Kavengi
Romance is sweet, especially when it’s new. My next-door neighbour recently got a boyfriend who visits every evening for supper, and all I hear through the thin walls are her endless giggles and that particular laughter women reserve only for men they absolutely want to fuck. Their sexual tension penetrates the walls. It’s obvious they want to remove each other’s clothes but are both afraid it’s too soon, and neither wants to make the first move, so they hide their sexual longing in stories that stretch late into the night, and in tickling games that send the girl screeching in hysterical laughter.
The young man leaves eventually, when the night has gotten old and he sees no hope of supplying her with electricity that night. She escorts him to his boda boda parked just outside my window, and in that particular sweet voice women reserve only for men they absolutely want to fuck, she tells him she enjoyed his company. He says, coyly, that he will return to sleep in her house for three days. She says, in feigned offence, that he mustn’t dare; what does he take her for? He chuckles as he ignites his motorbike. I hear the unmistakable sound of a smooch. They bid each other sweet adieu. He revs his boda boda noisily as he speeds off.
I listen as I lay like a question mark in bed, my cold hands tucked between my cold knees. The only smooches I get are from mosquitoes. The only thing tickling me is a loosely hanging thread from the hem of my skirt. The only one supplying me with electricity is KPLC.
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