Well, it turns out that phrases mean different things to different people. Especially Monique.
It is quite an outrage and part of the reason I haven’t recently been having any blogging rights at all.
First you may need to understand the statistics! Statistics are a terrible thing. And none were worse than those that were recently released that indicated that more unmarried Kenyans have sex than married ones.
As Alanis Morisette probably asked when confronted with those statistics, ‘Isn’t it ironic?’. Truly, how can people who are legally licensed to have sex be the ones who are not doing it more frequently. It would be ironic too to my grandma Rosa.
Whenever I have spoken to my grandma and she wanted to find out where a certain female relative was married, she would use the phrase in the local dialect in my community that comes out as ‘In whose home is she getting shagged?’.
In one other incident that illustrates the license to have sex, I had my attachment during my university days at the local Law Courts when one day a couple that had been caught having sex in a car were arraigned before the court. They were married. But not to each other.
The charge sheet inexplicably and perhaps memorably read: Being idle and without lawful excuse engaging in sex in a motor vehicle.
I chuckled. Being idle? If there is anything you want to accuse people who are engaged in nookie, it surely would not be being idle! And when I challenged the police prosecutor whom I shared my lunch with during the entire attachment what the lawful excuse for having sex was, he simply said, ‘Marriage!’
So I was a bit surprised as a person who was getting married to learn that most married men don’t get jiggy with their wives. It is so mind boggling and perhaps grim. And this was confirmed recently when one of my lady clients who was seeking a decree of divorce from her husband sneered: “The only chance that I could have sex with my husband is if I divorced him”.
The statistics by National Aids Control Committee also revealed that Kenyan youngsters are sexually active at very alarming levels. In fact, it was indicated that the month of December is the month that most youth lose their virginity.
The shocking report jolted a few persons who decided that the only way for this country to be saved would be if we upheld our old traditions. Like outlawing pre-marital sex. And as it sadly turned out, a few persons included Monique.
Now, a few months ago, if you asked me what pre-marital sex was, I would have gladly joined in and stated how it was the kick the entire populace needed.
For Monique, since the whole ‘we are now engaged’ scene played itself out in our lives, she decided that we had to take it traditional. She put her foot down. Yes.
Strictly no more nookie before the wedding. I protested. Pre-marital did not mean ‘just before the wedding’ but she appeared to have made up her mind to keep her fine feet, straight legs, quivering thighs and the demesnes that lay adjacent closed until the business of the marriage ceremony was concluded.
So the last few months I have been quite my grumpy self suffering from nookie withdrawal symptoms and it got so bad that I couldn’t blog as I just can’t blog when am not having sex.
[Now I can blog, because, I finally, er… you know….]
It has been a terribly trying time. Key word, trying. And there were other actors to keep it that way during my period of withdrawal.
I found myself spending more time in the showers contemplating self love. And so Cilla one day burst into the bathroom as I was taking my shower. I was busy singing a fairly familiar Lucky Dube tune with the made up lyrics, “You know where to find me, when you wanna see me!”
The water was gushing and I briefly turned it off to see why it was flowing in torrents and not spurting out evenly. Turned out someone had turned and slightly twisted the shower head. Monique didn’t use this shower, preferring to use the bath tub and the only person who used it other meself was Cilla.
Whilst I silently cussed her shapely behind and wondered why people with the body of a Goddess would sometimes have the brain of a footballer, I turned the water back on and went on with my Lucky rendition.
“You know where to find me, when you wanna talk to me! You know…”
The doorknob to the shower had turned and the door was slammed.
“Sorry, but I really have to go,” Cilla said like she was a contestant on those Japanese game shows where girls compete to find out who can hold their bladder the longest.
“You WHAT?” I shockingly asked as I looked all over for my towel which was not in the vicinity but was placed on the sink. Only the shower curtain separated us as she sat on the throne with the sound of her pee hitting the water.
“There are THREE bathrooms in the damn house”, I protested.
“I am used to this one” she said as she reached for the flush. It was true. She had even attempted to pimp up this bathroom and therein lay a stash of magazines such as True Love, Drum and a recent one called Move.
Who knew that True Love could be found in a bathroom?
I pulled part of the shower curtain and looked at her by peering through the pulled side. She was in the buff but wrapped in a towel.
“So, you have been spending more time in the showers of late,” she stated as if this was the time and place to make comments about my new found sense for super-cleanliness.
“Cold days, hot showers,” I said.
“Are you sure it hasn’t anything to do with the fact that Monique told me you are nil by hole?” she asked.
“Nil by what?” I asked more in shock than need to understand.
“Let me join you”, she said and stepped into the shower and threw her towel to the floor.
“Are you out of your mind,” I said more out of the fear of Monique walking in on us than anything else.
“Relax,” she said reaching for the soap and cloth and covering herself in lather. “Monique has stepped out.”
She turned to look at me. At my face and then moving her eyes down.
No, no, no were the only words and thoughts on my mind.
She let out a laugh. I just had the horn real bad and I was sure in its head it was thinking what a terrific and delightful snatch this would be.
“Clearly you are happy to see me!” she said and we kissed whilst she scrubbed my back.
You know I never figured when I was going to take this shower, that I would be showered with kisses.
“Admit it,” she said after our lip lock ended as we pulled away for air. “You have wanted to kiss me for so long”.
I had thought about it. And resisted the urge even in the moments she had been in a state of undress or in moments of semi cleavage display when she was in the kitchen and there had been quite plenty of such moments.
There was also the annoying habit she had when we were watching a movie on the idiot box and some kissing scene was shown and Cilla would make this rather snake-hissing sound. “Hmmmmmwwwwwwwa!” It happened all the time.
To make it worse, she had decided to move some of the exercise equipment to the living room and would once in a while lay on the damn black thing (I don’t even know what to call it or how it got into my house) but there was no way those were legitimate exercise routines. She would lift her backside and part her legs in a rhythmic motion which almost got me choking on my breakfast cereal one day.
I had thought about getting sunglasses especially when I noticed that sometimes the rather tight leggings she wore accentuated her figure and bordered on what you would call a body scanner.
Yet here she was in her birthday suit and no imaginations were necessary. There was honour and there was Maid of Honour indeed.
“Hey,” I said breathlessly as she parted her legs and rinsed the wet body part there-between. “I think …”
I heard the noise of the padlock at the gate being fiddled with.
“… I think I am clean enough,” I said.
As I moved back, she looked up at me and had a slight frown on her face.
“You know where to find me ... when you wanna …”, she jokingly sang.