You've seen the motorbike riders. The way they incline at corners, their knee barely rubbing on the surface and then leveling back to full throttle? … Bicycles are by standards higher and a lot slower than motor bikes and to find myself at such an angle, it was a mathematical certainty that I was not going to level. Needless to say, I piled into a shrub, the bike careering further on to rest against a boulder three meters away. Stunned, I pushed to a sitting position, rubbed my eyes and spat out some weed. Then I turned to look at her again.
Even the girl of my dreams will enviously turn in… well, my dreams. I had seen her all right. She wore a low cut blouse, quite appropriate in the harsh afternoon sunlight although it was a couple of sizes too small. From the back, I could see her shoulder straps. Her skirt was long and as I passed her, I noticed an equally long slit that exposed a generous part of her left thigh at every stride. I’d heard of it. Windows 95, that’s what the guys in Nairobi called the skirt. It was a sight I took in oblivious of the approaching bend.
She was the one. The villagers had been talking all week about a young woman who had come to visit some neighbors in this rural Kenyan countryside. The talk centered on her clothes, or the apparent lack of them. In this place, women have to wear three layers of anything. Any attempt by the local girls to exercise fashion consciousness, occasioned by visits to town have landed them in the hands of the preacher, who doubles up as an adolescent counselor. My uncle, strict on morals had only just spent the better part of the previous evening lecturing me on temptations and wayward women.
She was in shock, as far as my rapidly blinking, sand filled eyes could see, her mouth was halfway open and her hands clutched at her head, pushing back the band that held her hair. She walked towards me. “Are you all right?” I garnered enough energy and stood, kicking at some rock pebble on the road, muttering. “Yes, I’m fine thanks.” “Are you sure? Your hand, I think there’s some blood.” “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be okay.” I picked up my bike, the front wheel was bent and three spokes stuck out of their sockets. Whatever was left of the sugar and tea-leaves I had gone to buy at the shop spilled out. “I’m sorry, let me help you. Do you live far?” “No, the gate over there.” She offered to walk me, pushing the bike. I felt like walking her in circles, away from home. As it were, she led me. As we walked into our compound, the dog announced our arrival. She squealed, let go off the poor bike and grabbed my hurting arm. My whole clan, uncle in tow walked out to a sight I’m constantly reminded. I had brought a girl home.
Even the girl of my dreams will enviously turn in… well, my dreams. I had seen her all right. She wore a low cut blouse, quite appropriate in the harsh afternoon sunlight although it was a couple of sizes too small. From the back, I could see her shoulder straps. Her skirt was long and as I passed her, I noticed an equally long slit that exposed a generous part of her left thigh at every stride. I’d heard of it. Windows 95, that’s what the guys in Nairobi called the skirt. It was a sight I took in oblivious of the approaching bend.
She was the one. The villagers had been talking all week about a young woman who had come to visit some neighbors in this rural Kenyan countryside. The talk centered on her clothes, or the apparent lack of them. In this place, women have to wear three layers of anything. Any attempt by the local girls to exercise fashion consciousness, occasioned by visits to town have landed them in the hands of the preacher, who doubles up as an adolescent counselor. My uncle, strict on morals had only just spent the better part of the previous evening lecturing me on temptations and wayward women.
She was in shock, as far as my rapidly blinking, sand filled eyes could see, her mouth was halfway open and her hands clutched at her head, pushing back the band that held her hair. She walked towards me. “Are you all right?” I garnered enough energy and stood, kicking at some rock pebble on the road, muttering. “Yes, I’m fine thanks.” “Are you sure? Your hand, I think there’s some blood.” “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be okay.” I picked up my bike, the front wheel was bent and three spokes stuck out of their sockets. Whatever was left of the sugar and tea-leaves I had gone to buy at the shop spilled out. “I’m sorry, let me help you. Do you live far?” “No, the gate over there.” She offered to walk me, pushing the bike. I felt like walking her in circles, away from home. As it were, she led me. As we walked into our compound, the dog announced our arrival. She squealed, let go off the poor bike and grabbed my hurting arm. My whole clan, uncle in tow walked out to a sight I’m constantly reminded. I had brought a girl home.
2 comments:
The story has the hallmarks of a Kenyan Jayne Eyre (albeit with a male authorial voice) I was reading it waiting for that one line 'Reader I married her'
Are you a professional writer?
reader, i never married her...
no i'm not, its a hobby.
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