A Posy of Flowers

Sebastian’s apartment was furnished and decorated in simple artistic themes. Zara was lost for a moment as she browsed through the paintings hanging on the wall.

“You like paintings?” His voice was so quiet and so close behind her that she jumped.

He reached out and steadied her, pointing to one, “What do you think of this one?”

It was a painting of a young woman playing with a child, done in simple blacks and whites except for the posy of flowers in the child’s hand.

“Well, what do you think?”

“It is… What does it mean?” She turned around to look at him. He was taller than her by about several inches, so she had to turn her head up to look into his eyes. She found herself looking into the softest brown eyes. That caught her by surprise, everyone knew Sebastian as tough and hard, not the person to jerk around. The eyes…

He smiled, a smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes. She knew then why she was so drawn to him. 

Sebastian was Jose; different, a loner, highly successful and such a contradiction.

“What?” He was peering at her as if trying to read her mind.

“Huh?” She felt a little shaken.

He chuckled softly, “You had a little revelation moment over there. My painting spark it?”

She looked at the painting, “Did you paint it?”

“Yes, in another lifetime.”

“Before you were a priest?”

“When I was a priest. I still am ordained, you know.”

“But do you practice? I mean like are you celibate?”

He laughed out loud. She just stared at him. He walked off to the bar in his living room and opened a cabinet.

“A drink?”

She nodded. He poured out a scotch on the rocks, and walked back to hand it to her.

“Yes, I am celibate. But that is not quite enough for me to be called a Priest. I’m just a guy. I used to paint. Can’t seem to find the inspiration lately. But that seems about to change.”

Sebastian

The crowd was enthusiastic. They had never had quite a crowd, not even in their loudest bar performance at Crooked Q’s two months ago. People seemed to be taken in by the semi-rock, afrofusion, pop, whatever that The Adventurers, Simone’s band had come up with. 

Simone was the lead guitarist as well as a back-up singer; she was pushing Zara more and more into the lead vocals position. There was no doubt at all, who owned the band tho. Karma was a tenor that just couldn’t be ignored. His bad boy good looks also helped to draw in the girl fans. Romez and Mash alternated on the drums and the saxophone.

Zara had not felt this elated in a long time. Finally the band was coming up out of the dungeons if invisibility. Last month, they had actually paid her. Simone had talked to her last night about working with the band as her job. It was going to be quite a risk. She would have to quit her job at the Truck Company. But she could always continue with her studies.

Zara waved with the rest of the band against the burst of lights as the show came to an end. When they got backstage, Simone was still beaming as her husband hugged her and kissed her. Zara looked away. Seeing other people happy still hurt her. It had been six months since she realised that it was absolutely over between her and Jose. A week ago, her mother had told her that Jose’s wife had had twins, a boy and a girl.

Still, a lot could be said of the fact that thinking of Jose did not send her into a drinking spree anymore. Simone and the guys had taken to trying to hook her up with guys. Recently Simone had succeeded in getting Zara to go out with one of her Harley riding friends.

He was ok, Zara thought. But she was more interested in Sebastian.

Zara smiled, now, when he walked into the back room, and greeted everyone with a nod. The band members respected him, the calm cool guy who had been brought in by Simone two months ago to help manage the band.

He stopped and handed Simone a document, then walked over to where Zara sat in a recliner with a fresh vodka on lime that mash had mixed for her. He nodded, before he sat down, and Zara had to repress an urge to giggle. The man hardly ever said a word. His greetings were nods. His smiles hardly a lift of a corner of his lips. But he was brilliant business man. Rumour had it that he had made his first million at 20 years of age. But then the man would do anything to keep information about his self away from media and speculation.

Someone had wondered if he was a mafia don, at which Simone had guffawed in that loud special way only she could. Then she had revealed that Sebastian had been a priest once…

Back in the City

Time had passed in a haze. She had been home, tried to enjoy the home cooking, the company, the old friends…and yet her heart ached. Her mother had had no idea still…it had pleased her to tell Zara that her teacher/mentor’s wife was from their clan, and a good woman. Zara’s heart had ached.

So here she was, back to the city, back to her classes at campus, back to her job, with a slight salary increase, back to her guitar lessons. Simone the crazy girl she had met at Jimmy’s flat last November was forming a band and thought Zara’s voice would do just fine for a series of shows at a lit hub in Westlands.

She took a deep swig of beer, grimaced as she swallowed, saddened by her decline to pathetic levels. Had she really believed that he wanted her to see other people so she could be assured of her relationship with him? He had made her believe that her youth and inexperience would be an obstacle in their relationship. But it was not his fault.

She had craved for the adventure. She had chosen to see other men. She had chosen to have sex with other men, when she knew Jose was the only one she would have wanted to be with. He had tested her, and she had failed. So he had moved on. She hated the thought.

Simone, tall, dark skinned with close cropped hair dyed blond, had just walked into the bar. She was always so regal, Zara thought, a bit intimidating to the guys. A few had labeled her dyke. She was not, but as Simone would say, so what?

She smiled and waved when she spotted Zara, but had to stop several times to say hello and hug and laugh with several people on the way to the bar. Simone was that kind of popular girl. And she was married.

The man she loved and lived with was the quiet content type, who was confident in his relationship with his girl. Sometimes, he would be in the audience while Simone performed, quietly cheering her on. She would perform for him. And still so very many people had no idea that she was his wife. Actually, it was the other way around. Very few people had any idea that the quiet man was her husband.

It was a strange relationship, but it seemed to work for Simone and her husband the architect, Andrew.

For a moment, just before Simone got to the bar next to Zara, she thought of the resolution she had made. She had wanted to be with Jose, even as his number two in life. All she had wanted was to be with him. But when she had stood at his door looking at his number one, she had known she wouldn’t be able to handle it. Same as she knew now, that she did not want to be in a polyandrous relationship. Any.

Broken…

The door to the apartment over Jose’s garage was slightly open. Zara tapped on it lightly, and then called out Jose’s name. She heard a flutter of movement from inside the apartment, and then the door opened, first very slightly, and then wide open to reveal a woman, who smiled at first and then frowned.

Zara’s heart stopped, then she remembered the resolution she had made the night before. She forced a smile.

Habari ya asubuhi? ” she said the customary morning greeting even as a rush of apprehension flooded her stomach.

“Nzuri.” The woman answered, still frowning. She was older, probably the same age as Jose. Her light skin suggested Swahili descent, and the bright red and yellow design lesso, two of them, that she used as a veil and a sarong seemed to confirm it.

Jose was himself part Swahili, his mother was born from one of the oldest Swahili Houses on Mombasa Island. His mother had married an English settler who had converted to Islam in order to marry one of the Island’s Princesses. Jose had always been aware of his cultural heritage, Zara would know it, after spending more than 8 months as his secret girlfriend before he sent her off to the city to get an education, and lose him. It only made sense that the new woman in his life would be from the Swahili tribe.

“Jose yuko?” Zara asked, her voice almost weak with uncertainty. 

The older woman placed her hand on her hip, “Who are you?” She asked, without changing her expression. She spoke in Swahili, with a tone of voice that only made Zara more uncomfortable.

“I’m Zara.” Zara explained, “I used to work for him. Is he home?”

Zara heard another movement, and the door opened wider, to reveal Jose, tall and regal, in a vest and jeans. When the door opened, Zara found her eyes sweep as much of the apartment as she could see. She noticed the pretty seat covers on Jose’s couch by the door, and her heart sunk just a little bit more.

“Zara.” Jose’s voice was still the deep timbre that she craved to hear when she was introuble and needed comfort. From what she could see, someone else owned it now. And in her heart, she protested, but you promised to always be here for me.

“Jose.” She said simply. And she knew she was going to walk away and not beg for him to love her anyway.

Of Swahili Houses

She had not gone home in over a year. It was December, 14 months since she left Mombasa. The city had changed. Or maybe she had. As she stood at the side of the road with her suitcase, waiting for her brother to finally get his head out of whatever clouds it was in so he could get her, she looked around at her old home town.

As usual life begun early here. The mkokotenis (carts) were moving, carrying, delivering goods, vegetables, water, timber… The market vendors had set out their wares, the shopkeepers were busy. Mama Mahamri had sold almost all her mahamri and mbaazi (sweet cakes with peas cooked in coconut milk). Mtwapa was still the town that did not quite go to sleep, ever. It was 5.30 am still.

Mtwapa - Picture courtesy of www.beautifulmombasa.wordpress.com

 

Zara was contemplating getting one of the Mkokoteni guys to carry her suitcase to her mother’s home, which was about a kilometer from the road down North Beach Road. She had not carried much of her personal items, but she had done some shopping from her mother’s request list, which had turned out to be a lot. Her suitcase was full of items she was sure her mother could get in Mtwapa anyway. But she had missed her mother and three brothers, so she obliged them.

At 6am, Zara waved at a mkokoteni guy who had dropped a client’s luggage at the bus terminal. He rushed to her with a smile, and a warm greeting. Zara blinked, she has forgotten that greetings were a must to all, whether you knew them or not. She mumbled a reply, and then watched as the man hoisted her bag onto the mkokoteni.

The mkokoteni driver went off in the direction she gave him at a half-run, so she followed closely also running. The sun was already high up, humid heat surely rising. By the time, they turned 4 corners around streets of simple Swahili Houses, most built of coral rock and roofed with makuti (palm fronds), and some built of harder rock and roofed with galvanized Iron sheets, Zara was sweating and huffing.

They arrived at her mother’s Swahili House in 6 minutes. Her mother was outside the house, just opening the shed where she sold water at 2 shillings for a 20 liter jerrican. She exclaimed when she saw Zara, and rushed towards her. Zara let herself be pulled into her mother’s ample bosom, and crushed into skin that smelled of coconut oil, Zanzibar cloves and Jasmine. She felt the tears well up. She had missed home, and the familiar scents and sounds.

Her mother paid the mkokoteni guy, even as Zara tried to argue about paying for her own expenses. Her mother hushed her, “Ai mwanangu, sasa ungoje nikutunze. Kitoto changu jamani.”

Zara smiled, she was hardly a child, not anymore. But she was not going to tell her mother about it. Saida was from Old Coastal tradition. Conservative and Pious. She was a Swahili Christian, a faithful of the old Baptist church at Mzambarauni. Her family came from the old Muslim Arabs, but had somehow mixed with Local Mijikenda tribes and turned Christian. Zara had always thought it quite a contradicition, but she also had cousins and other relatives who had turned or stayed Muslim. Whatever the religion, Zara knew her family would hardly approve of the personal life path she had chosen for herself.

In her old room, Zara found most of everything as she had left it, only just cleaner and neater. Swahili houses were built in a rectangular shape, with rooms facing each other across a corridor, and a courtyard towards the back, where there was usually an exit door.  Both doors, the front and the back were built with cheap but usually durable wood. Some of their neighbours had started using iron doors even before Zara left for Campus, but it seemed mama had not caught on yet. Zara’s mother’s house was built with coral rock and plastered smooth with cement then painted a bright blue bordered with black. The roof was now galvanised iron sheets, it used to be Makuti lined on the inside of the ceiling with strong black plastic paper. Then, and now, the house could get incredibly hot.

 

Makuti - ready for roofing, picture courtesy of http://www.mzuri-kaja.or.tz/SwahiliHouse.html

 

 

The house had been given to Saida by her own father, after her husband died 12 years ago and left her with three young children. It had caused quite an uproar. Saida had been married. Tradition had it that she could only inherit from her marital home. But her marital home had nothing to offer except for the pension fund that did not amount to much because Kahindi had died young. Saida’s father had defied tradition and gave his only daughter a home, and even made sure she got a title deed.

Saida used the front of the house as her family home. She had her own room at the very front, and right opposite was the family’s living room cum dining area. The boys, Mbaraki and Kombo, both in their late teens, shared a room right opposite Zara’s room. The house broke into the courtyard which also had four rooms around it. Saida rented these rooms to tenants, mostly migrant workers in the hotel industry.

At the very far end of the courtyard, near the back door, were the bathrooms which were shared by all. And on an opposite corner the Kitchen area, which was likewise shared because the sink and water point were there. However, Saida had already set the rules such as she was the only one who cooked at the kitchen area. The tenants cooked in their tiny little rooms.

Zara had always thought that the Swahili houses were built to accommodate a man’s wives, Islam and local tradition had a limit on four wives, and their children. With that thought, she made a decision to see Jose before the day was out.

‘Other interests’

She did not see the car until it was screeching to a halt, and the driver was screaming at her more scared than angry. Shaking, and stumbling, she pulled herself to the sidewalk pavement, and pretty much fell against the fence that bordered the Oshwal Community Centre in Westlands. People stared at her, and she shook a bead of perspiration as the rush of adrenaline slowly settled, leaving her feeling weak.

She was in Westlands after a visit to the Music School, where she was planning to take formal guitar lessons, with money she barely had, and on time she did not have. Ambitions. Ambitions. She should just have settled for the Conservatoire in the City. It was accessible, much cheaper, but Chris had suggested the private music school in Westlands because a cousin of his had loved it.

Chris, he was seeing someone else. She was not surprised. A good-looking, financially stable middle level manager from ‘good stock’, who played rugby… He was bound to have a few admirers.

The lies had surprised her, though. She had tried to laugh it off, tell him that she knew there would be other interests, but he had taken it as an accusation. He had turned mean. Zara, had withdrawn, from him, from the relationship. The last time she had seen him, 2 weeks ago, he had announced that she was accusing him, because she wanted to justify her own infidelity.

Maybe, she was. 

And she was thinking too much of it. She had called Jose. He had told her he was in the city, and would not mind meeting up with her. He had refused to come to her flat though. When he visited her almost four months ago, he had made it clear that he wanted to cool things off with her while she was at campus. It hadn’t quite worked that night though. There had been nothing but heat.

Zara was not sure she had felt any of it when she had met up with him last night. But her heart had definitely gone absolutely cold when he told her he was seeing someone else.

She still had not cried, even though the tears choked her.

So she had signed up for guitar lessons that she was not sure she wanted.

Chris

Zara laughed softly, Chris growled.

She pulled her jacket close over her chest and let out a warm sigh. He curled his arm around her and guided her to his car, A Toyota Selica, souped and way too shiny for a man his age. He was 36. His friends had snickered the first time she showed up at his flat to watch the game. They had almost forgotten that she was a girl, though, during the heat of the game and the circulation of the beer. A few had slipped into cheerful camaraderie. But when she had gone to watch Chris practice for his Rugby match, one of them had actually called him a ‘cradle snatcher’.

It had not stopped the heat between them. Alone with her in his apartment, Chris had taken her like a man blind to everything but his desire. She had responded like a girl blind to everything except her passion.

And in between the moans as he kissed her womanhood, she had had trouble not saying Jose’s name.

Someone yelled, Chris waved, smiling, and then turned back to her with a deliciously carved eye brow raised, reminding her of the comment he had made when she had arrived at his apartment the day before.

“Damn, girl, you kill em all, and me, too.” He had made a show of checking out her derriere. He had said before, that he liked that even though she was a lad, she dressed like a lass, and ‘hot’ lass at that. He still thought it was hilarious that she was a auto mechanic. He still held her hands, looking at her neatly trimmed short nails, and for a bit she was glad that she had started wearing gloves to protect her hands. But it would never have been an issue with Jose. Or would it?

For a moment, as she slid into Chris’s car, she wondered what mattered most. That she liked the way she looked or that the men liked the way she looked. She sure did like the effect it had on Chris.

Try Outs

Zara took a sip of the vodka and reached for a cigarette and lighter. She was sitting at the bar, vaguely watching the soccer game on the TV screen to her left. Vaguely, because she had minimal interest in the two teams playing tonight, and because she was more interested in the man sitting to her right.

His name was Mark Omondi, an accountant, with a taste for Johnny Walker, and a declared connoisseur of wine and all things fine. Zara had tried very hard not to raise a cynical eyebrow when he had said so. She had met him through Jimmy’s girl, who seemed rather desperate to make Zara not single, so she could be assured of her own relationship. Jimmy had laughed yesterday, said it did his ego wonders to have a girl jealous over him. Beyond that, Zara doubted Jimmy’s commitment to the girl.

So she had come out on a date with mark, partly to set Jimmy’s girl at ease, and partly to keep her promise to Jose.

She still had trouble getting Jose’s logic. so if she saw other men, even slept with them, she would be more aware of her relationship with him? It didn’t make sense. But she did get the part that if she committed to him alone now and forever, she would always wonder what could have been.

He was right, she needed an identity of her own separate from him. She was only 20 after all. She needed an education, a career, but most importantly she needed to figure out who she was. That, for now involved taking a few risks, she supposed…

Zara smiled at Mark’s attempt at humor. Then he made the faux pas, “So a coastal girl like you, you must know how to cook really well. right?”

“Because I’m a coastal girl?” She asked trying not to look bored.

He chuckled, “Yeah, I also hear you coastal girls really know how to take care of a man, you know the bedroom matters.” He said this as he caressed her upper arm.

“Really, and from whom do you hear these things?” She asked then took a longer drag at her cigarette.

Mark mumbled something, but by then Zara’s attention had been caught by the glint of a smile, and the raise of a whisky tumbler on the other side of the bar. She smiled back, and raised her own glass of vodka.

Perfection. Smooth, very dark skin, he was seated but she could tell he was tall, and that well groomed that punctuated the smile, clear white.

She glanced at Mark, who was still trying to weight her assets against her rough hair and boyish denims, then at the beauty on the other side of the room. She looked over her shoulder to make sure he was not smiling at someone else. He laughed out loud, and slid off his stool, and headed towards her.

Zara’a eyes widened. Mark hesitated in his ramblings. And the Colossus of mythological beauty arrived.

“Hi, I’m Chris.” Zara grinned, the sound of his deep timbre exciting her. When she said her name, he cocked his head to the side, “Oh, that’s a nice name, Coastal?”

“Well, not exactly.” She considered telling him that she was with Mark, but decided against it. Surely Mark, would find another person whose assets were better suited to his needs.

“So, are you really watching the game?” he asked indicating the screen that pretty much no one else was watching.

“No, but I am really looking forward to kesho’s matches.” She offered.

He nodded, “I watch my games in my home. It’s a much better setting for me, than a loud pub with sometimes very juvenile fans.”

“I see. You mean it is much safer for you to support Liverpool, in private. You know no one making fun of your tema, and…”

“what are you talking about? Liverpool is THE team, Zara. And how…?”

She pointed at his jacket which had emblazoned Liverpool FC’s Insignia. He laughed.

“Man U, damu.” She hardly ever declared her soccer loyalties, she liked to think she loved the game for the love of it.

“I dare you, come and watch the game with me. I have a few friends coming over. At least one is a Manchester United person, so you’ll have company, but I know we will thrash you.”

“Oh you make sure there’s lots of Tusker Baridi to soothe you when we thrash you.”

First Steps in the Big City

Zara reached for a can of beer, trying not to betray her sudden angst. Jose’s phone call had come in just 13 minutes ago, the game was likely to last another 24+ minutes counting injury time, and in the next half hour she was going to have to clear a room full of men, beer cans, the gazeti that had wrapped the nyamachoma, toothpicks and god-knows-what-else.

In 45 minutes, Jose would arrive at Zara’s little room in Nairobi West. This would be the first time he was visiting her since she moved to Nairobi, to join the Strathmore Business School and study Information Technology on a full scholarship she had been offered by the community that ran her old High school.

The room was not much to look at, just a 12 foot by 12 foot room, with a tiny kitchenette and bathroom. There was running water and electricity which was a plus. The room was furnished in just the bare essentials. A 5ft by 3ft bed on which the guys were now sitting on, a study desk, a low table on which the 11 inch TV and DVD player sat, and a whole lot of books accumulated by both her studies as well as her obsession with buying books.

Pretty much everything she now owned, had been bought from her earnings at the new job as a Auto Repair Technician for a huge trucking company on Mombasa Road. Jose had sent to her to the manager of the trucking company, who was a distant relative of his, with a letter that stated her experience and qualifications. She did have the Diploma from the Auto Repair School Jose had paid for and she had attended while waiting for her scholarship to go through. The manager at the Trucking compny was extremely doubtful that the scrawny young woman could do much for his company and had offered her a starting job way below her qualifications. She had proven herself to him and two weeks after she started he had called her inot his office.

“Sasa, wewe kama taka kwenda repair lorry, itafanya kazi na Odhiambo.”

And that was her promotion to a Kshs 18,000 job. She worked days and went to school in the evenings.

She had come out three months ago, with fear in her stomach and dreams in her eyes. Jose had pushed her to follow up on the scholarship, and when she had, she had felt like she was flying right out of her world of despair and hopelessness. Before that, she had worked as a mechanic at Jose’s auto repair shop, doubling as his accountant on weekends.

Jose had smiled, with tears in his eyes the day she boarded the bus heading 500 kilometers plus into the big city. She couldn’t kiss him because her mother was watching, and Jose had made the decision that he wanted his relationship with him to remain a secret until she was ready and prepared to face the commitment.

The night before, she had sneaked into his apartment over the repair shop. Jose had met her with a mixture of desire, pride and anxiety. He did not have to say it. She knew she would miss him.

That burst of anticipation, fear and hope had translated into heated passion. As she launched herself onto him, he had gasped and then unleashed his own passion. He took his time, even when he was stretched taut with wanting.

He lay her on the bed, undressing her as he studied her, and she thought he was committing her to memory. Come to think of it now, maybe that is what he was doing. He had chosen to send her out into the world, and he had memorised her body, just in case she flew away and never came back. She had sensed his hesitation, when she begged him to come visit her, almost as if he wanted her to find a life away from him. Finally, he had relented, but so suddenly she was still reeling from his announcement over the phone.

Zara looked at Tom, Jimmy and Sara. Tom and Jimmy were boys’ boys. Suave, smooth, sporty, loud after a few beers with a soccer game going on. Sara was Jimmy’s girl, completely bored with the soccer game on TV but determined to be right by her man, especially if he was going to spend Sunday afternoon in some woman’s room watching soccer.

She was going to have to kick them out as soon as the game was over. She sighed, thinking of Jose’s smoldering eyes. Last time he had held her in his arms, she had trembled then exploded looking deep into his eyes. Just the thought… his calloused hand gentle against her inner thigh, his lips exploring her secret folds, teasing, taunting until her juices burst forth, his hands and mouth on her breasts, then his hardness prying her open, and his harsh intake of breath as her warmth enveloped him, the bead of sweat forming on his upper lip, as his hips found a life of their own, surging as if in need to merge with hers, her moan, then gasp, then scream echoed by his grunts and a shout as he gave himself up to the explosion…

Even now she could feel the blood gorge between her legs, and she knew that she wanted to have the room all to herself and Jose when he did arrive.

He had whispered, at one point, the night before she left, “When you go out there, find yourself a life, new friends, your career, a new lover of you must. But learn the world, kid, learn it.”

She was trying…But tonight, she needed Jose.

The Laddette starts to figure it all out

She had screamed, tears sliding down the side of her face, pleasure beyond anything she had ever imagined radiating right through her core, from the tip of her toes to the top of her head. He had looked down at her with a wolfish smile before his own pleasure rocked him into a frenzy and he had given in to it with rough grunts and one final hoarse shout. He had held her close afterwards, soothing her, cooing as if to a child. She had basked in his affection, and cried from the deep emotion that engulfed her when he said he needed her again.

She was not that girl now.

Hard, tough, smoking on a ganja (marijuana ) stick. The boys around her stopped thinking she was a chile (girl) a while ago. Now they include her in all their escapades, in the soccer revelries at Hassan’s 8ft by 10ft kaja (one room house), and the little trips to the beach, where they meet the girls who are born of the strict society they belong to, the ones who deny sexuality even when it is eating at them.

Until last week, she had just assumed that her lack of interest in sex was because she had lost her virginity and all innocence to the Village Pastor, when she was 8 years old. She was 19, and until last week, she had never craved for intimacy, not the kind the boys stole with their girls while the mothers went to mother’s union and the fathers drank themselves silly at Kombe’s mnazi point. Not any kind.

Until last week, because last week, he had finally gotten her to himself alone. He, not the village pastor, the other guy. He, five foot seven, muscle bound, quiet, so quiet the boys and pretty much everyone else was convinced that he was a murderer, just like his father. He was not shy, that she had figured out. He just liked to keep to himself. Most of the time.

They had crossed paths very many times. She was coming home from school, skiving school, going to the beach, going to school, going to play soccer, sneaking to steal Mangos from Shida’s farm, watching out for a parent while a daughter was taught the pleasures of teenage sex in the bushes by on of her noble ‘boys’ crew, following at her mother’s heels when mama made her go to church. Yes, the same church where the Village Pastor preached every Sunday. His followers loved his sermons, and when they were not looking he deflowered their little girls, and allowed his paedophiliac homosexual cousin to emasculate the little boys.

Nubile? She was hardly an innocent, hardly untouched. For 2 years the Village Pastor had found ways to get her under his fat, stinking body, so he could plunge his organ into the tight little body of a child. With time, it hadn’t hurt anymore, so she could lie there while he pleased himself, and slowly eroded her soul. She thought he had taken it all. When she was 10, he found himself a new little toy and left her alone, but not without a warning that he would kill her and her entire family if she ever told. She had not bothered to tell. Who would have believed her?

He. He ran a Vehicle Repair Shop. Everyone called him Jose. The story was that his family was one of the oldest in the town, but it had tapered off to his father, who twenty-two years ago had murdered his wife, then killed himself, and left their only son at the mercy of a Catholic Mission that had taken him up, raised him from the age of 7, right up until he graduated from University. Jose had a degree in Law, but he was running a Vehicle Repair Shop.

She had ended up at his shop, when her mother finally admitted that she couldn’t pay her college fees. She knew some about cars. He had told her he would see what she could do in a month’s time, then decide if she would get a permanent job at the shop.

Last week, the month had ended, and he had called her to his office up above the garage, to pay her, and tell her if she had the job or not. The front of the upstairs area above the garage was his office. The back was his apartment. With a connecting door.

One moment they were talking about the job, the next he was swearing, puling her close to him, and plunging his tongue into her mouth. Vaguely, she had waited for the repulsion she expected, but the thought was lost, when his arms gentled around her, and his mouth softened overs hers. She had moaned, the heat of desire surprising her, and for a moment she was clawing to get closer to him.

“Come, Zara,” he whispered, pulling back so she could look into his smoldering black eyes, and the bead of sweat that had formed on his forehead. He had pulled her by the hand throught the connecting door, into his apartment.

He had sighed, “I’ll hate myself tomorrow, but I want you so bad right now.” He showed her, smiling when she gasped at his size. He pulled her close again, very obviously trying to control the urgency he was feeling. 

She whimpered when his lips taught hers to play games she never knew existed. When she had grown accustomed to his proximity, she found herself darting her tongue past his lips playfully. He laughed softly, and lifted her into his arms, and strode right across the room, to the large bed adorned in black silk. 

When he lay her down, she lifted herself on her elbow, distracted from desire to look around the room that no one else in the village, male or female, could claim to have entered. It was just a very large room, with living room space, a kitchenette and the bedroom area. The room was decorated in solid blacks and greys, but decorated anyway. She loved it.

“Hey,” he nudged her gently, forcing her to look back at his face. He smiled, the laughter crinkling the corners of his eyes, and the breath caught in her chest. She had never seen him smile. No one in the village had seen him smile. The Mganga down at the Creek had said that his parents had died with his smile.

She bit her lip, and reached out to touch the pecs he had exposed when he took of his T-shirt as she looked around at his room. He groaned, and stilled her hand to lean into her and kissed her hard, and fast, reigniting the fire again.

She grabbed at his shoulders, when he unzipped her fade blue jeans, and slipped his fingers into her wet, swollen folds. She whimpered, calling his name. He laughed softly, and called her name. She went into a frenzy, pushing off her clothes when he took time to get rid of them. It drove him into his own wildness, then she was cradled in his arms, and he was cradled btween her legs.

She had panicked, and tried to stop him. He had stilled, calling out her name several times, until she looked up at him.

“I know. I know, Zara. I know.”

She stilled, looked into his eyes, and knew that he understood, that he was not going to hurt her. And he had slid his masculine strength into her feminine softness, and they had both cried.

Today, she stood with the boys, a silly smile adorned her lips. Just the thought of Jose, sent the blood racing between her legs. Tonight she would be back in his arms, begging for more, then watching when he exploded in pleasure. 

He had said, “It’s just sex, kitten. Soon, you have to figure out where you want to be.  You have to figure out what you want to do. About your life. About him.”

She had stopped breathing for a moment. But he had kissed her lips, “You will always be my girl, even if life takes you away from me. I need you to go out, and find life, when you are done, and if you want to come back to me, I’ll be here. For now, it’s just sex.”

She crushed the ganja that was not yet done. Karisa swore, and grabbed the rizla wrapped joint, shaking his head as she walked towards Jose’s shop. There was a bus ticket in her pocket. She was going to find life.