Juicyposts.weebly.com presents a Kenyan pussy from Kiambu
0 Comments
The Lady At The VCT Center
Goddam shit! That red g-string really haunts me men. Such messy stuff a combination of alcohol n pussie produces. I wish I would have stuck with my Tusker rather than drink spirits in a strange town. Have lost count of the number of times I have promised my stupid self never to touch this substance. Ouch! This pain sucks! I must have rolled downstairs or those dogs must have dragged me. But I believe I gave someone a good punch. Otherwise my fist should not be smarting like this. I hate bouncers. I am lucky though, fighting with unschooled bumpkins can be disastrous. It wasn’t funny men. That thing was real bad. Holy shit, I did a good job of cheating those thick cops. Otherwise it would be a different story now: assault causing real bodily harm, drunk and disorderly, destruction of property, disturbance of the peace….and what else those sick coppers could conjure up with their limited legal parlance. I hate cops with all my living soul. I should own a gun soon, legal or illegal, preferably an automatic. Don’t believe in killing people but cops are not human beings. They are a different species that biologist are yet to name. And that bitch wasn’t even worth a fight. Don’t even remember what the hag looked like but can recall grapping her tits. Funny! Every bitch has got its owner. Even `those whom the devil created in his own very image. Alcohol is fuckin bad. Real hard fuckin bad! Forget this pain anyway. It is such a small issue now. Have to concentrate with this shrink or counselor or doc or whatever they would like to be called. And this waiting room is so big; it would have made such a nice pub. God, I need a beer to work up my nerves. Alcoholism is in the genes. I read somewhere in some journal. There is a sweet chick seated next to me. I wonder what has brought her. She is in such a dismal mood I can’t dare disturb her. My reveries are better. She seems to be lost in such a ghoulish trance. Or else what would contort a chick s face in such an angle? If you would like to know that people can get serious, visit a VCT centre. Even the slim guy seated next to me is so deeply worried he should just die. The lady is ushered in. Noticed she had such a sweet derriere. Reminded me of ma ex. Ma best when it come to asses that is. Otherwise there is a harem of others with various but specific attractions too. Boobs (am a sucker for boobs, God! love them big) eyes, lips, legs, thighs, hair and other features God factored in a woman to disturb men. That gal had a bum to die for. I wonder what my mum would have said, had she met her. Maybe she would have been jealous or something. You never know with women, your mum included! The wiry guy is lead into the next room. Am wishing that I be let into a room with a pretty-pretty gal, young at that. Don’t like discussing ma life with men, especially the sexual department. They can’t help anyway. Am not queer. You see, women could benefit by learning something men. Be they sex counselors or not. You can easily win their compassion. Even lay them. Life is like that. You never know the source of your next pussie unless you are thick. The cheap clock on the wall struck three. This government guys are thieves. Am sure someone filed some wild returns that they bought this clock for a thousand shillings or even more. In a country where everybody is a fraud, rationality is a rare commodity. You find it in slums, not government offices. The lady with a knobby face walks out; her face looked just the same as I last saw her. These counselors don’t do nothing. How come that gal didn’t get better or worse? I doubt their education level, bet they are River Road grads and the minister of health must be from their village or most likely she pussied her way here. Pussie buys anything. Especially jobs. Forget what you see in porn. Those are second rate. There is real porn in high offices that never get to your attention. Especially if you are poor. Poverty is a serious disease. It precludes you of not only luxury but even information. Good gossip doesn’t come cheap. I tell you. After seeing that bitch’s face, I decided without anymore debate that I won’t take the test. No need to stress maself when I can avoid it. The bliss of ignorance. Some hideous gal gave me a gummy smile and let me into some room. That smile wasn’t worth reciprocating, besides, am a firm believer in putting people where they belong. I aint such a nice guy. That am sure. A lady with a red mini-skirt is seated facing some table to the wall. On the table are some boxes with some apparatus and papers. Reminded me of my high school lab. Several years ago. Was dating ma first gal. Claudia. Shy bitch in class eight, across the fence. But she was not a virgin. Neither was I. Claudia gave me ma first ride to the clouds nonetheless. Em days of sweet innocence. HIV was a rumor. The chick swung from her chair to face me. Mary Mother of Jesus! That gal had thighs that could kill God the Almighty! This is the masterpiece thighs. Others are counterfeits. My tongue itched for a licking encounter. I could feel my dick rise at once in ma jeans. At that instance I confirmed I was not going to get tested. Who? Mee? Never! I want to lay this bitch. I wonna hear her scream. She rose and pointed a seat for me. I stood still for some seconds then regained my composure. I shoved ma ass to some settee in the corner and she came with some papers and sat next to me. Facing me. Looking at me. Exploring me with her lazy eyes. Oh my holy shit! Did she have boobs? Her nipples were begging for attention, the left one was bigger. I could die! ‘Hi and welcome to the community VCT centre, my name is Angela’ she told me in a sexy voice ‘Thenkx ma, ma name is Deeplow. Ts cool mirring yo’ I responded in a humble voice that was so hard to muster. “Hey! you got such a strange name even though it is a policy to maintain the identity of our clients as anonymous as much as possible. Good to know your name though am sure I might forget it the next minute. Ok, How can I help you?’ she said with a trained smile they welcomed you with in a Five Star hotel. Very reassuring. Maybe she thought I was still interested in getting tested for this damn thing called HIV. Wished she could know that she had changed ma mission from stoking trouble to a simple lay. ‘Me is gat lotsa prolems ma. Dunno whera you cuu hulp me’ I said with subdued confidence to reflect that ma problems were dire. “I am here to help you as much as I could. That is why we are here. The first step is you to express yourself as much as possible so that I can figure out what to do.’’ ‘Thenkx ma. Well, I thought I nirred professional help to put ma sex life together. It is in shit ma. Real big shit. Am nut amused abourrit one lirl bit. AIDS aint a jook. Its lyk I have had too many chicks than is gud or normo. Think am addicted to flings or something lyk tha. Think I gorra fixit. Have tried before but flunked severally. Could you help me with thet. Its fuckin kreizy. Even now am tryin nut to have a hit on yer. Yer see, I cant resist gals. Twasnt always lyk thet. Think I hengd around the wrong guys.’ I said with a serious tone. ‘Aha haa haa, don’t say you already getting ideas with me, you can’t be serious!’ she laughed as she faced up, pushing her tits up in the process. Yellow full killing tits. Ma dick tightened harder. It hurt. Talking sex is infectious. Now I know. Even people who are supposed to fight it can’t resist it. I thought. ‘I mean dear. Am serious. Wonna see ma fly? It’s bulging up” ‘No nooo. Not with me. Not now, not here. Remember you wanted help to fix that,’ she tried faking seriousness but could not make it. Immediately I felt triumphant. Those words betrayed someone who would not mind a lay. I had managed to change the atmosphere to be amorous. ‘Ahkey , ahkey, pls take ther as a jook. Dirrnt mean to. Sooo, what do you advise me then, I fuckin need some hulp’ I feigned shame and composure. ‘You speak nice English, where did you learn all that? That aside, are you sure you don’t need a test? Would really advise you to undergo that first. I will first have to counsel. Some people .Most. Are scared about it but it is not life and death. In case of anything you can still live a normal life.’ She deadpanned. ‘I surely don’t need no mutherfuckin tests. Am sure I aint gat nuh Aids but in case I garrit, it is the work of the post mortem guys, when am dead. Doiven try convicin me. Dowonna take that shit. Am shore. Just gimme the fuckin counseling n maby drugs to screw ma liking for chicks. This o I need for nao. If it daent waak out. I wi cam beck soon n letchu know.’ I said with finality ‘Ok, no problem. If you are not ready, then I am not going to force you into it. Well, counseling to quit sex might take some time. Hope you will be disciplined enough to adhere to the rules. We don’t have a sex rehab where we could confine you. It is a relatively new field. Its success will mainly depend with your full cooperation. There is no sex anonymous community to support you either. You really have to put a lot of effort. It is not totally insurmountable if you are committed.’ ‘Now that you are not for testing, let me get you some form to fill’ she rose steadily but not too careful so that I saw her pink panty( wish all ladies could be in pink panties, it really kills me) she swaggered , her high heels making sure her curvy ass swing in voluptuous rhythms. She retrieved some papers and came back smiling. Didn’t know that these people are relieved when nobody is getting tested. It is such a relief for all parties concerned. Or maybe she was sure that she has hooked up a hunk for the evening. Could not figure out what was going in her stupid skull. Angelicious pulled a chair next to a table not far and beckoned me to it. She gave me a pen and stood beside me as I read the form, her boobs touched me as she bent to show me. Hard, firm, warm, hot, I just pushed back to relish in the hardness and expectedly, she didn’t resist. I savored the encounter for sometime and for once I was tempted to stand, take down ma pants and put ma cock in her boobs. I beat the temptation and decided to be serious for once in my life. ‘Could you find yerself a seat? Yer will get tired standin hii all tha time. Think I have known how to fill this thing, maby yer cuu come we summarize’ I told her in a serious tone ‘No, you might need some little help and I will get tired more by coming here and going there. Just fill it fast in case there is someone waiting’ there was some anger in her voice. Lesson one: this broad does not take rejection kindly. I was surprised and decided to take my mind out of her breath and tits. Men! It wasn’t easy. But I had to try. At that instance, she beeped out of the door, liked what she saw, locked the door and told me I was the last client for that day so I could take my time. She resumed her position behind me and pushed her boobs harder on me. I thought maybe to cure sex overdose in your life you needed more. She knew better. She was a professional. I was not. I skipped instructions, disclaimers blah blah and went ahead to fill the form. I decided that I will put a P.S reading: I filled it under the influence of boobs! Had a mind to do it. I filled the motherfucking form thus; Name: Deeplow Hard (my mum had given me other names but they weren’t sexy, had to change men, besides, I am a global citizen and don’t want those shameless tribalists to discriminate against me) Address: P.O. Box 1600000000065 GPO Nairobi (I love zeros; they differentiate good bucks from chicken feed) Profession: Business by training, hustler by default, writer by career, (you guys should check my blogs, they are hot men) I moonlight as a gynae (this is one hobby/habit I would like to kick out with your help, have too many occupations already) drunkard, talker etc Personality: warm, humorous, witty, crackpot, cocky, brashy when having money, outgoing, don’t take no shit, happy-go-lucky, charming, charismatic, easy going, go-getter ( in short I am all that J.F Kennedy was. Everything. Add a little but take nothing) I am a playboy! Interests: Too many. Politics, women (ending from today), reading, writing, world affairs, business trends, entrepreneurship, money and music ( rock, rap, techno, pop and soul) Present addictions: Cunt (new), alcohol, facebook chats, city life, BBC, and VOA (love the voice of Kim Louis and Caroline Castielle,) CNN ( I blame it on Monita Rajpal) CNBC ( blame it on my fetish for Erin Burnett) I am international babie! Can’t stand the local bullshit. Am informed like shit, in fact I am a polymath. Income level: Comfortable to almost affluent – I knew I was lying, in fact am a broke ass. Marital status: I consider myself single but people are free to think about anything. Don’t real much care what every nitwit in the street think. The women I sired children with would tell you am married but ma gals will tell you am single. Very. It depends on which side of the sexual divide you are. Either way, am least concerned. They can take a plunge into the sea. Religion: Wish I could believe in God. Not that easy. No. Orientation: Can only be straight. I don’t really much care what people do with their asses, dicks n pussies. It is theirs in any case. I am not a prefect for the society. Unless somebody wants to be paying me for the job. Family background: Brought up in a not so close-knit family, a hard working and loving mother but with an absent and drunkard womanizing father. Religion was not discussed, and has never been discussed. I basically don’t know whether they are Muslims, Christians, Hindus, Atheists, Jews, Agnostics or Animists. My guess lies with the last two. Years of addiction: The dividing line between normal and addictive sex is indeed very difficult to draw. Even though am the subject, I find it really hard to tell. This is one of the issues I am seeking professional help. I signed to be cooperative as much as possible and to avail ma ass when called upon. All the while, Angela was continuing her sexual offensive on me. She didn’t notice what I wrote because she would have sought some clarifications on some of the wild information I was providing. It was now my turn to return the advances. It was around six thirty in the evening by the time I was done. It was drizzling outside. In the tropics, rain inspires a feeling of snuggling close to something. The tap tap tap sound on the roof made me wild. I pretended to sit back and hold one of the legs of the chair but extended my fingers to her legs. It was a double assault because my shoulders were now pressing on her boobs harder. I caressed her legs furtively as if by accident. She didn’t move. My experience with women has taught me that whenever there is no opposition in one level then you are free to move to the next level. I groped with my hands up her thighs. The warmer it got. Her pulse through her right tit got faster. Her breath became intense. I moved my fingers up and up her skirt till I touched the lining of her panty. She parted her legs in response as if to invite me to finger her. I did exactly that. There was a low moan. Her pussie was already juicy and warm. I rose and hold her close to me and kissed her lips. She was an expert kisser. She worked me crazy with her tongue. We fell on the settee near by. I undid her top with a rare impatience. I seized her nipples, one hand each. Squeezed them and then decided to greet them with a kiss, then a suck and finally nibble them. Her eyes were closed but her mouth was opening and shutting in slow motion as if she was biting the pleasure bit by bit. ‘Deeplow! Boy! Please, please…do me some justice if you are a real man. Please boy, dip your dick into me .I beg you…ayah aaaaah oooaaaah, please! ’ I lifted her sweet skirt and removed her pink panty. The sound it made drove me nuts. I love the sound of panty as it is removed. It signifies victory on my side and complete surrender on her side. I love the sound that panties make as they are removed. It fires my passion, rejuvenates my libido and invigorates my energies before the action. ‘Deeplow! Please, do it nnnooow sssssss aaaaaaaa, aaaaaaa!’ I licked her yellow thighs slowly and slowly, up I marched, grandly to the Promised Land. I got to her well shaven pussie and something snapped in me, I was possessed, I sucked her clit into my mouth and she screamed. The whiff that hit ma nose as I did this made me almost scream…God! I ripped open ma fly and lowered both my panty and jeans down and pulled out my long suffering dick ready to do the meaningful inside the VCT lady’s pussy.... Memories of an African Childhood: Girl Hunting
I can’t remember anything that was more elusive in my childhood than winning a girl; even money was easier to come by. I am not sure whether it was societal values, coaching or sheer obduracy on the side of girls that denied us the much coveted flings then or what. Was it naivety, cowardice and inexperience that conspired against us? Either way, winning a girl was not a mean feat, I tell you. It was every village boy’s dream to have sex or establish a relationship with a girl. Wherever we learned that sex was pleasurable and a relationship was in order for humans, I can’t tell now. All I know is: we fantasized sex no end. In early years, it was repulsive to be associated with girls in school. The worst thing was to share a desk with a girl. It was almost an abomination to sit between two girls. You would be mocked by boys as a sissy. Aged around nine or ten years, things changed. A boy could boast having sat with a girl in class and pressed his leg closer to the girl’s. Most lied having achieved the feat and earned plaudits and admiration in no small measure. But nothing compared with beeping into a girl’s panty. If any boy achieved it, it became the talk among the boys for a whole month, if not a whole term. Panties then were either red or pink in color. Of course with a small daisy flower drawn on the left thigh or a heart and an arrow. (I didn’t know, till college, the import of the heart and arrow: cupid’s arrow!) If a girl loved you in those days, she showed you her panty. Just that and you worshipped her your entire childhood. It was such a rare pleasure to partake of a little girl’s panty. Oh how I wish I could see all these panties I am seeing now on TV then. Would it evoke the same delight now as it did then? Bet it would. Panty-worship legacy has been difficult to shake all these years; as a result, girls’ panties still awe me. Sometimes when school was about to close, girls staged a mellow version of a strip-tease that involved lifting their tunics up and down showing their panties. They would mock us in a song that went ‘here is my thing but silly boys won’t touch it.’ We just sat in a distance staring, drooling and fantasizing. I remember an incident where a certain girl brought me roast maize from her home. I took it as a sign of affection. I told all the boys of the gesture and she was officially my girlfriend, at least in the boys’ fraternity. What to do after that, I never knew but before I could make my next move, as ‘consummate’ our relationship or something of the sort, word reached her and she told me she would have shown me her panty but since I had proved to be a silly boy with a loose tongue, it was over. I begged her but she never forgave me. I hated myself and cried that night. That way I lost my first chance to see a panty. Chebet was her name and she was new in school. I missed some bragging rights by letting the boys know prematurely and I am sure some jealous competitor whispered it to her ear and added a little spin to it. I forgave myself just the other day for the blunder. We wanted girls, girls resented us. I am sure their moms had warned them against doing ‘bad things’ with boys. It was a taboo to mention sexual organs and sex by its name then. It could not come out from the mouth of even the cheekiest of boys. And not a single girl ever mentioned it. Never. Not even one that I can remember. So you could approach a girl and tell her you wanted something from her. She would ask you, pouting, WHAT? (With all the derision and hatred possible in the realms of humanity.)That would be the end of your advances. For you could neither say you wanted sex nor pussy. All your bravado would fizzle out and your rehearsals all come tumbling down when it got to that. And the way it took so many nights planning and rehearsing what to tell a girl! The plot was like this: you time a girl from the mill, church or fetching water etc, pretending you have inadvertently pumped into her. You say hi. Often, you will pass her without gathering enough courage to look at her, leave alone say hullo. In consolation, to put a better act the next time. Even if you said hi, you will do so and flee. If you mustered enough courage to shake her hand, you ended up tongue-tied and would not say anything further. That is if she condescended to extend her hand. Some declined to shake your hand, burst into tears, run home and tell her mom. If that happened, you knew you were in hot soup. For her mom will tell your mom. The next day your mom would give you a whacking you didn’t exactly comprehend where it came from. After the lashing, my mom always told me that all the mothers in the village were complaining that I beat their daughters on the road. And that I was a silly brat that she did not wish to be identified with. And that she would kill me if I dared repeat it again. (Of course I repeated it again and again and she never killed me) Even waving to a girl at a distance was taken as an offence by girls then. The timid cried and ran home to report you to their moms. The audacious lot harangued you at the top of their voices: ‘huh? You dare wave at me? I am not your sister or grandma, go and wave at them!’ In my mother tongue, there is a way one can make ‘sister’ and ‘grandma’ sound derogatory. So they insulted us and a fight always ensued after that. Some made a little act of derision, common with girls of those days, which symbolized utter contempt. They would pucker their lips, make a thumbs-up sign lifting both hands and pushing them behind their shoulders with their thumbs facing backwards, stumping one foot as they did so and finally uttering the word ‘striiit’ with such a sneer upon their faces. There were also ‘good girls’ then. Whenever they were collecting firewood or gathering wild vegetables in the bush, they invited us boys to assist. After we had accomplished the task, we would play peek-a-boo. Later we would pair ourselves, build houses in the bush or maize farm and played mom and dad. Safe in your ‘house’ with your ‘wife’, ‘night’ would fall and of course you did what moms and dads did at night. These happened but only with some girls. Incest doesn’t exist as a word in our language but I dare say, we sometimes played ‘dad’ and ‘mom’ with our cousins. But then, we were kids. Next time my cousin is not a virgin, blame it on me. Sometimes moms did not condone this stuff. One girl we played ‘mom and dad’ with went to her home bleeding in her genitals. Her mom noticed it and the girl pointed fingers on me. Having dinner at home with dad, mom and my siblings, her mom came dragging her at the same time pinching her. The girl was crying while her mom was screaming my name at the top of her voice. ‘Where is this idiot that has deflowered my girl, I want him to marry her now or I kill him!’ the screams went. It was such a quiet night; the whole village heard her shouts, made clearer by the fact that she was descending from her house in the hill. I slip out of our house and left her arguing with dad. My dad was telling her to ask her daughter why she parted her legs. It confounded me why dad, for the first time, stood by me. She left without further ado but after everybody in the village had known what had happened. I was ashamed before my own parents but became a hero in school. My close friends queued to see how my dick was hurt with the business of breaking her virginity the following day. No further evidence was needed to prove my heroic act than the bruises in my little Willy. Other days, we were not lucky to be offered sex on a silver platter. My childhood dream-date was a girl named Chepkorir, a close neighbor. That girl was so cute she was the dream of every village boy. It didn’t help matters that her dad was rich and had a big tractor with the largest trailer in the whole district. Chepkorir was so near to me yet so far. Getting her was as hard as winning an English princess. To compound the situation further, she was a tad older than me. I worshipped her but I was devoid of means to get her. Whenever I was send to borrow mealy- meal from their home( in those days, in case you run short of sugar, tea leaves, salt etc, you borrow your neighbor and repay later), I fancied having her but lacked the courage to tell her so. There was a sign that you made by pushing your thumb between the index finger and the middle finger that symbolized sex. I always intended to do the sign when I was alone with her but courage always ebbed out of my body whenever I met her. Again, there were some bubbling sounds one could make with one’s mouth and tongue that symbolized sex acts, I intended to make them whenever I was alone with her but fear always stood on my way. Chepkorir eluded me. Soon, she was a teenager and the next thing I witnessed their herds-boy making love to her in the maize farm. My heart was shattered. And there went my childhood dream girl! But not without reprisals. I didn’t take it lying down like she literally did in that maize field. I hit back! I remember telling you that sex and names of the genitals were unheard of. But whenever a girl you loved rejected you, what you did was write her name and the word pussy all over the school. After Chepkorir was snatched from me, I told all my friends. Next, we stole chalks and crayons and went on a graffiti campaign in school and all over the village to ridicule her. We wrote ‘Chepkorir’s Pussie’, in our native language Kipsigis, in the latrines, on the road, in the cattle dip, in the river and on trees that night. We wrote the same on the barks of trees along the road, on avocado trees in school and everywhere else. We also gouged out the same on sisals growing along the road. Finally we drew some captioned cartoons of her and the herds-boy having sex in all the chalkboards in the school. You should have seen the drawings; Playboy magazine would have hired us! We even went as far as drawing one large picture of her pussie dripping with blood. We were a malicious lot. I tell you. An investigation was launched into the authors of the maligning graffiti but nobody caught us. Chepkorir never reported back to school after the graffiti splurge. That year, she was circumcised and got married immediately. I am yet to tell her I was the mastermind of the campaign though I am not sure how she will react. Bet she will laugh it off as childhood madness. When we mastered the art of writing, we wrote anonymous letters and placed them discreetly in girls’ school bags. Don’t remember the contents of the letters but I can recall we wrote them in Kipsigis, my native language. The reason why we made them anonymous was because you could not be sure how a girl would react. It could backfire badly if you appended your name to the little missive. That landed you in trouble and many strokes of the canes. We were always at hand to observe a girl’s reaction upon reading the love letter. If she tore it up madly and kept quiet, it was a tough but hopeful case. If she read it quietly, folded it neatly and kept it in her pocket; that was an obvious prey. If she bolted out of the classroom straight to the class teacher and the teacher came back with the letter and lashings rained on all the boys; that was a hopeless case. Later, the anonymous conspirators would then meet in secrecy, profile the girls into the above categories and divide them amongst themselves. We would then write more letters to the promising lot, the last batch bearing names. If you got a reply, then you were in business. No reply? OK. It didn’t hurt trying another girl. We could not construct whole sentences then. I can remember hazily that we just wrote words: love. Want. Marry. Meet. There were no flattering words like beautiful, smart or such adjectives. It worked sometimes, it failed sometimes but it was always worth the effort. I ended my letters with my name: Mr. Juicyposts! Wish I had known how to write: WITH LOVE! Memories of an African Childhood: The Superstitions
There is a large dam that borders our farm and next to the forest. This dam was revered for it was said to have mystical powers. We were cautioned not to go near since it was rumored to be infested by crocodiles. Popular believe had it that the dam once swallowed some white man’s cows. My grandma told me it is true and she claims it to be so to date. We often went to watch ducks swim. There was a brown little duck that used to dive and come out. We would tell it to dive, and it dived. We used to shout ‘’miss diver, please dive!’’ I am not sure whether it was heeding our call or it was just diving for fish. On hindsight, the latter case is more probable. There came a day when the government allocated some money for clearing lilies and other floating plants from that dam. The local leaders decided to employ us young boys to do the job. We were such good swimmers having learned to swim in secret. Excited at the prospect of having to make some little money at the same time enjoy a swim at the sacred dam, we gathered on the bank at the appointed day. That dam was deep with clear menacing waters. It was infested with black ugly leeches and shiny snakes but for money and fun, who would balk? Stripping naked and bare, the hundred or so boys jumped into the cold water and grappled with the task. Cutting lilies and swimming as you haul them to the bank was what the job entailed. The party was gay except for occasional screams here when bitten by a leech or a startled cry there when one spotted a snake. At noon, we decided to have some fun swimming before breaking for lunch. It never was. One notorious boy called Mbich dived and never resurfaced. I saw him do so for I was swimming close to him. I dived trying to retrieve him but in vain. We decided not to scream for help as we searched for him. He was never to be found. We alerted our elderly supervisors and they came to our help but Mbich was nowhere. The commotion we made attracted some women who were fetching water nearby. They broke into wails upon receiving the news. Soon, the whole village was gathered in the dam. The best swimmers in the village were working tirelessly to retrieve Mbich but in vain. I was guiding the swimmers to where Mbich had dived. Darkness fell, no Mbich. His mother was distraught with grief. The search team broke to resume the following day. Elders from Mbich’s clan made a fire by the dam to keep vigil. In our culture, you don’t leave a dead person unaccompanied. The second and third day, Mbich was not found and neither did he resurface. The whole village was sad. The turn of events however did not surprise many. Mbich was an incorrigible chicken and goats’ thief. You could hear villagers whispering about Mbich having been cursed for his thieving habits. In fact, he used to hide the proceeds from his crime by the dam where he now lay dead and hidden. That was according to one of his friends Bu. The elders were fully aware why he had drowned and would not resurface. On the fourth day, the elders performed a ritual. One elder called Natit, picked Sodom’s apple, threw it in the water where Mbich had dived and told Mbich ‘come, let’s go home!’He then ordered everybody to assemble at some shade nearby. We sat talking. After a while he went back to check on Mbich. He came for Mbich’s relatives and announced that Mbich was found. More wails and cries from women. On examining him, his palms were devoured by fish almost bare of meat. His eyes and mouth were intact. When somebody dies in water, fish and frogs normally eat his/her lips, tongue and eyes but for his case, it was only his hands. Elders explained that it was to show that he was dying for his itchy fingers. You see, in our village, there are no thieves. No padlocks as a result. If one becomes a thief, he just dies of his sins sooner or later. Mbich was buried that same day by the dam. If someone drowns in a water body, he or she is buried by the bank of that particular river, dam or lake. It is claimed that water bodies have a lot of evil spirits and once they claim someone, they should be left to have him or else one member of that family will drown in water again soon. How true this is, I don’t know, for nobody has ever contravened this tradition. It was by this dam again that young girls used to hunt some flying insects that looked like wasps and make them bite their young tits. It was believed that a bite from this wasps make tits grow big. How true this is, only girls can attest to it. Could be true as there is hardly any idle belief in that part of the world! So if your tits are too small for your comfort, forget boobs augmentation. I know some flies in my village that could do a better job of it for free. Not that boys were left out in beliefs. Every boy in that village hunted for swallows. Because they were swift, we believed that if we lacerate the skin by the knees and apply its blood, it would make us swift and fast like them. If you have seen swallows, you know how swift they are in the skies and how hard it is to kill them. But we made sure we killed one for this sole purpose. I never became fast though I did all this, with marks on my knees to show for it. As if that could not hurt enough, we believed that if you make tattoos on your wrist and thighs, a hyena will never attack you. The tattooing procedure was one of the most painful of them all. We would get a ball of soot, place it on the wrist or thigh, collect some burning coals, set it on the soot till it burn a round wound on your wrist or thigh. One could make several tattoos that looked and shined like coins once they healed. Apart from keeping hyenas at bay, the tattoos served as hallmarks of courage. Another belief was again to shock me when Taxi our donkey died. A donkey is such a respected animal in our culture, almost like humans. If you kill a donkey, you never live to see the next day. I tell you. One of my classmates called Tiromba once hurt a donkey with a machete; he is nuts to this date. A donkey is such a special animal. No wonder it never gives birth during the day like other animals. It is also said a donkey collapses and dies if a load of tobacco is placed on its back! Holy animal- donkey. So, when Taxi died, we dug a hole near the bush and threw it in with a coin by its side. All donkeys in that village are buried with coins. Maybe to compensate it for all the thankless labor it had given man in its lifetime! Even Christians silently observe this. Talking of respect for animals, it is a taboo to kill any animal that has sought refuge in your house. The penalties for contravening this law are dire. If an antelope or hare or any other animal is being chased and enters your house, then that is that. Its life is spared and won’t be killed again. One day we were chasing baboons from of our maize farm. All the village boys had decided to round up all the baboons and kill them or drive them away from the village. I think we were more than two hundred boys. With bows, arrows, slings, machetes and any weapon imaginable we carried out a massacre of baboons. We attacked them from all sides without any ceasefire. Some ran to the hills, others got killed. We cornered one hapless baboon near our neighbor’s house. Having no options, it entered his house and hid there. We left since we knew one cannot kill it no more. The owner of that house instead of observing the rule hacked the baboon to dead. The village was startled and advised him to appease the baboons with a certain rule but he declined. His wife was pregnant then, wait till she gave birth, she gave birth to a baboon like creature. It is true. The baby baboon survived for a whole week till it died of hunger. The killer of the baboon became mad to date! Another sacred bird is a crown bird. They used to be so many in our place but nobody ever killed them for whatever reason. Not after what happened to some girl. There is a swamp that originates from our farm and drains to the distant Borabu plains. One girl collected a young crown bird from that swamp and took it home. The crown birds searched for the young one the whole day. They sung a sorrowful song I had never heard them sing before. So many crown birds gathered in the swamp, more than we have ever seen before. The cruel girl went ahead and killed the little crown bird. Wait till night fall. Crown birds numbering more than 500 stormed the girl’s home and cleared the thatch of their roof. The girl’s parents tried scaring them away but without success. They cleared the house of thatch and flew away. No crown bird has ever been spotted in our village again after that incident. Not even one. The girl slept that day and passed on in her sleep. The village was in shock. If you think that improbable then you should hear this. In our village, there are few wizards. There is one whom we used to run away when we saw her passing by. The hag was so ugly you could just know she was a witch. She was very much feared all over our village. Come one December festivities, his son fought with another man called Omwai while on a drinking spree. The witch was around. Omwai just collapsed sweating and asking for water. When he was taken to Kaplong Mission Hospital, taking water all the time, he was operated. Do you know what was removed from his intestines? A toad. A live toad that jumped when it was placed on the table! It is true. Omwai is hale and hearty to date. The witch’s daughter, who was my classmate, once bewitched our classmate. You see, they were playing games but the witch’s girl was defeated. The witch’s daughter stared the girl and the she collapsed and lay motionless. The other girls screamed. When the whole school gathered around them, the witch’s elder sister told the younger witch to remove whatever she had put on the girl. She touched the now motionless girl and she came to. I saw this happen with my own eyes! I feared witches from that day. They also fear lightning too. Heard that when it rains, witches never get close to the hearth or else they are struck by lightning. It once happened not far from home. A witch and her daughter were sharing witchcraft when it rained suddenly. The lightning struck the witch’s daughter dead and burnt their house. One interesting thing, the young kids who were inside the house were thrown out to the garden by the same lightning, unhurt! I saw that woman lying dead! The villagers were not surprised at all. Lightning is a form of instant justice in that part of the world. Talking of rain, when it rains too much or there is a storm or hailstones, do you know what we do in the village? You throw a coin on the rain and it subsides. Our dad used to tell us to do it every time there was hail and our goats were in the field. Just a single coin and the rain behaves! There is also a certain clan that speaks the same language with rain, it’s called Kibaek. Every time they have a function or one of their children is getting circumcised, it must rain. And it does. Even swimming in the river with one of that clan’s son it would rain. There was a friend of ours from that clan who was our playmate. He was called Josi. If Josi swam with us, it would rain, so we used to refuse him to swim or else our fun will be cut short by rains. In times of drought, a severe drought that not a single green thing could be seen, the last resort was a ritual called Sosimo. Sosimo is performed by women by a river bank or dam. I have never witnessed it for it is a purely women affair. I hear they strip naked and sing. There is a catch though. It is strictly restricted to women of high integrity and fidelity. If you have been unfaithful to your husband, then woe unto you, for you will die if you partake of Sosimo. So the women folk gather in the river but only those who are faithful to their husbands strip before the gods. The other women thus know who is faithful and who is not after this ceremony. But they keep the secrets to themselves. Another one. In the event that your goats are lost in the forest and it is dark, you just leave them and go home for the night. If you want no harm to befall them, say thieves or wild animals, your dad simply place his arrows, bows, quiver and machete outside overnight. In the morning, you will find your goats safe. We did this several times and it worked. For real! What if a goat denies her young to suckle and kicks it away? There are people who reunite them. If you are a single child, you can attend both women and men circumcision ceremonies. You are then called Cheptorus .If you are a Cheptarus, you are sought to reunite goats and their kids. You simply sing ‘uro uro wee uro uro…’ and tell the goat to love her young one. The next minute, the goat will be seen suckling its young! The traditions, myths and superstitions are just too many over there. Some I have seen them work, some are just that, myths. When we used to hunt, if you get some hare’s droppings, you put them in your pocket and you will find that hare and kill it! Tip: if you are hunting for a job, husband or promotion, cut that particular ad and put it in your pocket and who knows, it may work. A hunt is a hunt! |
Archives
December 2023
|