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I lost my wife because she could not chase a cock

Counties

My girlfriend, the one who insists on eating biscuits in bed, was determined to become the women rep in my small cube.

Of course I have no problem with her eating biscuits if at all it will ensure her insomnia does not dispatch her to the next world prematurely.

I can also stomach the crunching especially when I have irrigated my throat with that costly drink. What I cannot stand though are the crumbs which seem to have fallen in love with my side of the bed- and I am not fornicating, I am accommodating.

The problem is that I can no longer feel my inflamed ribs, it is like have been spending the night bare-chested on that rusty and spiky police roadblock, I am told it can infected your small car with tetanus I you accidentally drive over them.

But rather than spend the night in a sleeping bag and lose my future wife, I decided to take her to my shags for that familiarity visit, so she could prove her candidacy- that's common in my village where the wife belongs to the community, even to the area chief.

So the gentleman in me made me to fuel my small car, the one my kinsmen (and women) believe resembles a tortoise- never mind I took a loan to buy this junk.

This visit, unlike the previous ones meant purposefully to irrigate villagers' throats during Christmas and Easter, was meant to inform my kinsmen that I was no longer a coward, and that I had found my lost rib somewhere in Syokimau.

So my little tortoise smoked and coughed for an entire 400 kilometres to Kithegunga village.

My future wife who calls herself Anyash, never mind her changes to Anyango whenever she is sober, was dressed in a red mini skirt, what I call a statement skirt. My teacher of biology in high school would tell you it belonged in the family of handkerchiefs.

It was a distant relation to what should be a real clothe, and seemed to whisper something like 'find your best asset and flaunt it'. Well, the cloth, which seemed to be breathing on its own, was busy doing what it was meant to do- filling depressions, curves and corners.

The handkerchief that reached somewhere in the neighboorhood of her thighs I suspect was meant to impress uncle Wafula, who would rubberstamp Anyash's candidacy for women rep.

My polite attempts to educate my good companion that skirts that resembled handkerchiefs pinned on kindergarten child's sweater were banned in my village were met with something like 'Kwani mnaishi wapi huko sweety'.

I suspect she had watched the man from Gatundu sign that sheet of paper that allowed her to move to Dubai at will and demand that I pay her rent.

 

The entire village had been informed of my homecoming, so they were paraded to see their son arrive in a tortoise that consumed fuel. In fact one of my villagemate politely asked me to sell the damn thing and buy a boda boda.

I drove right into my compound, before parking next to my grass thatched Simba, the one I built using my first salary working as an untrained teacher just after my form four.

Anyash looked at the house with her painted lips pursed with disdain. I could tell she was not going to enter that shit hole, and I could not blame her because the house had a porous mabati door through which you could scan the whole house from outside.

I knew the house only had a match box, tin lamp, stool a safari bed that my father received as a retirement gift after serving the army.

To end the embarrassment, I decided to take my Anyash to my parents' house, which was an improved version of what used to be my house.

It was while walking towards the main house that Anyash asked that I show her the ladies. I quickly scanned through our compound before pointing to the nearest cassava planation where stones and tree leaves have religiously served the locals who believed tissue papers are for the white man.

The only problem was that the same stones served the entire village; I believe even our ancestors would acrobatically slide their behinds on the edges of the rocks after performing that biologically important process.

Of course it posed challenge whenever it was sunny as the stones would heat up to around 100 degrees, which made the entire village, men women and children to suffer blisters.

Anyash gave up, and I don't blame her.

Once in the house, uncle Wafula scanned her future daughter-in-law, nodded then made the mistake of asking Anyash to commit murder by slaughtering a cock.

That meant chasing a fully grown cock across the village.

Anyash uttered something like 'hiyo ni ngori watu wangu. Si mnunue chipo kama ni noma'. I couldn't tell she was not going to commit murder somewhere in the heart of Congo forest leave alone chasing the miserable bird in her red heels. I knew I had lost my wife.

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