How I betrayed my friend Doris

Years back, when I was single and heavily pregnant, I had a friend called Doris, or Doríthi, as the town people would fondly call her, whose boyfriend I slept with, unsuccessfully.

Wanyoike was the founder and CEO of Nyoiks Base, a small retail shop that was decorated with dust and termite trails, and never opened due to lack of stock.

He had Jeff Koinange’s hair only that instead of gel, he’d use some water every eight minutes, and he had what people with relaxed hair call ‘growth’. He had Eric Omondi's body, and a fuller version of Diamond Platnumz's lips. He had small eyes, thick eyelashes and bushy eyebrows.

His small, terrifying teeth had been badly browned and yellowed by years of heavily smoking Rooster. His fashion sense was unrivalled.

He always wore a t-shirt whose hem reached at his waist, with a pair of shiny, faded, over-ironed tailored pants, and some old Reebok sports shoes.

Whenever he removed those shoes, the smell that would shoot out could help win the war against terrorism. He would accessorise his ensemble with a black, plastic Casio watch, and a white Pilsner cap.

On Sundays, he’d wear his Salvation Army uniform and march to church to praise and worship his Lord. He was totally my type.

One afternoon, he and Doris had a small tiff over a difference of opinion regarding Múchiri, Doris' ex, who had just bought a brand new Black Mamba bicycle, and had given Doris a lift on it.

Wanyoike had seen him pedalling up a steep slope, with Doris clutching onto his back for support and assurance. And, of course, was overcome with jealousy.

Being the loyal, trustworthy friend that I was, I used the opportunity to pay Wanyoike a visit and let him know how I felt about him, and how Doris wasn’t cut out for him.

For once, I wore a clean, maternity cotton dress. It was a brightly coloured floral dress with a little, delicate white lace around the neckline, and a ribbon sewn around the hem.

The design on the chest area looked like a tufted headboard, and there were a few buttons running down, reaching just where the breasts began. There was an elastic band at either end of each sleeve.

It was long enough to cover my ankles, and also flattered my figure by hiding it completely. I was impressed by how ravishing I looked.

Wanyoike’s one-roomed mabati house was built inside his parents’ compound, so I had to slip in without catching the attention of his family, especially his sister Nyokabi, or Nyokafi, because she was a blog. Which is to say that she gave unconfirmed reports and spread malicious rumours and cheap gossip.

Doris had once told me that Nyokabi wasn’t really a blog per se, and I’d, in fact, like her if I got to know her better.

However, I didn’t want to get to know her better. I hated her perfectly then, and learning more about her would put all that (dislike for her) in jeopardy.

I just couldn’t take that chance. He invited me in, and asked me to make myself comfortable on the couch. The couch was his spring bed: small, creaking, squeaking, and screeching, with a thin mattress that was sunken at the centre.

As he also made himself at home beside me, we talked about his journey through salvation, and he asked if I wanted to give my life to Christ.

I told him I would think about it when taking a nap, because I preferred making all my crucial life decisions when sleeping. He then went out for a few minutes and came back with some food; a plate of extremely dry, hard maize and a few beans brought to a boil, then sprinkled with salt and a dash of green onions. Wanyoike gave me time to eat.

He perused through his Bible as I silently chewed the difficult food, my jaws aching after every bite, and my throat sustaining some bruises from swallowing the rock-like boluses.

“Ni Nyokabi amepika? (Is it Nyokabi who has cooked?)” I broke the silence.

“Íí.” (yes)

The start was okay. The hook of my bra got caught in my synthetic hair, I poked Wanyoike in the eye with my elbow, and I dozed off.

Since I was heavily pregnant, we spent a part of our ‘horizontal refreshment’ asking each other whether my water had broken, or whether it was just sweat.

That was the beginning of a beautiful, wonderful, incredible thing that lasted until the next morning.