Rogue News Gatherer
This blog is about stories that happen within us, told from a very fresh and intriguing perspective.
Monday 12 October 2015
Sunday 8 March 2015
THE MERCY OF FREEBIES
It’s
Friday. No one recognizes it more or better than a jobless Nairobi lady, a
hooker and university students. They all are of the same mettle, all with the
some needs. It’s not an ordinary Friday. The month is approaching its final
quarter and many wallets have been excessively worked out. Some are
malnourished. Some are but a mere burden. It’s cold, a typical July weather.
Tracy lay on the couch alone. Her boyfriend Geoffrey should have been around to
cuddle had it not been for her niece‘s unprecedented visit. The last thing she
wanted was to be a bad example……. no, an inconvenience to her niece−she was
grown up. May be she even knew more than her aunt, she turned on the couch.
Tracy had
her Samsung Galaxy S3 smart phone in her hands, both the television and home
theatre remotes resting on her belly. Westlife music wafted through the room.
She would occasionally sing along. It calmed her. It made her feel in control
of her thoughts. She would imagine Geoffrey singing to her ear in his rough and
rugged voice. Pleasant ripples went through her body at that very moment. She
smiled to let the memory go away.
She checked
her phone again and again. All she could see were messages her girlfriends inquiring
if there was a party they would get crash or she’s been invited. She hated
replying back with a negative. She has always been the girl they looked up to
when it got to having fun−drinking and dancing till dawn without parting with a
single cent. They would admit that it was dangerous but would brush it off with
‘we have only one life’ or ‘soon we will be married.’ The only had one chance
and it was while they still studied. Tracy, like most of her friends, was post
graduate students at the University of Nairobi. Her niece, Stacy was also a
student at the same institution.
At the very
instant of thinking about Stacy, she knocked on the door with a smile on her
face. She couldn’t recall a day she wore a frown on her chubby face.
“What kept
you that long?” Tracy asked, just to talk to her. She was not interested in her
answer.
“I met some friends who kept me long, regaling
stories of what they’ve been up to…..by the way they invited me to a party that
they’ve invited to………”
“Where?” She cut her short.
“Renault
Apartments, rumour has it that a prominent politician will be in attendance,”
Stacy said with a blush.
“Can I…..”
“Will you
accompany me?” Stacy jibed in with a giggle that revealed a dimple on her left
cheek.
The process
of making up their already good faces began. Tracy hated it. She hated staring
at herself in the mirror applying chemicals on her face. She hated the rigour
that accompanied choosing attire for a night out.
But she had to look good,
perhaps better than any lady in the house that night. It came with many
goodies: spanks, stares, complements, cheers and the most coveted of all,
drinks from the richest and handsome.
At the end
of the evening she had settled on a tight fitting black polka dotted dress that
went way above her knees. Her niece had settled for a pair of jeans and a
purple top. They were all ready went a cab pulled into their apartments parking
lot. It was deserted, silently proclaiming that the tenants were already out
having fun.
“Good
evening hookers?” The cab greeted them in a heavy Kikuyu accent.
“Were you
sent to insult us?” Tracy fumed.
“That was
not an insult. It’s a whole world of truth. Do I suppose you are the Mheshimiwa’s daughters, eh? Beauty will
ruin you girls.” He said as they settled uneasily into the back seat. Tracy
looked into the mirror and caught him staring may be her thighs.
“Shut up
and drive!” a visibly agitated Stacy fumed.
Quite
moments ensued as the black saloon car eased into the light Nairobi traffic−people
had been forced by brokenness to take their cars off the road. Everybody seemed
engrossed in their thoughts, desperately hoping that somebody will break the
silence. Tracy stared at the tinted cars wheezing past them. She felt like
asking the driver to press the gas pedal much harder but checked on herself
when she recalled the sneers they had to contend. She seemed to be the only
lady who loved speed. Her friends had joked about her being so early for her
own funeral days before she died. Stacy sat silently. She was calm and seemed
unbothered. She loved her life the way it was. She was busy on her phone,
sexting perhaps as Tracy observed they way she would broadly smile periodically
before hitting the send button.
The cab
pulled up in an exquisite parking lot of the Renault Apartments. Everything
spoke of affluence: a beautifully manicured lawn, expensive cars parked and a
certain kind of fragrance that had a close affiliation with wealth. This is where
sinners converge to multiply their transgressions. This is where married men
sought solace in the ever open arms and legs of university students without
worrying of cameras and their hawk eyed wives. This is where married men
regained their masculinity among university lasses. It was secure too: there
was no chance of being blown up by terrorists as had become the norm in this
part of sub-Saharan Africa.
They
alighted. Tracy adjusted her dress. A uniformed guard rushed to their side and
asked them to register before proceeding to where they’d be hosted. Tracy tried
to protest but her niece exhorted her to comply with the directive. They
strutted to the miniature shelter that housed the watchman. Tracy was visibly
annoyed by the idea and she didn’t hide her anger.
“We are not
about to blow this place or make away with anything. Kwani where do you have to register to have fun?”
The guard
entered their names and identification numbers in a register. It was new and
their names appeared third and fourth in the register. Tracy peered and noticed
that all the names were feminine. It still safe now, she thought as Stacy took
directions from the watchmen as she texted. Tracy was all of sudden bored and
she seemed to contemplate why she had hoped into a party which she wouldn’t
even explain without arousing suspicion. She fell low on the list. She even
failed to understand how they would be chauffeured into a party where a friend
invited a friend who invited a friend and that friend asked her to come along.
Now they were are in Renault Apartments, earlier than those who asked them to
come along.
Aunt and
niece took the steps one at a time. Their stilettos struck the marbled stair
case in unison. Tracy kept quite. She seemed she hadn’t gotten over the
altercation between her and the watchman. Stacy on the other hand looked more
composed than her aunt. She seemed older and more mature, from the dressing to
the facial expression. On the first floor they met a young woman out to hang
clothes. She looked at them with spiteful eyes. It wasn’t anything new. Both of
them had gotten used to such stares from the fairer sex –their fellows. Those
who perceived themselves in the higher class looked down upon those who were
the lowly and the lowly despised those in the higher class. A woman is an enemy
of her own. Gender parity is a thing that should start with the women
appreciating themselves first and working together to tame the men, or at least
have the remotest ability to.
They
reached the third floor and turned right as they had been instructed. Slow
music welcomed them from afar. House number three hundred and four was the
destination. A slim young woman in her mid twenties ushered them in. She was
clad in a cheap black skirt that went slightly above her knees and a floral
filled purple top. She shopped in deplorable places such as Gikomba or
Muthurwa, Tracy thought as they settled on white leather couch. Tracy pulled
her dress. It showed too much of her thighs and they were no men around to
admire them. There were only four ladies in the spacious living room; two others
and them. Stacy sat on her right. Everything spoke of opulence: diamond
encrusted chandeliers, thirty two inch plasma television, a home theatre (the
origin of the music), leather seats and artifacts that hung on the wall−they
were souvenirs from around the world. A picture and a calendar hang
conspicuously at one end, dwarfed by the artifacts. The decoration would surely
make a lady to go on one knee and beg the owner of the house (not the landlord
but the tenant) to marry her. It was awe inspiring and breathtaking.
The lady
who welcomed them came back. It seemed she was satisfied that they had made
themselves at home. Or had had the opulence exhibited by the owner of the house
sink into them. She came with a request that had become too familiar to them.
“Whisky or
wine?” She asked with a contempt filled voice.
“Wine,”
Tracy answered. She didn’t bother to know what Stacy preferred. It wasn’t her
who had the same problem. Many have always assumed collective preference for
drinks wherever two people sit. Stacy would have loved to complain had it not
been her choice too. And they being strangers invited by third parties.
Minutes
later she appeared with a tray. She carefully placed two glasses on glass
table. They looked at the drink, each waiting for another to pick it first. The
silence that ensued, save for the Michael Bolton sounds coming from speakers
placed at the corners of the room, was disturbing. Tracy took a sip from the
glass. Her niece followed suit before her glass embraced the table. They sipped
slowly at long intervals. They didn’t want to get tipsy before the party
started.
As the
clock chimed at nine, people started streaming in. majority of them were girls.
Tracy would spot only two men glad in black suits. May be they were part of the
security detail belonging to the dignitary they were to entertain. How would
ten of them or more entertain one man? There sure were his friends and psychos
who around him like a moth to source of light. Most of the girls were half
clad. They dresses desperately clung to their bodies in an attempt to conceal
the areas around the loins. The furrow on their breasts ran until it
disappeared in their stomachs. Their faces were heavily made up. It outshone
the bulbs that hung on the roof. Tracy and Stacy looked like they were headed
to church. Judging by the precedence set by the other girls; theirs was decent
by astronomical proportions.
The party
started immediately. The girls chatted animatedly, giggling and clapping,
toasting and ordering more. Tracy and Stacy were joined by another girl, a
friend of Stacy. She was the one who asked Stacy to come along. They were the
silent ones. They watched the lone waiter struggled to cope with their unruly
behavior. Drinks flowed swiftly from where they were stored. It became apparent
that soon men would have a good time without effort. They hadn’t even arrived
except the two men in black suits who were already trying to resist erotic
glances from the drunken girls.
Tracy and
her company were busy discussing the latest trend in the fashion world that
they hardly noticed a man join them. He was clad in a loosely fitting pair of
blue jeans and a white shirt. He was clean shaven. He enchanted them with
compliments before asking to share the table with them. They obliged. He then
called the waiter who hurried to their table. Judging from her posture this was
‘the’ man. He called the shots. The lady went back as the drunk girls escorted
her with slutty insults. Obeying the master was worth all the insults. She came
back with a bottle of whisky and four glasses. She wanted to pour it into the
glasses but the man excused her. He poured into the four glasses and requested
a toast. All the girls listed their glasses and then took a sip simultaneously.
Tracy noticed more men in the room. All were busy groping the drunken girl’s
breasts some even their loins. They didn’t show any act of resistance. All
forms of it had been drained by one too many drinks. She knew it would escalate
and soon they would strip and quench their concupiscent thirst right under
their glare.
One more
toast….and another. She tried to resist and the man gave her that ‘I said so’
look. All of them obliged begrudgingly, before stupor gave away their
inhibitions. Tracy began shouting for more alcohol. She rose, staggered around
breaking glasses and hurling expletives at any one that tried to stop her. She
was very unruly and had extraordinary strength. Stacy tried to calm her to no
avail. The man that they had been drinking with (they didn’t even ask his name)
was visibly angry. He mumbled something into the ears of one of the men in
black suits then disappeared. No one saw where he went to.
The men in
black swiftly approached Tracy. They grabbed her and forced her out. She
screamed as kicked but her resistance was no match to the muscular men. They
shoved her out of the door and came back. They sighed having executed their
master’s orders successfully. Tracy and her friend rose and headed for the
door. They were aware of the dangers Nairobi posed especially at that hour of
the night. The men in black told them point blank that the boss had said they
were not leaving. Stacy begged tears welling in her eyes. It met a resolute no
from one of the men. Stacy asked them to consider the safety of their friend at
those wee hours of the morning. One of the men told whispered into the ear of
his colleague.
“The boss
wants one of you. We are going to bring her here and the remaining two of you
belongs to us for the night.”
They quickly
agreed. They opened the door and locked from outside Stacy wanted to ask why
but the thought of her aunt restrained her lips from parting. They hurriedly
descended down the stairs. In no time they were done. The watchman at the gate
told them that Tracy turned right and went retreated into his shelter. There
was no figure or even a silhouette of a woman in the flood lit road. They ran a
few metres before the men asked them to stop.
“She isn’t
around and the boss will be furious if he finds us missing. We can’t go any
further,” one of them said in a deep solemn voice.
“Please
lets go just a little distance, she might be around,” Stacy pleaded.
“NO! Let
her be a meal to starved Nairobi savages. You must honor our deal,”
“But…”
“Shut up
young girl!” she was cut short. One grabbed her and the other her friend. Both
were similar in appearance, from the mode of dressing and their facial
features. They well built with muscular arms and broad chest. They grabbed them
and dragged them into the ditch which wasn’t well lit and had their way into
them. It was more of a quickie and the men buckled up their trousers and zipped
them and asked them to rise. Tracy had a difficult time pulling her tight
fitting trouser up her thighs. Her thoughts were on her aunt and not on their
rape. At least they were safe in their arms or so she thought. At last it made
through and she zipped as they made their way back into the den.
They
stepped back into the room to a cigar stained air. It was smelly when they
left. A furious ‘boss‘greeted them at the door. He demanded to know why he was
deprived his status as a very important person to a deplorable prisoner and
worse still in his own house. The security aide cowered under his breathe.
Though they were more muscular than he was they dared not challenge him and
suddenly one blurted:
“These
sluts tried to escape…we….we captured these two but one managed to escape…..”
“What!!!???
You mean after taking my expensive liquor you try to run away? What’s your
name?”
“Stacy.”
“That’s not
a name. you second name,” he thundered.
“Jeptum,”
Stacy cowardly replied. He pointed at her friend by elongating his lips.
“Chebet,”
she barely whispered.
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