50 shades of toys

Finally, my name was called and I entered the psychiatrist’s office. I was tired of sitting in the waiting area where time stood still. I could not make direct eye contact with patients there for fear they might infect me with something crazy. There was no T.V. and magazines lying on the table were not exciting. The doctor’s office was cooler than the waiting room. It had some abstract art hanging here and there on the wall, plus the doctor’s degree and some honorary certificates. There was a wide glass window on the left that covered that side of the wall to its entirety. The Doctor’s table and chair lay at the center. Then to the left of this official fancy wooden table and chair, lay a couch and a bed, or a chair. I didn’t know if it was a bed or a chair, but your back will stretch some sixty or seventy degrees behind while laying on it. This is the professional I was sent to just because of my bedtime inflatable doll. I think they are crazy because they think I am crazy.

The doctor or psychiatrist introduced herself then asked me to sit comfortably on the stretched chair. What’s the problem? She asked. I began venting: - I have my bedtime toy, just like a teddy bear, that gives me company while sleeping. The problem is my roommates are bothered by it. Even after explaining the doll, they took the matter up with the administration and I was sent to you after a heated debate with them.

“Tell me about it, why you need a non-human companion in bed?” she asked. “First of all, it’s she, not it.” I corrected her. “Her name is Princess Leila. I bought her in Fahaheel shopping center, from one of the shops. Her face resembles one of my Ex’s.”

“I presume you don’t have a girlfriend currently.” She stated in a questioning tone. “No, I don’t. I am currently seeing this Ghanaian beauty, not far from me. In fact, we are both in Mahboulah. But I can’t say a relationship has been established. I am drawn to her, but she seems unsure. Maybe she is not ready to accept me, I don’t know.”

“Tell me more about Princess Leila.” I could sense irony from her smile, but nonetheless, I was willing to downplay anything so long as one is willing to hear me out. I was sure I could convince someone that it is very normal for a grown man to sleep with an air doll. “First, I would like to say she was not cheap. I spent 2 dinars on her, the shopkeeper wanted 5. She is 6ft 2in, about a foot taller than me. The nylon material that makes her up is thick, yet soft when you touch her gently. Her eyes look directly into mine; her lips are wide and pinkish. I have dressed her up in a gold bikini. She is beautiful, and I love her. Don’t get me wrong, people love food, traveling, friends, and other stuff that are not human. I love my princess Leila the same way. Not as a woman.”

The Doc looked troubled by my description of Princess Leila. “Well, no doubt she has your love. What do you get from her?” she asked. “Well, it’s a symbiotic relationship. I read to her bedtime stories, and sometimes she sings to me when I have trouble sleeping. She is loving, gives me company just as any friend or loved one would. I feel safe and in peace with her by my side in bed. Never has my sleep been so sound and sweet before I had her.”

“I would have loved to meet her. She seems wonderful. Maybe next time you’ll bring her to our next session.” The doctor said with a semi sincere smile. “I’m afraid that would not be possible,” I explained. “This morning I woke up to find her murdered. She was cut into pieces by a sharp knife. It must have been those envious roommates. That’s why I was angry when I entered here. I still am. People should learn to mind their own businesses and leave out that which does not concern them. I put Princess Leila in my locker every morning after waking up. I blow air inside her every night when it’s time for bed. We do not bother anybody. And for your benefit, just as I explained to them, never have i been excited to find discharge on myself in the morning. Never! So this is not a romantic, kinky thing as their sick minds think. This is just comfort in company. How many people have secret drawers with unspeakable toys and stuff they have locked inside? How many people have dolls and Teddy bears on their nightstand? I don’t see how my situation is any different.”

“Where is the inlet for blowing in air located?” she asked. “I am not going to answer that. Doc, I’m not doing this for your amusement. I just want somebody, even one person in this world to understand me.” “So would you have no trouble colleagues on your building to come to see you sleep with Princess Leila, or going out on the streets with her after filling her up with air?” “No, Yes I would mind. She is mine; I don’t have to show her up to anybody. This is a private thing. I wouldn’t feel comfortable people staring at us.”

I felt as if this professional was not qualified enough. Her choice of questions seems to make me uneasy. She began scribbling on her writing pad. I know, people on my side are not to read the contents of that notebook, but I was curious. Maybe she is vilifying me just as my workmates in the apartment. It is winter, but I felt some heat and even some streams of sweat started coming down my face. I could see it was cloudy outside from the glass window. A few birds flew across and the sight was filled with other tall buildings. I could not see people and cars down the road because the office was on the eleventh floor of this hospital complex in Kuwait city.

“Well, only ten minutes remaining from our time. Maybe we’ll explore more in our next session. Concerning what you are experiencing, it is Artificial Emotional Dependence Disorder (AEDD).” “What!” I cut her short after that statement. This psychiatrist didn’t get it. After all the explanations for her to understand, she also thinks I am nuts! “Doc, Disorder is just another fancy word for sick. So you think my mind is sick?” I asked her. “No, you are not sick. You just need a little adjustment.” “If I am okay, why would I need an adjustment?” I asked her. “Calm down Cydinho.” “You know Doc, I have been shy to admit something to you but since you are the professional, I think you should know. Princess Leila’s lips and cheeks look just like yours. That’s why I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you since I came in.” “I know what you are doing, you are not getting to me.” She replied trying hard to show strength on her face. “My intention is not getting to you doc, but you should know, since I don’t have Princess Leila now, I have a memory of your face imprinted on my brain. You are so ripe and….” “Security!” she gave out a loud cry. I could see my wits had driven her crazy, and in Less than Two minutes, I was escorted out of the psychiatrist’s office.

Such are the endings of private pursuits of fantasies. All people in my circle seem to be abnormal. I was the only sane person. It all began when I fell in love with Smurfette in my pre-adolescence times, then I watched this movie 50 shades of what I don’t remember, and I came out with a perfect idea for sweet dreams. But it freaked people out. I guess I will return to my cocoon of loneliness now. The world is not ready for my fetishes. And I guess soon or later, we all have to grow up, even emotionally.

A stand-up triple

Our bodies get fatigued, whether we work them or not. I remember while we were young our grandparents, and sometimes our parents too, would lie down on a mat and ask us to walk over their backs. These helped their muscles to loosen. And then they relax, body and mind. It was a pleasure for both of us because kids like stepping on bodies.

I had never been to a place where massages were advertised as much as here, Kuwait. There is this social networking site, Tagged, that you will find many girls advertising these services. Thais,
Pinays, West Africans, and even Europeans. My intention here was just to make friends, but i was alarmed by how too friendly these girls could get. I later found out that these girls were not really
masseuses.

A professional masseuse is more or less like a chiropractor. By touch, they can charm a bone or a muscle to return to its position. But these girls are not even semi-pros. Their massage parlors are their rooms. And before you go they will tell you their price, 20KD, that's like 7 thousand Kenya shillings. I laughed so hard the first time i was told this price. For just a hundred bob, you could park your trailer at Maungu, along Mombasa-Nairobi road and relieve yourself. I guess its high class here, although all of them display their WhatsApp numbers on their profile. Maybe i should just accept the fact that i will never get a "Swedish Massage."

Last time i was home, while i was in a job hiatus, Christine had complimentary tickets for a massage at Talentos beach. The beach is about two and a half kilometers from Likoni ferry. Some ten years ago, teens would go up to Pirates on Bamburi beach. But not anymore. Every fun thing you can find at Pirates was here too. Ice cream, fried cassava, potato chips, water slides, and even loud disco.
The massage parlor was a new infrastructure by Christine's uncle added to the fun businesses found at Talentos Beach.

Christine Ekellot was a girl i met two weeks ago at Mv. Jambo ferry while crossing to the island. It's not easy to befriend a girl, a stranger on the ferry because you got so little time, it's about ten minutes ride. But i did. We exchanged contacts and we've met three more times after that.

Surprisingly, two men met us at the reception. They were muscular and handsome. And before i could think of an excuse, we had already been escorted to different rooms. The Massage parlor was semi-permanent. Built by mangrove trunks and thatched roof. It was stylish though, a beach theme. There was furniture at the reception made of wicker. The inside was painted light blue and
there is a view of the ocean in every room. A few portraits hanged on the wall. A reception area and six massage rooms completed the structure of this parlor.

I expected to receive these services from a lady, but here was a man asking me to remove my clothes. Somehow your mind talks you into it, explaining that it is normal and this is how the high society does it. Unsatisfied with the argument but i threw my clothes off except for my boxer and jumped on to the flat wooden bed. My heart was still beating fast and the minute the guy touched my leg i jumped up like a monkey spiked on its buttock. I could not take it. I went to the adjacent room and stopped Christine's massage too.

You could say i am homophobic, and i'd wear that badge proudly. It's weird to be a man giving massage to another man. With Christine's case, it's not. But i guess i was carried away by jealousy. I couldn't stand another man making my girl feeling good. He could steal her from me. And i would be
sad because i hadn't even hit it.

After twenty minutes of raised voices in arguments and my side of morality, A woman took Christine in to finish her massage. They asked why i did not worry she might turn her gay, but i said that's least of my concern in this world.

Next i asked them if i could do the massage and earn some money myself. While they were laughing at me, i told them there is no more to the art than touching the muscles, stimulating them, and relaxation to make one feel good. To teach me a lesson, i was given the first woman who walked in after the argument. She was middle-aged, and from her make-up and facial expression, i understood it's one of those cougars who refuse to accept their age. A mixed tape of soul music ran at the reception. I applied their massage oils to my hands and applied some on her too. First on her legs. I rubbed her thighs swiftly while blowing a little hot air to them from my lips. That's my thing, the
masseuses there didn't have this. I touched gently and proceeded up slowly. And by the time my hot whisper reached her ear, she was finished. She praised me a lot in front of the others.

After the cougar, a boy of about 28 entered. They motioned me to take care of him but i refused. As much as the massage is openly regarded as a muscle relaxation work, secretly it's a romantic procedure. It's an erotic stimulation procedure that many dare not admit.

My third customer was a french girl of about 25. Her parents and she had rented a cottage nearby. I thought i had struck gold and was determined to turn the massage into a pleasurable experience she would never forget. The problem was my dexterous hands excited her as much me. I thought there was this rule that a masseuse can touch you anywhere, guilt free. As professional as i wanted to appear, my hands refuse to obey. And from time to time they slipped. The french girl liked it so much that she began making sex noises. Her parents in the other massage rooms got concerned and found me fondling the twins when they came to check her up. The father got angry and started cursing from the top of his voice. Christine's uncle complained that i was going to ruin his business. I apologized but it seems it was not all forgiven with Christine. Her eyes turned scary red and  stared at me like a king cobra who was ready to spit.

Massages ruined my relationship. Something this pleasurable being a reason for bitterness and heartbreak in relationships. Maybe because there are no rules. I think men should be massaged by girls. and girls should get their massages from girls, unless they are single. win-win.

Bedroom symphony

They say what happens in the bedroom is art. There usually is a calculation of whether i should do this or that and sometimes acting on a response, but make no mistake, it’s not mathematics. What happened on 12th July last year was unsatisfying, disappointing and confusing to me. Apparently, it was insufferable to her.

It was Hamida's birthday. Luckily my folks had gone to a burial ceremony in some deep village in Kwale County. This was the day i decided that she could come to see where i live. I would be all alone in the house, so I expected something to happen. Getting a "Mswahili" from Mombasa island is a bit harder than from other societies in other neighborhoods. Their culture is conservative. You have to look for the errant ones or you must really be so much to impress them.

Three Kilometers after crossing Likoni ferry on the mainland is a stage known as Inuka. There is a small market for fruits and vegetables. On your left, there is a cement block tiles road famously known as Cabro. Two hundred meters deep on this road is the Inuka police station. This whole road is filled
with different businesses, mostly by Somalis. Off the road, five hundred meters more to the right is where you will find my humble abode. It’s not a straight path; houses have been built without a plan in this area. Shonda, is the name of the village. Famous for harboring outlaws, fugitives, and drunkards. One could easily read eerie from Hamida's face while we walk across these paths to my quarters.

Among the pseudo-classes of Bedroom art is dirty talk. Fine art is dirty talk. It does not mean talking about what you swept on the floor or dirt found on your cloth. Its words and phrases that you say to turn your partner on and get them excited for the action. I remember my first time when i learnt
about it, i tried "You are gonna get my spit that tastes like ice-cream" to mean tongue kiss to some girl. I found out some words are just not in sync with dirty talk. They disgust instead of sending butterflies to stomachs.

Talking dirty should first open up a world of make-believe to your partner, and giving them hope or belief that you are going to give it to them. There are no specific words or a manual to follow, you just have to be creative. It’s sailing on an ocean of romantic discovery. While mechanical bulls and other faculty toys are not free, this is. Your mouth and creativity are the selling points.

The first mistake i made with Hamida was tearing the lower part of her dress. There are many girls who would kill for this scenario. It meant wildness and desire in the romantic world. And i wanted to show Hamida how the word "wild" is spelt in my bedroom. "What have you done? I came with only this dress, how will I return home?" I cooled her down and reminded her she still has her Buibui which will cover the dress. At this juncture, you get second thoughts if you should continue the wildness or play holy.

A year and a half ago, i had a near similar incident with Mkasi, a girl from Tiwi. She was averse to using handcuffs. The idea was bizarre to her and we ended up having a boring pleasure. I asked myself what is it with girls from the East African coastline? Don’t they know there is an exciting world besides the words  "I’m sending my parents to your parents next week?" To realize your fantasy, you have to embrace wildness, naughty and even be kinky.

With non-coastal hotties, they seem to have adapted fast from our western sisters. Maybe it’s the novels, videos or they have been with them and learnt. The activity will be performed as if it was choreographed. They won’t be surprised by a tear of their cloth. They will match your moves one by one. You spray cologne they have perfume. You are athletic, they are bendy and flexible. You talk dirty, they do too. And they enunciate while you grunt. All this, and especially the dirty talk is not foreign to them.

I had expected Hamida to respond sweetly and reciprocate from the go, but it seems i was going to have a hard time here. Kissing, oh everybody knows it. Everyone likes it, there seems to be no underdog among them on this. You unhook and draw down their lingerie while you kiss. And since i think all the kinky stuff is off, dirty talk remains my only option with Hamida. I spank her tushy and ask her in a faint heavy voice "who’s your daddy?" I regretted those words the minute they were out of my lips. They changed her whole demeanor and mood. She got out of the bed and took her clothes while ranting. "Why would you disrespect me and my father?" she asked. “Why would you bring a picture of my father in our pleasures? Have you no conscience? You are disgusting!"

I received insults and curses from a lady who didn’t want to hear me out and explain myself. This was a loss. I thought if i didn’t get in the sack i should at least enjoy the foreplay, but No. She wore her clothes and went away without a proper goodbye. Leaving me high, and a feeling that something was about to implode inside of me. I vowed(later, vow broken) never to go after "Waswahili." The Aishas, Mariamus, and Fatumas from the coast are only good for peaceful marriage and family. Not for fun and experiencing colorful flavors of romance.

They have no idea or appreciation for the sanctity of the spoken word in an alluring voice. "Come to Pappa", "Talk dirty to me", "I wanna slather your sexy body with hot chocolate and slowly lick it off," "Say my name." are all common dirty talk that one should not freak out from in this century. It’s unlucky that our missionary sisters will continue to torture us for long as we even entertain the idea of something as common as a mild spank, because the eye that will stare at you, you would wish you had powers on the hands of time.

The Bamburi Triangle

Breakups are bitter points of relationships, at least most of all. There are those who part amicably, there are those who don't care, and there are those have to find a better angle and reason for the situation. This is because we want to keep the hurting minimal. For want of that, we lie to get out of a relationship. We sometimes change phone lines or keep quiet for the break-up to take its natural cause.

Options for nice guys like us are few. We envy our opposites during times like this because they can just take up another to show off in front of the current lover to end the relationship. The last honorable option is speaking the truth. This seems far fetched during these times. They are the worst because they inflict the most pain. People beg to be told the truth at these moments but they don't know what they are in for. That is why most of us resort to cliché.

About a kilometer off Bamburi stage, on Utange route, there's an off-road on the right-hand side. Four hundred meters after this murram road is a club. It is on this road that Zuhura and I were walking, at eight-thirty in the night, heading towards the club. I have been to the club before, twice during a night like this and one time it was late afternoon.

The club lay on a solitary ground. As you approach it, you won't miss the big sign of neon lights that reads “The Bamburi Triangle”, The name of the club. It was not a popular club, there have been less than thirty people each time I have been here. A pretty girl and a guy of about thirty manned the bar. There is no DJ, but there's a vintage jukebox that works very fine. The first time I was here I inserted a ten shilling coin and chose the song “Afro, mtoto wa sagala.” I liked it. But I didn't have to put coins other times I came here because people always have their favorite songs lined up. Four chairs around each table, a small dance floor, two rooms for storage and an office, a refreshing section, a suggestion box, and a thatched roof completed the geography of this triangular shaped open air club.

The Bamburi triangle is surrounded by tall grass, just above the waist level. To the back, red roofs could be seen less than a kilometer away. To the left and right, settlements are even further. It must be swampy deeper into the grass because these were not ordinary grass, they needed water especially during a dry season like this. Looking at the surrounding grass made one feel eerie, somebody could have been murdered, thrown there, and never to be found.

What makes this club special is that one: it's cool. This is where you escape from the noise and commotion in our estates. Two: it feels mysterious, and this brought about by the myths surrounding this club. We never knew the owner of this place, and it keeps soldiering on even without enough clientèle.

The first time I was here with Andrew, my childhood buddy who likes chewing ghat/miraa every Saturday afternoon, he narrated to me why there hardly is a car parked at the parking lot. Numerous vehicles had disappeared mysteriously while the owners were at the club. One would go to refresh himself in the gents and be startled when back to find the car he parked missing. The bartenders and drinkers would say they know nothing about it when asked.

The third time I was here with Andrew again. He pointed to the suggestion box and asked me what I thought it was for? My answer that it was for customers suggesting better ways to receive service here was wrong. He told me people put envelopes of money inside it. With the money, there is information on what the poster wants. Usually a picture of a car, or even a person. You put the envelope in and forget about it. And within a week you get your results, guaranteed. He never mentioned these stories while we are around home. Maybe he thinks he can trust me with this information now, maybe its the inebriation from the grass from Meru that he was chewing, or maybe he thought I would need it someday. He went on to tell me about people who had problems with their workmates, boyfriends or even family members. Their only solution was The Bamburi triangle, and their problems disappeared.

There had been times when a police helicopter flew around the swampy grass in search of dead bodies but could find nothing. I thought even a fool wouldn't dump a body here because it will stink in just a few days. One thing that was uniform, was the culprits were all reported to have been at the Bamburi triangle when last seen. It was scary that in the blink of an eye, a human being might be missing here. Someone you saw just a minute ago. I guess some got afraid of going to the toilet or looking down while drinking here. And the executioners, if there were, must be professionals or witches.

Zuhura was a girl I met at the Lambada disco in Mtwapa, and after the routine of boy-girl sweet talk and exchanging numbers, we grew closer within a month. But our closeness was only for fun. We would meet on one Friday night at a discotheque, and on another weekend we’d be hanging out in a cottage I rented in Watamu. I did not know where she stayed neither did I ask. And I did not want her to know where I stayed and my family.

Our problems started when one evening she saw me coming out of our home in Ratna Square. She wanted to come in but I objected. After that, she expressed her anger all over social media. I had to block her before rumors found their way to my family and neighbors. While I thought we were having fun, my partner was loosening her heart’s guard. She showed her anger in the text messages she sent. I tried to reason with her that there were a million men in Mombasa but she didn't see that. At last, she threatened to come to my family and report how I lied to her and treated her disrespectfully.

It is for this reason that Zuhura and I are walking, at eight-thirty in the night, heading towards The Bamburi triangle. There was no amicable way for us to break up, and I hated the misgiving of her presenting herself to my family. The night was cool despite the air of confusion that I felt. Crickets were heard stridulating in the grass bush. A taxi passed us by taking a customer to the club, and in less than five minutes it was heading back to Bamburi. We had taken a Matatu and got off at the murram road junction. The sky was so clear that every star was seen.

Two days ago, I posted an envelope in the suggestion box of The Bamburi Triangle. Enclosed were ten thousand Kenya shillings and a picture of Zuhura. Did I feel guilty or regret this? No. she was out to get me, and I was defending myself from her malicious reputation-damaging threat. If there was no other way to part, then this is. And it’s not like I’m giving her up to be murdered. There has been no evidence of the murder of people whose names or details were inserted in the Suggestion box. 

For all I know, the people who disappear might have been taken to Europe or U.S.A to start a new life. Or maybe to a neighboring country where they were given a job and livelihood under the condition that they don't come back. So, I am not a bad person. And that’s why even though my heart feels heavy doing this, I still can. It was necessary. I glanced at Zuhura's face and she seemed happy walking while leaning on me. It was all I could do to tell her that I won't break up with her and invited her here tonight. This would be the last that I will see her. The final intimate hold. The final ugly break up. And as we were nearing the Bamburi triangle, I knew, This would be the final walk.