A nipple, Boobs and Innocence

A matatu at Migori town bus park

Today in the mat a beautiful woman without a bra sat next to me.

I was traveling from Awendo to Migori when this yellow yellow bra-less woman, with breasts the size of water melons sat next to me.

This is how I knew she was bra-less, apart from seeing her bare huge nipple (it was a breast), surrounded by dark areola.

Yep, that kinda breasts that ain't shy and looong like a sleeve of a sweater.

They were haughty, youthful and proud like a minarate on a mosque. Men will know, the pair of breasts you meet in a crowd and the nipples shout:

"No collision! Lanes mate. Lanes, as you pitch your nether tents."

They were succulent. Sexy. Appetising and nutritious (the last two as source of infant food).

Making young babies moisture their dry, cracked lips with saliva

It (the huge nipple, stay with me) was peeping from a loose blouse's button.

I peeped once. Savoured it. Was it twice? I dunno, but not more than four times (I have manners).

Then I cough, soundlessly and meaninglessly like what you get when a knife slaughters a chicken's throat.

Actually, it was my three years old daughter, Manuella who alerted me. (Now you see, i was innocent) She was seated on my laps, sucking a lollipop.

When the lady tried to be friendly to her she recoiled, hugged me and burrowed her face in my chest.

"Huyu mtoto wako anaogopa watu? Mrembo unaitwa nani baby?" She asked. Manuella buried her face further.

When she tried to touch her, my shy daughter started crying. The kinda warning cry babies make before the wailer.

Then after a minute or two (Manuella noticed the lady was paying her fare) she moved closer to my left ear, cupped her hands around it and whispered:

"Mannu (that is how we call each other in intimate father-daughter talk) nyonyo ya auntie iko nje....." 

Sugarcane, Slay Queen and Juju

Sukari Industries in Ndhiwa, Homa Bay/Manuel Odeny

Some sources can really abuse you as a journalist, talk of rights to information and impartiality.

Like this chap i don't know from Kamenya clan in Homa Bay county, the same place Jack Songo, the chairman of Kenya Night Runners Association comes from.

He called yesterday evening, livid.

"In e Wuon Kalam? I have been given your number to help me publish a story," the chap, calling himself Otigo somebody said.

He did sound pissed off, and told me his story:

He had been paid Sh220,000 from Sukari Industries in Ndhiwa, Homa Bay after selling his sugarcane.

The money was paid to his Co-op Bank account in Ndhiwa town. He withdrew 100,000 and grabbed a slay queen (rural standard).

"So where is the story Ba? A man who spends 100 Gs on a slay queen is no news. Was there drama?" I prodded gently.

He told me to be patient.

After making merry with the girl in Homa Bay town, they booked a room in Rodi Kopany: that notorious junction town with more lodgings than rental houses serving as a hidden love nest for Homa Bay, Rongo and Sori rompers.

Otigo said after a marathon of alcohol-lust-money-stupidity fueled love making he woke up and found the girl had ran away with 60k: "I gave her 5k. Who gives 5k to a woman when handshake has stolen every penny in Kenya?"

I told him he was lucky to find a woman whose package, 

when handshake “has stolen every penny in Kenya” includes a full lullaby to sleep away as his money was stolen.

“Ba, story onge. There was no drama. The story happened in Homa Bay county, I cover Migori,” I explained.

“But the girl comes from Migori.”

“I am a journalist. I don’t and can’t know all girls in Migori county.”

“Her name is Agnes. She has two kids (not his, he insisted). She has bleached and comes from Kakrao in Migori.”

I told Otigo I know two journalists who come from Kakrao (@Ian and Mugo), but will never give them the task of looking for a bleached Agnes, with two kids.

I also tell him the only place a woman can’t bleach in her body is that crack between her buttocks, “but Ba, I and my two colleagues can undress all brown Kakrao women to inspect their cracks.”

Then Otigo wept. He sobbed. He blew mucus from his nose, adjusted his throat and spat off sputum. All over the phone.

Amid stuttering and mumbles he talked about three years wait for sugarcane to mature and be paid. His children pending schools fees. His wife’s food. And an unfinished house.

“How can I find Agnes?” he inquired.

“If Agnes has not paid her Helb police will help you track her, report her to Amina,” I laughed. He didn’t catch the joke.

More sobs over the phone. More silence.

Then he dropped the drama:

“I come from Kamenya. She will look for me, she left behind her panties,” he vowed, and disconnected the call.

Now most Kenyans don’t know what people from Kamenya can do. I won’t tell you here.

But in case any lady from Kakrao (or somewhere else, she might have ran off) wakes up and don’t find her privates parts where they are supposed to be in her panties. Or her privatees are blocked. Or her privatees have moved to forehead.

Or her privatees forms some suspicious niggle, wiggle, wriggle and waggle.

Please call me here 0727134100. I am just a humble journalist sourcing for a story.

#WuonKalam