My Short Skirt

My skirt is short. Short to the extent that my panty shows when I bend. So, I am bending down a lot. Not that its doing me any good at the moment. At 32, you would think more men are going for the mature women. They are not and trying to look 18 is something I stopped a couple of years ago. The wrinkles can be hidden but your interests are harder to hide.

Its midnight and I am more tired than a traffic police man at six in the evening.

I sip my bottle of Tusker again, softly ensuring I don’t actually sip in too much. I don’t have any more money on me and no decent girl waits for men in a pub without a drink.

Don’t bother raising your eyebrows, I am decent, period. Plus no one drinks on the job unless they don’t think. Well some do but I don’t. Well, I have been once or twice but that was way back.

I look at the crowd at the bar; a few men here and there, several girls and a bunch of teenagers. What is the world coming to? I wonder. The teenagers are hardly 18 and they are ordering beer as if this is the only place with beer.

I look away. I just can’t believe there are parents irresponsible enough to let their kids come to places such as this. What sort of mother would do such a thing? The thought annoys me and I struggle to keep smiling at no one in particular. A waitress comes to the table and touches my drink. I shake my head at her. “Huoni bado haijaisha,” I speak the words softly but with authority. She sneers.  I look at her from head to toe and mouth “ef you”. She walks away frowning. Stupid waitress! She acts like I am some kind of parasite when we all know that she wants in on the game. Everybody knows what they do after work. Why can’t people be true to themselves?

Some people have no morals at all. At least I know what I do and have no qualms about it. I turn and see a white man coming in. I turn to face the counter again. I can see him on the mirror. He looks like a potential. I sip my beer again. He is getting closer.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   He has a friend on his side, some black fellow with dreadlocks. I watch him coming towards the counter. Three steps and he will be standing next to me. It’s that time; time to show my greatest asset. My French friend used to call it marketing strategy. And boy was she good at it.

Okay maybe she wasn’t French but she spoke it and the fact that’s she was Congolese was close enough for me. I bend down and scratch my knee. Hope he says “Oui mademoiselle.” When am up, he is next to me, all smiles. Trust the African behind to get you places. And what did they say when I was growing up again?

Nyagothie you are too fat. Well I can’t hear the white man complaining. Too fat! Well I wonder what Njeri, that stupid pretty slender girl would say now eh. She is married with three kids to that charcoal seller and her idea of having fun is gossiping. So much blah blah for having a slender figure, me and my big bums are going places and if things go well, this white man might be that ticket.

The white man says something. I don’t get what he said, but I smile. He stretches his hand and I put mine into his.

“Brown” his voice sounds like it’s been squeezed from a toothpaste tube and he has too much hair on his arms.

“Sasha” I smile even wider. Sasha! Sasha! My English teacher would die if she had me call myself that. And the idiot used to call me Nyagothie pulling the ie as if she wanted it to move away from the name. Brown looks at my bottle and waves the idiotic waiter our way. She comes in a hurry, all smiles. I didn’t know the girl face could wear a look that was not a frown.

Brown orders for Jack Daniels and I restrain myself from laughing. He sounds as if he is talking through a straw.

Anyway, what’s the big deal? A woman has to compromise. A squeal for a house sounds perfect. The drinks come and Brown goes on a wild squeal chase. He starts talking about some farm in the UK, I pretend  I’m listening but I don’t really care. Well that is until he mentions that he is CEO. I know CEO is big but I didn’t know farms had CEO’s and lawyers. Suddenly he sounds interesting.

He can be the man I marry. I give him full attention and I can tell he loves it. A house, a car… those idiots back at my village will never laugh again when I drive there in a new car. Suddenly my smile is real and it’s not the Tusker affecting my brain.

We are no longer looking at the fake Congolese band playing. The wailing voice of the long haired skinny lead singer that used to turn me on now sounds like the sounds of the streets when you are in a hotel room. The pale walls are no longer boring and his voice is interesting. The guy is a CEO. I call the waitress with my hand. She comes frowning.

“Can’t you see my man is thirsty?” I ask pointing at my man’s glass. Her frown deepens.   The man looks at her and smiles. “You heard the lady, get us some more drinks.” I smile even wider thinking. This one is a keeper. The waitress walks away, struggling to maintain the smile. She now knows if she isn’t nice to me; a tip from a white man will be something she only hears of. We are having a great time and although Brown squeals, he dances well. I am sure all the women in the bar can’t believe my luck. Sasha has a ma and he is white. The gossip would spread like wild fire. And what had they said about me? Eti am too naive. Naive my big bottoms!

We finish our second dance when his African friend comes and I feel jealous. He introduces himself, he is definitely not Kenyan. Sounds Zimbabwean though he says South African. I immediately think he is like the tour boys, a bit possessive but he is different. I can tell from his eyes that he wants a piece of me as well.

It’s going to be a great night. I sip my Tusker in anticipation.

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9 thoughts on “My Short Skirt

  1. Let me know when Nyagothie is on the prowl again…her idea of morality makes reminds me of the Pharisees that many of us are…

  2. “The wrinkles can be hidden but your interests are harder to hide.”

    Words to put down in my “quotes to live by” notebook.

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