The laugh of my life causes a stir in Mwisho wa Lami

When years ago I encountered Fiolina, I immediately collapsed in love with her and it wasn’t long before I made her the adorable laugh of my enviable life. And since I don’t do my things in kienyeji, after a few months of come-we-try, I, in broad daylight, made her my official SIM card and registered it in my name before man and God.

Many things attracted me to Fiolina but chief among them was her simplicity. She wore simple long dresses; she kept simple hair that was scratched behind and besides Vaseline, she did not smear on herself so many other smelly marashi.

In fact I am the one who introduced Limara to her as a Valentine gift. When it came to shoes, Ngoma did for her and for me too as they were quite pocket mindful; and made her ready to work anytime.

Of course those were the good old pre-Mosoriot days. When I took the risk of enrolling her at Mosoriot TTC, my sole reason was to enable her get some education that would help our family in future, and also help her improve on her English – even though her English remains among the best from a woman this side of River Limpopo.

But it would look like either I am wasting my money or the teachers at Mosoriot aren’t doing the job I pay them to do. First of all, her English has not improved – but still remains the best from a woman.

Secondly, the changes she has undergone since she went to Mosoriot are not changes that I, or any respectable husband, would approve of.

You will remember when she came back last December and the only thing she seemed to have learnt at Mosoriot was how to stand up to me and talk to me directly, something unheard of in Mwisho wa Lami.

Being the good man that I am, I accepted and moved on. I contemplated not taking her back to college, but she was cleverer. Using obvious reasons, she managed to convince me to pay her second term school fees.

As you know, following my urban-to-rural migration and the challenges I have faced since I started staying with my folk, I have really been looking forward to Fiolina’s return. And she did arrive a week ago.

SHE LANDED IN STYLE

Or to put it exactly how it happened: she landed in style.

I was at home when she arrived. First to arrive was a bodaboda carrying her box and other stuff. It rode into our compound with such speed and noise – it was clear that the rider wanted to make a point. He kept on hooting until he stopped and I went to help him unpack what he was carrying. I asked him where Fiolina was and he said he was going back to take her – and demanded Sh250 for the job.

I tried to argue but he did not give me a chance.

“Mzee tafuta hiyo pesa ukuwe nayo nikirudi na bibi yako saa hii,” he said. He left as noisily as he had come. I was still carrying the stuff to the house when he returned, noisier than ever. He rode the bodaboda at top speed, and made a sharp stop just outside my house.

With him was Fiolina who was holding him round his waist tighter than she has ever held me! But that was not the only strange thing about her.

You should have seen her dressing. Fiolina was wearing a short skirt that became even shorter given how she sat on the pikipiki. She also had a sleeveless, tight blouse.

As for her hair, she had painted it red, the same red that had been applied to her lips; lips that one could see from several miles away because of their bright red. I was dumbfounded. Due to the way she was dressed, it was not easy for her to alight from the bodaboda.

After some struggle, she managed to alight, but not without falling, showing the people who were at home, including the children, some things that they should not have seen.

Her walk from revealed that what she was wearing was even tighter that it had appeared. Plus there was another problem; her shoes. Her shoes had a sharp rear sole that was about a feet long.

Since it had rained and the ground was soft, the shoes would get into the ground immediately she stepped down. Walking from the boda to my house, a distance of about five metres took her eons; she struggled a lot while everyone else enjoyed the show.

THE MONEY

Once she was in the house, the bodaboda man asked for his dues: Sh250

“Wewe wacha mchezo kwani ni Nakuru umemtoa?” I asked him. “Msamaria Mwema charges Sh500 to Nairobi, how come you want to charge Sh250 for two short trips?” I asked him.

“Tuheshimiane mzee,” he said. “Kwanza bibi yako ameniwestia time akipanda na akishuka. Hata wewe umeona.”

“I will give you Sh50,” I said.

“Hakuna,” he retorted. “Tulisikizana na madam 250,” he remained adamant, parked his motorcycle in a manner to suggest he was ready to bargain the whole day. Yet I wanted him out immediately so that I could handle the other matter of Fiolina’s dressing.

“Boss tafuta pesa haraka niondoke,” he said menacingly.

“Sawa, nitakupa mia,” I tried to plead with him. But he loudly refused. This attracted Fiolina from the house who walked out to find out what was happening. She fished out Sh250 from her handbag and gave him.

The bodaboda thanked her, looked at me menacingly, mounted his bicycle and left in a noisy huff. Under normal circumstances, I would have immediately locked the door for the obvious but we had an urgent matter to address with the laugh of my life.

“What’s this you are wearing?” I confronted her as soon as I was in the house. The house smelt of strong marashi that Fiolina had applied on herself. “Kwani what is wrong with it?” she asked. “I don’t find anything wrong?”

“This is very short and indecent,” I said,

“If there is a problem, then it is you,” she said. “I need water. Is there any in this house even?” she asked. Of course there wasn’t. She then left our house to my mother’s house to get some water, a short distance that took her long as she struggled to walk.

On seeing her, my father got busy and immediately left the compound, but the children that were around seemed to enjoy every show. I watched; helplessly embarrassed. When she returned, I tried to talk to her but she would not answer.

“Everything in this house is dirty,” she said. “I will have to go to the river to wash.” She took all the dirty clothes and changed to go and wash. It is what she changed to that was even a bigger problem.

She wore a yellow, tight, sleeveless T-shirt and a brown tight-skin trouser that reached just below her ankles – showing her body morphology. As it was the same colour as her skin, anyone would have thought she was naked.

She then walked out, carrying the basinful of dirty clothes on her head.

News of Fiolina’s new dressing spread far and wide, and was the main topic of discussion when I arrived at Hitler’s later that evening.

“Eish lakini si Fio ni kitu! Uliangukia,” said Kwame. Rasto told me to start looking for another wife. Even as they talked, her dressing was not really on my mind. What disturbed me was where she had gotten the money from.

The clothes she had were not cheap, and I had seen her easily pay the bodaboda a large amount. I just hope it’s not a man who was giving her the money!

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