Trending Stories
the Magunga
You are at:»»Stan’s Motorbike | by Oprah K Oyugi
The Magunga
Fiction Stories

Stan’s Motorbike | by Oprah K Oyugi

By on 41 Comments

Your neon green bandage mini skirt rolls up as you sit on his bare, hairy laps. He grunts as you feel yourself fully lowered onto him. He gropes at your left breast. You don’t feel the yank but your mind draws out the thirty directions your breast has been pulled tonight. Your kitty is numb from the five who came before, it doesn’t help that he is a small wriggley worm, 2 inches to be precise. You rock to and fro, staring at the empty dark road ahead, lined with monster trailers and heavy trucks. Salgaa truckstop is it’s usual bustle of sin with old big bellied men stumbling out of bars, fishing under belt-like skirts of their daughter’s agemates. Under the skirts of your schoolmates, the future primary school teachers of the nation.

Some truck cabins rock to and fro, just as yours does when Silo gets frantic. Moans and screams are drowned by the singing men staggering across the streets and the Riddim blaring from red and green pubs.

You watch as June gets off the Ugandan Petroleum truck.  She straightens her dress and heads to the Nyamchom joint. Best roast meat in Kenya. You wish you could yell through the windscreen for her to get you Masala Chips. You promise yourself that you will head straight for the place once done with Silo.

Silo lifts you by the hip and tries to swing you around, so you can face him, but you never look into your client’s eyes. They are a reminder of the betrayal of Stan, your current boyfriend of 7 years. Besides, there’s more to see in Salgaa town centre than there is in his bushy unibrow.

You rock harder and slip his hand under your shirt. He pinches a nipple. You feel nothing. The weed you’d smoked earlier makes feels in the mind, not the skin. He rocks with renewed zeal.

You watch the 12yr old peanut seller watch the triangle shaped breasts formed by the mtumba bra’d Rispa. They jump up and down her chest in unison. She is working on a slender man in a medium sized mattress trailer. You only ever see her during Sunday mass and during your Salgaa visits. She’s the usher who clanked the basket and refused to leave your side until you added one hundred shillings to the five you had dropped in the offerings basket.

Silo’s shoulders shudder and you rock harder. You feel as his body contracts and relaxes as he empties himself into you. Once you are sure he’s done, you lift yourself off him and wipe with a kerchief from your bra.

“Oe, temu get up! Hujanilipa!” You say as you gently slap the fucker’s face. He doesn’t raise an eyelid but fishes into his back pocket with a lazy hand.

“Ya leo ni ngapi?” he slurs, his eyes barely open

“2500”

“Eh, na ii bei inapandaga? Lakini ni tamu, sikatai. Verr sweet. ” he says, as his hand lands on your bum. You raise an eyebrow, disgusted as he lifts his face to count the notes. The amber light from the only working street lamp highlights the bumps on his face and a piece of dried muci in his nostril hair. Massive thick lips and a scar on his cheek. How did you ever get into this? You snatch the wallet from his hands and count. Five hundred, a thousand five, two thousand, two five. You look at him. His tongue hangs out of his mouth and you hear what could only be, a snore. You pull out the remaining notes and stuff them in your left bra. You have forgotten the filthy feeling you usually get when you do so.

You climb over Silo’s body and hop off the truck. Linda who is adjusting something under her skirt is waiting for you.

“Jamo anaishia shule. Twende.”

“Pigia June umshow anigetie Chipo.” You say, thinking about the tingly sensation you get everytime the chilli hits your tongue.

“Duu. Jamo anatoka saa hii.”

There’s seven of you in James’ pink vitz. The road ahead is pitch black and you can just see the outline of the road, thanks to his only working headlight. The roadblock is empty and you remember the fat policemen at the centre who shamelessly, in uniform, bought rounds in the roadside bars or rides in dingy motels.

Linda’s phonelight distracts you. She’s seated on one of the girls in the passenger seat, counting dirty fifties. She must have gotten overnight vegetable transporters. The cheap bastards never pay well.

You think back to the foul-breathed clients you’ve had. Six for the pink and two for the lips. The ten thousand you collected is an ok average. As usual, Silo was the best payer, this is why you overlook the disastrous face. You remember how lucky you are that he always only asks for you.

The tiny vehicle pulls in front of the gate of the Teacher’s Training College you have been at for the past 2 years. You think of the 3 months left and the lousy little brats you’ll have to teach for peanuts. Oh Kenya.

Jamo honks again and flashes his light. You check your phone, it’s 3.45am. A hat flies from the watchman’s box. You spot a small shuka peeping from the box. He must be lying on the ground. Jamo holds his hand out. You each drop twenty shilling coins in it. He gets out and drops them in the hat. He walks to the box, grabs a key, opens the gate and drives in.

You and Linda walk into your hostel room. She stuffs all her earnings into an old shampoo bottle aka her bank. She falls onto her 3inch spring bed and passes out. She forgot to take off her muddy heels.

You fill a basin with warm water, salt and vinegar. You remove your skirt and sit in it for fifteen minutes. You put your hand in and help the water up, as you visualise old tired cells dying and drifting back into the water. You wipe yourself with the towel you always keep soaked in lemon water. You miss Mrs Kimani and make a note to check on her first thing, and to thank her for the regiment that has worked for you for 1.5years now.

You wipe the manly sweat and filth of your neck, breasts and legs. You get a bottle of almost empty perfume from Linda’s locker and roll it onto your neck and in your cleavage. You take off the dangling earrings that have today tangled in a few people’s fingers and beards. You slip into your loose track pants and T-shirt, turn the lights off and head for Stan’s room in the men’s block.

The night is warm. You push open his door and snuggle beside him. You push your bum against his crotch – the surest way to wake him up. You pull his left hand under yours.

“Rave ilikuwaje? Had fun?” he asks in his husky voice. Surely his voice is the only reason you love him.

“Ah, ata haikubamba vile. Nilishow Linda we should have gone to Naks.”

“Next time ntacome na wewe nikubambe. You know how I bring the party” he kisses the back of your neck and plants the kisses down your spine. This is the only sexual contact you have felt the whole day. He pulls down your pants and you giggle. He thrusts his massive self in you and in 2 minutes, is spent. He kisses the lines where your weave is slowly coming off and falls back to bed, squeezing you to his chest.

You have many thoughts before you drift off but the only ones you remember are your throbbing vagina, your sore thighs and the brand new motorbike you can finally afford to buy Stan. His birthday gift, tomorrow.

About Author

Oprah is an upcoming filmmaker based in Nairobi, Kenya. She hopes to write stories and films that depict and look into the true lives of Kenyans and Africans.

Related Posts

41 Comments

  15. Jackson on

    This story has a sad happy thing going on, if that can replace love hate thing, hehe. I just hope “stan” appreciates the bike given the path endured for it.

    Reply
  17. Francis kiama on

    this is breathtakingly amazing. I’d taken it to be real aki.you really are talented oprah. I wish you weite more often.

    Reply
  23. Hilla on

    There can never exist a man as naive as that unless he is playing dumb. As for the woman, that’s the sad reality in today’s life with the economy in the toilet…

    Reply
  24. Pat on

    Eyes open. Watching for more and watching out for the shit. Jamo rides the brand bike as the truck drivers ride her

    Reply

Leave A Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.