You kiss an inch above his shallow navel, leaving his well-cut abs tingling. You then go a little higher below his wide chest. You encircle a nipple and he squeezes your ass tightly, yes he loves it, so do you. His skin is a dark colour, slightly chocolate, and his skin is surprisingly smooth apart from a couple of grazes here and there-impressions of the lifestyle he lived. You let your lips follow the long scar on his left breast, your left hand rubbing his groin in a slow manner. You reach your destination, his lips which are hungry for yours. You sink into his embrace as you toss away the Methuselah that is your blanket. You climb on top of his strong muscular frame, parting your legs as the bed creaks with your every move. The both of you are oblivious to the bandwidth of noises outside though it is some minutes past midnight.
You’re used to it. Life in the bowels of Muthurwa, with its box iron-rusted cribs and other horrific testimonies of human settlement. You feel him in deep you and you go mad with desire for him. Your hold on him tightens as you respond to his thrusts with moans soaked in passion. Him. Shaddie. Shaddie the killer. Shaddie the robber. Shaddie the police most wanted.

But you loved him with a sickness incurable, addicted to his touch and his loving. Blind to his dangerous ways, bleeding bullet holes and the collection of ammunition camouflaged into the worn out mahogany bed which you made wet with yours and his orgasms as often as allowed. And tonight was no different. You did not go with him unless it was a simple job like stealing from a rich estate (probably a drunk coming home late) but on most occasions, you were left behind. You were nineteen and felt like the world was yours. Escaped from your parents two months after the national examinations, you were fed up with them. Tired of your slutty mother who had let everyone eat her fruits like she was giving it to charity. After she lost her job she lost much too of her moral bearing and had done anything to survive and cater for the remaining four children. Your father, an abusive drunk sinking into depression with every sip he took not to mention him warming up to an assortment of cheap call girls, was no better. Yours was a rotten existence. You had hoped to one day be a fashion designer, maybe do fashion at K.U. A pipe dream it was. And now you were living as life came, on the other side of the law. In love with a criminal and clad in stolen Prada and Chanel. Rocking Brazilian twenty inch weaves from blood money.
You lived in slums to attract less attention to your activities. Your whole being screamed illegal and illegitimate. But when you were under Shaddie and breathing heavily, oily and all sweaty you felt safe and loved.

He suddenly paused. You looked at him, wondering what came over him; you were just about to climax. He was listening to the voices outside. You could hear virtually anything from these metal walls and that rotting wooden frame that enclosed a broken window that was patched up with cardboard. “Shh! You’re breathing too heavily,” he said pushing you aside unremorsefully like some piece of shit. Suddenly you had decayed from his attention as if some radioactive material. You felt hurt but held back your emotions. He grabbed his trousers and shirt as he got up to peep. It was very dark save from the little light peering from an opening at the window curtain.
The room was not crammed up for you had few belongings due to a life on the constant run, it was a bed and suitcases and of course other briefcases full of what-must-not-be-mentioned. You curled up in the bed, pulling the aged blanket over your full breasts. Something told you to at least wear your underwear, a silk and lace pant with a pink floral design. Then the door barged open forcefully bringing with it the cold of night and your worst nightmare.

The next series of events unfolded at a pace that could only be described as befitting of photons. It was reduced to everyone for themselves as Shaddie penetrated the window and was soon on his heels leaving behind the crashing sound of glass pieces. They were a squad of five, armed and with the air of highly capable combatants, and on seeing this fired a few shots and followed. You had slipped under the bed, rolling up into a ball and fervently praying to the deity that you had promptly abandoned after setting foot out of Blue Sky Girls High School, a top ranking national school so to say. They were hot on his trails and their LED flashlights had missed you completely. This was your chance to leave. Your heart cried out to him, Shaddie, but your mind wisely decided that he was already half dead by now, six gunshots had blared the night air so far, each receding and fading away. That was what was happening now; he was fading away from your life. So you ran your long lovely legs forcing through the air as your grey ripped tights allowed fluidity of movement. You had donned your crop top inside the shack and were adjusting it over your breasts as your legs echoed in the thin sewage lined corridors of the slum. You ran following the path until where it would vomit you being guided by overhead sodium-vapour lights and the adrenaline that saturated your system. You ran away from the dream you lived. The brief fairy tale you had eked out amidst the cruelty of the world.

You bumped into a drunkard and screamed out. You thought it was them, the police, and once you realized it you threw him off and he wallowed in a toxic lake of human waste and industrial effluent. Your mind was working quickly; you needed money and to get as far as possible from here. Possibly go to Thika. You had been there severally in the past. Start over and maybe rekindle your hopes of going to university but you did not even know your grades. That could be sorted. But how would you get the money? And the answer came quick though distasteful. Prostitution. Maybe for tonight only but never ever.
You could see it. Nairobi in its scenic glory, dressed for the night with diamonds of lights strewn all over, a testament to a city that barely slept. It was on Thursday and you were now at Westlands. It was all coloured lights here and though the cars had thinned out life was still teeming. The air was cold and sticky and goosebumps erupted on your tender skin. One of the first things you would do was to shake off the weave. So you walked, in flats with broken soles. It was a miracle you even had shoes on. You were quite some eye candy at the time, footing it in a black sporty Nike crop top and nothing but ripped tights that accentuated the full bloom of a nineteen-year-old on a dose of raging hormones and quite a few tricks up her sleeve once the doors were locked and the apparel dropped.
“And how much do you charge?” he asked, undressing you merely by his looks. Disgusted you felt and was about to give him a piece of your mind when you remembered it was all about the mullah. He was white. Grey haired and well built. “Four thousand with protection six without,” yes you knew what he wanted and how he wanted it, raw and free from the feeling of latex. You gave him your prettiest face and walked to him and grabbed his torso and let his male member feel inside your thighs your eyes in his. He was in a Mariano polo shirt and khaki’s and the smell of wine and BVLGARI-laid back but filthy rich. When he grabbed your behind and gave it a gentle long squeeze and walked you to Park Inn, it hit you that things had gone from zero to a hundred faster than you could say your own name—Yvette.


T  H  E    F  L  O  R  I  S  T.


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