Part 1

He was a short and handsome man. Ever clean and ever smiling when he wasn’t broke. A bit on the talkative side, particularly if anyone provoked him with talk about women, and, like all other men, he loved talking about money and politics.

“My best subject matter,” he was fond of saying, “is woman. A son of a woman doesn’t sin in talking seriously about women.”

His name: Jonathan Kinama.

He was a short and handsome man. Ever clean and ever smiling when he wasn’t broke. A bit on the talkative side, particularly if anyone provoked him with talk about women, and, like all other men, he loved talking about money and politics.

“My best subject matter,” he was fond of saying, “is woman. A son of a woman doesn’t sin talking seriously about women.”

A civil servant waiting in the bank at the counter, Teller No. 2. It was payday, the end of April 1972. A month that had seemed too long. He boiled and burnt with impatience, but what a relief, man! After all, he was going to get his three months’ pay in one lump sum, his own money, in a bundle that he had never handled in all his days on earth. That big money must be the one which had kept the centre of his palm itching for a couple of days. But the itch was on the right hand, not the left, something that worried him. To hell with that superstition. At this moment, he was at great peace with himself. Very broke, but any time from now, ignore the impatience; he was going to be heavily loaded. Full of purchasing power after such hardship.

Today, the Kenya Commercial Bank was disturbingly full of impatient customers, men and women. For a peculiar reason, they were all young, sweet ones. Perhaps, because the young were impatient and didn’t mind the hustle while the elderly customers were patient and avoided coming to the bank at crush times.

The banking hall had assumed the smell of sweat and cigarette smoke. Smells of cheap and expensive, local and exotic perfumes, deodorants, soap—Lux, Lifebuoy, Imperial Leather, Sunlight, Palmolive. In the air, too, was the smell of sex…. particularly from some of the hefty and the tinclean women who had come to the bank hurrying through the hot morning. However, only experts like Kinama could detect such a smell. The cock, the man with the B.W., as teased by his colleagues, Bachelor of Women's degree.

Indeed, Kinama had tremendous experience with women. He could sing their dislikes and likes backwards, he used to say, like reciting the alphabet from A to Z, Z to A. The bank hall accommodated women of all sizes. From the tallest to the shortest; the most beautiful to the ugliest; the thinnest to the most massive. Coal black and light-skinned ones. And a host of mediums. But, the light-skinned outnumbered the dark ones as most of them had discovered the magic of skin lighteners, by any means, to get rid of that soot in their skin, which the White man often compared with sin and primitivism.

This waiting is taking ages, Kinama worried. So, he found a way of killing time while waiting for his name to be called out. There was always something to do for the creative person. The birds were here. He could watch and study them. The pretty lasses could entertain him. He could even make love to them in his imagination. To start off, he counted a number of expensive beauties with the best hairstyles. He loved wild hairstyles. The women on his picklist carried expensive handbags, festooned with necklaces, dear earrings and headgears that made them sexier. The most sophisticated had manicured nails to match the colours of their clothes and shoes. Dear Eve was this one here wearing lipstick and with altered eyebrows, with many luxury looks.

He made his final, best choice. She was fat, with plump cheeks on a round face—all curves and harmonised, armed with heavy breasts and a comfortable behind. This is my woman, Kinama nodded to himself. About her there was something of great interest: The grace in the manner she bore herself confidently. Add to that those shapely legs, smooth to soothe. Every course of the total looks pleased him with a whiff of mystery. Those highly polished chocolate-brown legs of hers, he imagined, must end up there in a perfect form.

He nodded to himself again; then he began to make love to her in his imagination; working things out in detail, staring at her intensely, so much that she seemed to sense the power of his eyes and will. Her eyes met his and he quickly looked away, pretending not to have been doing anything… to her. But while looking away, he still thought about her full lips which he had been kissing. He loved feeling plump women, bigger than himself whenever possible. This one qualified considerably. For a reason he didn’t know, he thought she could be called Ema.

“Ema,” he whispered.

His Ema was excitedly conversing with another girl in English. The other girl, tall and nail-hard, cast her words in a foreign accent… could she be a black American? Or just a local character with the brilliance of imitating an American accent? Kinama wondered. But whatever and whoever she was, Kinama had no time for such sticks. No, where would a man hold her, he thought, she’d pierce him with those bones. His eyes went back to his Ema. He undressed her in his imagination again and was about to resume making love to her when he came back to his senses—to his embarrassment, rather—to find that he had an erection which could be visible to other people. He turned around urgently and made a move to hide his excited penis. He pocketed his hand and arrested it, then moved among the people, working on the troublemaker, and managed to lodge it securely behind his belt.

“Jonathan Gitau!” the cashier called out.

Mistaking the name for his, Kinama pushed his way through the crowd until he got near the counter. The cashier called out again and Kinama turned back with disgust. “These bloody Kikuyus!” he cursed. He didn’t know when his erection died and the penis dislodged from its tether.

He had walked all the way to town from Ofafa Maringo, nearly five miles, because he didn’t have bus fare. He had taken nothing for breakfast. For his supper the previous night, he had taken an unbuttered loaf of bread with a cup of black Milo. Now, he remembered a piece of cigarette somewhere in his pocket. He started searching for it, his eyes looking for his Ema. But she was nowhere in the bank, not anymore. How could she have disappeared so soon? He was disappointed. Had she not been waiting for her pay like everyone else? But Miss Nail was still there, in a different place. He was thinking of lighting his cigarette when the cashier stunned him by calling out his name. A lightning cut across his stomach and he either threw the cigarette on the floor or returned it to his pocket. He couldn’t remember. He pushed, casting people out of his way with his shoulders, heart pounding as he made his way to the counter. He started sweating.

“Sir, here I am!” he cried, taking the position to receive his wealth. His heart picked up to maximum speed.

“How d’you want to have it?” asked the cashier in a feminine voice.

“Eh?” replied Kinama, then swallowed, after which the question registered, “Oh yes, let me have it all in hundreds.

The cashier studied his face for a moment.

He had served many excited people before, but not this one, who was panting… In the meantime, Kinama thought the cashier had not heard the order, so he repeated it. The cashier didn’t reply. He reached for a bundle of notes after stamping Kinama’s cheque and started counting them fast like a machine. Kinama fidgeted and felt like treating himself to some whistling… He swallowed again and cleared his nose.

Finally, the cashier pushed all the money towards him, and then watched him very curiously as he counted the notes with trembling hands. Kinama took his time to make sure that everything was correct.

“Good, excellent, thank you!” he told the cashier and pocketed his money in his tweed jacket. He heaved a sigh as he walked out… back to the fresh air in the street. He wiped his face with the back of his hand as he suffered a traffic jam of thoughts.

Now I have become a man, he thought. Dear Eve, where is that Ema now so we can play darts together? But his mind could not dwell on one thought for a minute anymore. Why should he waste his time thinking about a woman who could as well be somebody’s wife? With that thought, he started walking automatically, yet hunting with his eyes… or just waiting for the right thought. A pretty, small girl with round features passed by him fast, sounding her heels on the pavement. He thought she walked elegantly and seductively. What about her? He was thinking about her when he collided with a man shoulder-to-shoulder.

The man bared his teeth at him and stopped short of cursing him, resolved to be a gentleman to his partner, a woman whose hand interlocked with his. She had heavy calves like a footballer’s, chewing gum wildly and thrusting her tongue out as if bored by the man holding her. After the collision, Kinama felt for his money and hurried away, now crossing Moi Avenue and debating within himself whether or not to go back to the office. As he walked absently, an Alfa Romeo car screeched hard by his side and drove him to jump with fright.

“Bugger!” the Indian driver cursed at the top of his voice.

Kinama collected his broken nerves together and hurried his trembling knees away. He didn’t look at the car which had given him such a shock. Suddenly, he stopped and felt for his money again. Everything was alright, so he moved on, still recovering. Anyone could make a mistake, he tried to comfort himself; anyone could be absent-minded on such a busy day. At that moment, something else arrested his attention—a European girl, three-quarters naked, heading towards him in quick, measured steps. She wore a micromini. Her back was all bare, and her little breasts partly on display. The Kenyan sun had roasted her face and her back. An unmistakably beautiful woman.

Whoy! Whoy! Kinama whispered to himself in sheer admiration of this beauty. He stopped to graze his soul on the sight. His eyes followed her until she passed. At that moment, he silently wondered: These people, how do they feel in bed? Then he remembered that today he was actually wealthy enough to fell any woman.

If only I had a car, devil! He lamented. He had tried to be daring by attracting her attention with a smile for the heck of it, or, he ruminated, you-never-know-with-the-devil’s world... she appeared to have caught his smile but in response, she screwed up her face; but what would he have done if she had dared stop before him and ask what exactly he wanted?

He followed her behind until she disappeared in the streets. Could this money not buy him a white woman for an experience today? Where were the nightclubs with whites? What corners did they frequent? I can afford a taxi, he appreciated, and a meal anywhere in the Intercontinental, in the New Stanley, in the Panafric, hey! I could go to the Casino, eh? How much do white prostitutes charge?

He felt his goatee, which he thought gave him the look of an intellectual, a man of many… awareness. Never before had his beard appeared to suit him better than today, with all those Kenyan pounds in his pocket—all his!

The heat of the day, a prelude to rains in the afternoon, made him sweat rather much. His armpits stunk. Today, he would not come close to any woman before he had taken a long bath as he had gone three days—all with no drop of water on his body.

Still thinking about nightclubs and a white woman, he crossed the street heading to the Hilton. He entered the Hilton hotel and glanced around as if looking for somebody. He glowed with the good feeling that he qualified for a stay at such an expensive, international hotel. Besides, he could afford many things: suits, taxis, booze and bosom—all that. He felt winged enough for international flights. However, a stay and meals at the Hilton were not his immediate concern. He had his own world: Everybody had his or her world… As he was about to open the toilet door, an American black woman came out of the ladies’ quarters sheathed in tight jeans, wearing a thatch of hair done in almost a perfect circle… Those tight fittings emphasised her missiles. How come, he thought, every woman seems to challenge me today?

You don’t know? another voice replied from within. You are, indeed, very thirsty. You must eat and drink your fill after that long, long walk. The American girl disappeared with a play about her buttocks, going wild, left and right, up and down.

“Whoow!” he cried.

Having lost her, Kinama got into the toilet undressing an imaginary woman, one Miss Nzioki. Oh, today I could teach Miss Nzioki one good lesson for those daring teases of hers. He patted his chest in self-appreciation of a good feeling. He took position and unzipped his trousers, fetched his penis and directed it to the white wall. This daughter of Nzioki eh, he thought while writing figures with the jet, as there was nobody else in the room. The touch of his penis fertilised by the purchasing power in his pocket and the pressing desire to fulfil sexual hunger earned him an erection that very moment.

Am I such a sex maniac? he worried, shaking his penis and milking the last drop of urine. The erection made it difficult to get back into his trousers. But given time and understanding, everything returned to normal. He zipped the trousers and headed to the door absent-mindedly. He hadn’t touched the door when it flew open at his face and hit him hard.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir!” A white man’s voice vibrated from a thick set man with a bull neck. He was all hairy.

It was Kinama’s first time to be called “sir” by a white man. It sounded funny. Those folks didn’t call Africans sir anyhow. For that reason, the bang didn’t hurt anymore; at least, the man said something to heal it. Kinama walked out but only then realised that he had been hit hard.

“Fuck him!” he cursed aloud and massaged his face. He put his hand in his pocket to enjoy another touch of his money… The pain disappeared, or he stopped thinking about it. Should I go back to the office first? He asked himself. Or should I have one beer to quench this thirst?

They were not too strict with time in the civil service. Perhaps he could make himself comfortable with something nice… He had not touched a bottle of beer for nearly a week simply because he had been as poor as a church mouse.

Held by the indecision of what he should do first, he walked out of the Hilton and, heading to Jogoo House where he worked, he crossed the street carefully holding the money from above. Now he felt that a cigarette, yes! That would help him to decide his next course. He must smoke one full cigarette sitting somewhere peacefully. He walked to Uchumi House to buy a packet.

Then I’ll see, he said.