You see, there are two types of girls: those who cheat, and those who get cheated on. A man has to meet these two types of girls in his lifetime. A man cannot earn his place on the table of men if he does not date these two types of women-in no particular order. Well, buying a top of the range locomotive machine and shagging a fine babe in the back seat somewhere in Naivasha is at the pinnacle of a man’s to-do list. But the thrill that comes with these types of girls? That is the icing on the cake.

Bonking a fine babe at the back seat, or driver’s seat (whatever you fancy) of a moti you bought after saving every last coin you could lay your hands on is orgasmic. Hiyo ndio utamu ya kununua gari naniii. Once you have car keys massaging your fingers, everything about you changes. Your sex pistol that used to act up in your bedsitter whenever a lass came visiting starts behaving. It becomes as hard as pronouncing the word onomatopoeia and curves just the way the daughters of Adam and Eve like it. And the car sex has to be in Naivasha, folks. Under a cluster of acacia trees with yellow trunks overlooking the murky waters of Lake Naivasha. The best part is when you both lie down side by side in that post-coital pose dripping in sweat and other inedible juices, and a cold and dry wind blows from the lake into the car through one window, caresses your skins like an obsessed lover, and leaves through the other window—pure bliss.

Just so you know, I do not have a whip yet, so I have not felt the bliss that comes with it. But when that day comes, I hope my third leg will curve and harden exactly how the daughter of Adam and Eve likes it.

Now, the girl who cheats is the most lethal. LETHAL in capital letters. You will most probably meet her in church. Yes, that is where they all come from. Church. They use the slogan, “My body is the temple of God,” when you hit on them. They say they have reserved their honey pots for a God-sent man. A servant of God. One who says Hallelujah rather Halleluyia like every normal human being. And you? You’re just a random IT guy at a characterless company sharing your office with the janitor. You carry tea and buttered bread to work. No, you don’t meet the cut. But we live in a mad world where the size of a woman’s ass determines the type of car she drives. Yes, not a university degree. Anything is possible under the sun. So one day after church service, she asks you to walk her home, and you think to yourself,

“Well, it’s not every day that the temple of God asks you to walk her home. This might just be it.” And you are right.

 So you walk her to her gate that Sunday, and then into her living room the next Sunday and then into her bedroom on the third Sunday. On the third Sunday, you sit nervously at the edge of the bed as she takes a shower. The sun casts a rectangle of yellow light on the floor bringing life into the tiny room. She has a crucifix hanging on one wall of the bedroom and a picture of the white Jesus on another. The other walls are blank, without character or emotion. They appear to be staring at you, sneering and condemning you for daring to undress in the presence of the Lord.

She has decided to open the gates of the temple for you, and you are not about to turn around and disappear. She waves you in. You get into the temple, first with the neck, just to be sure, then proceed to walk in with the grace of a cat, marveling at the temple’s warmth on your skin. The honey tastes better than you had imagined. The fruits are succulent and squishy. You’re in love.

One day on a cold morning in July, you jump onto the next bus bound for shagz to tell your mum that you found the one. You assure your mum that she will love her. Your face beams with brightness when you tell her that she sings in the church choir. That she is the leader of the praise and worship team. That she has been to the gates of heaven and back.

On your way back from shagz with a live hen tucked under one arm and your mother’s blessing tucked under the other, you buy a bouquet and a decent ring and show up at her house unannounced.

“She must be doing laundry.” You think to yourself as your knuckles strike the door.

Your crooked smile and open arms are met by the unblinking black eyes of Mike, the choir pianist. Around his waist is the same towel you use to dry your bum whenever you sleep over. Your tongue feels boated, too heavy to let out a word. She says what they all say, “it’s not what you think.” But you know it’s is exactly what you think. You can feel it. She is wearing a diffidence that seems alien. So you turn around, dump the flowers in the nearest dumpster and hop onto the next Matatu you lay your eyes on. You want to go as far away as possible from that place.

The girl who gets cheated on comes soon after. She is the girl next door. Having noticed that you no longer pass by her place to drop the latest TV series, she comes to check on you one of those lazy Sundays with a plate of steaming chapati in one hand and a glass of freshly blended juice in the other. She notices that you have lost weight. A kilogram or two. She says that the chia seeds in the juice she brought you will do you some justice. She is the type of girl that notices the most intricate details. She laments about the fact that your sufurias would be much brighter if you used steel wool to scrub them. That she hasn’t seen your clothes on the hanging line for a long time. So she buys steel wool and scrubs your sufurias like crazy, and washes and irons your shirts.

You get to work on Monday looking like you won the lottery over the weekend. Suzzie, the office damsel you have been chasing to no avail throws a wink at you, and you struggle to wink back. The girl next door has changed you. You can feel it. Even your receding hairline appears to be having second thoughts about proceeding further. If this girl can make you glow that much in a weekend, you wonder what you would look like in a year.

Once bitten, twice shy. You cannot let this one slip away. On new year’s eve, you go down on one knee when the clock strikes 12:00 am and ask her to be your wife. Her “Yes” is drowned by the thunder of fireworks tearing into the cold night as people usher in the new year. But it is still a “Yes”, isn’t it?

She walks down the aisle later that year in a burgundy-themed wedding down at the coast in front of a crowd the size of a kindergarten class. You wear a gorgeous Italian-cut tuxedo while she opts for a flatteringly fashionable gown. You hoped you would shed a tear when her parents walked her down the aisle, but you don’t. But it is still the wedding of your dreams: tears or no tears.

She is the embodiment of what your old folks told you a wife should be like. She makes the most delicious chapatis, fixes you a cup of coffee every morning before you go to work, and spanks your ass when you brush your teeth at bathroom sink. Oh, the sex? It is okay, you can’t complain. It could have been better. But it is okay. Or maybe it is because you are getting a double dose—home and away. You have been bedding Suzzie. The chick from the office, remember? It has been going on for a year. You even did it on the eve of your wedding. You don’t know why you are doing it. You can’t explain it. You get back home every day feeling guilty and filthy. You get into the shower and scrub off all the sins and impurities and promise yourself never to do it again. But you don’t stop.  

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