Rhazia Fatma, The Vocal Beast.

You could be whatever kind of campus student.

You could be the anti-social silent guy in your economics class who sits at the back bench in every lecture hall. You don’t have friends in class. You only say ‘hey’ to one or two classmates and always try your best to mind your own P’s and Q’s. To keep your circles small. To stick to you lanes.

You could be that ‘JAB’ student who never misses any class, does all assignments unlike the rest who copy-paste their fellows’ work, study at the Library, eat at the mess and reside in Hall Six of JKUAT’s bedbug infested hostels.

Perhaps, you could be the braggadocios, cocky, unfeeling everlasting bastard studying Law, a fact you always want to shove down people’s throats as soon as you know them even before knowing their name. 

Perhaps, you could be the miserable architecture student who spends 23/24 hours of your day in a studio trying to make this project ‘thingy’ work albeit a million and one technical drawings you have to do before the semester ends. You have no social life. You do not ‘turn up.’ Fridays don’t find you Maggie’s Keg place. Heck, you don’t even have a girlfriend. (Face palm).

You could be that pseudo-intellectual bigot of your engineering class who will not take ‘shit’ from anyone since you are an Alliance High School alumnus who joined campus via the Joint Admission Board (notice I wrote in full this time), you were the top in your county, the crème de la crème of the country, so campus ‘hippie yuppies’ can’t tell you shit. (Huezi ambiwa).

You could also be that ‘Light skin’ chick of your Mass communication class who thinks they will be awarded a first class honors for the mere fact that you are light. You don’t date campus riff-raffs. You deal with working class. Your mantra, “No romance without finance.” You only hang out with girls from your clique, your ilk. 

You could also be that pseudo- Mutahi Ngunyi of your class who thinks of himself as the paragon of level headed and mature political criticism, always ranting in class of how the government is stealing our money, sijui how this government is inefficient, blah blah blah, a lot of bull that fellow classmates don’t give a pig’s badonk about.

Perhaps, you are that ‘B.com’ student, son to some business oligarch, you drive an expensive car than the University’s Dean and you are in campus because it’s a family ‘thingy’ to be in campus and dad needs a learned heir for the family business. You attend a few classes, inebriated and stone for the better part of your day. You sponsor most ‘bashes’ in campus and this has earned you the privilege of exploring the southern hemispheres of most women in your school. 

 

Again, you could be whatever kind of campus student.

She is a student.

 

She is a girl too.

 

She studies BSc. Financial Engineering at the ‘reputable’ (coughs) Jomo Kenyatta University of Agriculture and …… (Let’s stop at Agriculture because the ‘Technology” used in this school was the one discovered with fossils of the proconsul at Olduvai Gorge), second year first semester. She is a gorgeous woman with a terrific looking face of a dark ebony skin, the color of a pumice stone, a rich dark tone. Her short hair shines like a million fireflies and this mama has a blossoming derriere. A nice bum. A gluteus Maximus that portrays the formula for a perfect ass: (Shape + circularity) x (Bounce + Firmness).She is curvaceous and luscious. She has a smile that must have been created with science, a perfect alignment of a white set of teeth. She speaks in a fresh, eloquent and saucy voice, the kind of voice that would make a man gizzle-gazzle after hearing it. This woman is pretty. Other women would ogle at her. Actually, they do ogle at her. Truth be told, there is no right vocabulary, the right arsenal of words to describe her physical aura. You know when they say beautiful ones are not yet born? They lie. She is the reason why we have a word like beautiful. To add icing on the cake, when this woman sings, hearts stop. Her vocal range is one Mariah Carey or Whitney Houston would reckon with.  

 

Rhazia Fatma, the Vocal Beast.

 

There is something about a women who sing. Something so surreal about a woman who is blessed with a vocal capability that will break your heart. A profound serenity. When Rhazia Fatma sings, the heavens stand attention to listen to her. You get lost in her voice as she sweeps you off your feet with her amazing talent, as she takes on that Beyoncé or Tony Braxton track. That voice will send chills from the nape of your neck all the way to your unkulukulwane. Her neck muscles straining but her eyes never bulging. When she sings, her loyalty is only to the music. Her zeal for music will make you question your life. You will wonder what it is that you do with the same amount of passion Rhazia gives to her singing. I wonder if the stars shine up for her voice. She is gifted and she will make a room awash with happiness only with her voice.

 

Folks, when you get a woman who can sing, a woman with an angelic voice like Rhazia’s, marry her, fast. You can come to worry about her weaknesses later. Imagine coming home to a songbird. As you pack your car in the compound, you are welcomed by the smell of well marinated fish and steaming ugali accompanied a honeyed voice of a woman singing something like ‘’you better eat that booty like groceries,’’ as if to imply that you will be having having fish and ugali for dinner and booty will be served as dessert. Your walk from the car to the door will be a ‘hard’ one, trust me.  (See what I did there).Haha. Or when you have to wake up every morning to the smell of fresh prepared lemon pancakes and the voice of an angel, singing some Tracy Chapman old classic song from the kitchen. You will lose your shit. Shriek. Perhaps do a jig thanking her ansestors for bestowing you with her for a wife. Morning wood would never be the same again. Such would be life. Goals, right?

 

So, on a normal Friday afternoon, I will host Fatma at my place, because apart from her vocal prowess, she also has a personality that says more than her voice and it is good to surround yourself with such people. We have a hubbub of conversation, talk about life, people and other drugs. I ask her what inspires her singing, why she sings as if life depended on it, what motivates her. Instead of answering me, she sings. That’s the way she knows best to communicate, to people and to the universe. She can vent her pain via her voice. You can feel her zeal for life and her will to be somebody great ooze from her mouth through her melodic voice. That voice which is like a hidden door, leading to her heart. Through it, you can run though her veins, uncovering childhood dreams and shining light on her present ambitions. So emotional, so seductive. There is a bizarre, completely, disproportionately sized euphoria in that moment. She says singing is ‘therapeutical’. She is one happy soul. At some point, I start thinking of her in a mushy way. Not the way you think of Huddah’s ass, nay, the way you think of Whitney Houston or Atemi or Achieng’ Abura.

 

Rhazia is a real celebrity, because real celebrities are not actually celebrated. In Kenya, the real celebrities don’t have a million followers on instagram. They are not hosted on the Trend by Larry. The ‘Blue Subaru’ blogger does not even write about them. Neither are they the socialites who orchestrate trending hashtags on twitter nor the activists who cause a buzz on facebook. The real celebrities in Kenya are even not played on radio like the annoying 'Professor Bamba.' The Real celebrities are in campus, kicking ass in photography. (Hey Alex). They are young ladies and gentlemen doing exemplary articles and rocking the blogosphere. (Gichia, Amen!) They are the residents of Ruai who tener such great voices, the paragons of music. The Rhazias of today, the future Atemis and sauti sols.

 

I am of the thought that when God created Rhazia, He looked at her and He loved it. I think He was mersmerized too. He told Jesus to ‘gotea hiyo story, wekelea uzito’. That day, I think He ordered Jesus to turn water into whiskey, because wine is not good enough to celebrate a creation like Rhazia. The voice that had been given to this lady made the singing angels in heaven to catch feelings, aisee!

 

 

Her voice aside, Rhazia has a heart you will want to kiss. She is a friend who will applaud your flattering qualities, and not relent from shining light to your less flattering qualities. She will be there for her friends come hell or high water. She will even be there for some of her enemies. That’s just who she is. The kind of woman who will remind you how you are strong and that the best of you is yet to be found. She is as smart as a whip, couple that with a refreshing candor and your interest in her is piqued. She is indeed ‘every woman’ even though she is not Whitney Houston. You will love her, not because of what she feels about you, no, but because of how she makes you feel about yourself.

 

Rhazia Fatma, sweetheart, it's been an honor. 

Photo By: The amazing, super talented, kiss-ass photograpger, Viquesvisuals

Diary Of My Ex-Girlfriend.

There is a seduction that comes with writing at night. Wee hours of the night when there is pin drop silence; you can hear the sound of your breathe. Wee hours of the night when drunk texts are sent and booty calls are made. Wee hours of the night when the guy living in F1, just above my bedsitter house (if it qualifies that name) is having bed breaking sex and her damsel is moaning , making weird sounds as if she is saying the Lord’s prayer in mother tongue. Wee hours of the night when Range Rovers are being parked in a servants quarters somewhere in Kileleshwa. Wee hours of the night when the Instagram socialites are cashing in big cheques in a hotel room in Paris, before they shove it down your throats with a gazillion nude selfies on IG come sunrise. Wee hours of the night when the man of the bottle is making his way back home reminiscing on the good ‘head’ he just got from that Sharon chic she met in the club and wishing his wife could hone similar skills. (Women who just lay in bed like a dead chicken during coitus have no right to complain when he cheats. Up your game ladies, up your game.) Wee hours of the night when clandestine sins are made, political assassinations executed, mysterious deaths occur, love consummated, a plethora of activities happen albeit the silence that may fool you.

 It is in this hour that I love to write.

 During this hours, words agree to speak your language. Words mate in a divine manner and out of it comes a satisfaction that every writer desires. You can hear the sound of thoughts as they stream from your mind. This is a profound serenity. 

You wake up and grab your laptop. Try to place it on your laps amidst a boner so hard it would cut diamond. The buzzing sound of a notification from your phone which is just beside you will distract you. It’s a message from a number not saved in your contacts. 

 “Hey, just checking up. Hope life is good.”

 You are startled. You notice the number ends with a 100 and starts with 0722. You smile. It’s your ex. Your ego is fellated. She still has your number? You are wowed. It has been three months now and she still feels she should check up. You can tell that she has not moved on. I mean, who moves on after dating the Eros you are. It is 3:00am and you remember that this is the time she would wake up and write her diary. A thing you found to be pretty weird but didn’t mind, since ‘morning glory’ would come shorty after. You are not dubious that she has not moved on and she is definitely scribbling something about you in her diary today.

 You smile again. Perhaps because you remember a time like this some months ago, your legs would be intertwined in hers. You would be whispering sweet nothings to each other. You would be breathing on her neck.  She would be lying on you and your heart would be pounding like dully on your chest. You would be telling her of her beauty, the warmth of her laughter, the wind in her hair. That you would stay there looking at her eyes forever, 24/7, 365, days an year. You would be telling her that you forever want to wake up beside her. She would be telling you that you are the best she will ever have and that she will never leave you. Your stomach would clench. You would then tell her that you will have no life after her. (Hogwash, right?). You two were good with cheesy lines and sparkly conversations.

Then life happened. You still have a life after her. She is no longer beautiful like you used to say. In fact, to you, she looks like the rear end of your grandmother’s knocked kneed, tick infested bovine. A host of visual terrorist. Why we term our ex’s ugly after we breakup, I don’t know. As if you were blind when dating them. Am still of the opinion that my exes are not as beautiful (avoiding to use the word ugly for security purposes) as my current missus. (Someone will sleep in her shoes today.) 

Too many unwelcomed thoughts are buzzing around like a swarm of hungry wasp invading your already overwrought brain. You are thinking of what she could be writing on her diary about you. Does she refer to you as the one who got away or the bullet that dodged? But you set your bar high, you are definitely the one that got away. She has to write good things about you. 

If you have been my girlfriend, or planning to be my girlfriend, or you are already my girlfriend (People this days will be in a relationship with you and you don’t know), this is how you will write your diary after we have dated:

**********

Dear Diary,

My demons today told me to text him and guilt is killing me right now. This bottle of chivas is doing me no good either. Am sure he knows I must be tipsy to do what I did, but again my truthful self is epitomized when am drunk. If he would call me now, I would rant to him that I still love him, but fret not diary, I have switched off my phone. I have already massaged his ego as it is and making a conversation with him while drunk would make me seem desperate. Of course I am, no woman would resist this man’s charm. He is the kind you want to inhale, bit, suck and turn him into a part of whom you are. 

It has been a constant autumn since we broke up. He made light of the absurdity of life. Where there was darkness, he shed light and even in my darkest hours, he made me smile. When I found myself running from all the things that chased me, even the once I secretly hoped would catch me and hold the verses of my skin together, to keep my soul from the clouds of loneliness, I found HIM. Regardless of his sarcastic self, he offered me quite an optimistic world view.

He is a voracious reader. He will involve you in quite intelligent conversations and even when we argued he would sit me down and try to sort things out in a calm and lovely manner. He is smart and I would at times wish to fuck his brains. In ugliness, he found beauty, truth in lies, hope in desperation. Anything I threw to him was an inspiration. With him, I saw things in a different light, what I detested, I began to like. (Feeling like a poet here). He would stroke my ego at times, praise my flattering qualities and make me feel good about myself. However, he did not relent from shedding light on my less flattering qualities. How am I not supposed to miss him? How am I supposed to resist this urge to text him, pretending that I am just checking up on him, while I want to know everything about his life after me? How am I supposed to stop myself from wondering whether if he still misses the touch of my lips? Hur?

And yet his fire still burns within me. I wish to weep for him, but it will not be enough. I want to look back at our romance and laugh, but it will not be enough. My heart sang a different tune. It was more than chocolates and roses. Romance was when he knew how I wanted my coffee, sugary. Or when we would walk home, holding hands after a night of binge drinking. I miss when he would tie the laces to my shoes because he knows I hate it. He was my slice of heaven.  You see, it hard to find a person who can dig deep into the quarry of your emotions and know how to make you skin turn out of excitement. Such a species is rare to find and his next will definitely be a lucky bastard! (You do not expect an ex-girlfriend to refer to your current as a queen, right?)

He will perhaps call me tomorrow morning and I will pick up and we will have a slight awkward conversation that will raise my adrenaline levels to crazy. I will lose my senses when I hear his husky voice over the phone, and perhaps I will orgasm, because he has that effect on me.

Him: Hey

Me: Hey, how are you doing Isaac.

Him: Am very fine Lisa (Lets call her this) I found your message this morning and thought it would just be courteous to call, thanks for checking up, you are doing fine right?

Me: Yes I am. I just thought it’s humane to check up once in a while. Am glad you did not ask, who this is.

Him: That’s why they invented true caller for us, right?

Me: Hahahaha……As if! Could you do coffee this week, Friday? Kaldies?

Him: Sure, why not!

Me: Thank you. See you.

But those are just fantasies. The kind of fantasies that make me hold on to some illusion of hope that we will get back together. I do not know where things went wrong. I think I should abide to the words of the last message he ever sent to message he sent to me. “When you come to the end of a book, you close it.” It’s high time I closed our book with these words of affirmation. He was A-Z. Athletic, brilliant, charming, dependable, educated, fit, generous, humorous, insightful, jovial, kind, logical, manly, noble, outgoing, peaceable, quotable, resilient, strong, trustworthy, understanding, virile, well-built, he had the X-factor, he was youthful and zesty. 

He was Z-A. Zealous, yummy, a xenophile yet grounded, wise, veracious, unequalled, truthful, superior, refined, quintessential, polite, open-minded, noticeable, masculine, learned, knowledgeable, jaunty, impressive, honorable, gregarious, fair, eclectic, dynamic, classy, bodacious and definitely attractive.

*************

Missive to My Wife In Waiting.

Dear Mama Nyakio,

My darling, I christen you Mama Nyakio since you will be the mother of my kids. I want to have kids, lots of them. Perhaps ten (if you can manage) and preferably a girl for a first born. She will be called Nyakio named after her grandmother. You see, my beloved, I have taken to writing to you here with the hopes that you are reading this, since you have decided to become illusive to yours truly. Read it one sentence at a time.

My beloved, since I started writing here, I always look forward to finding myself seated behind my laptop, fingers on the home keys, ready to inscribe words that clobber my mind at the moment. I delight in writing. There is an orgasmic feeling I get when I put down words in a quintessential manner. When those words express my sentiments, when they come out, glistering with sheen. It took me time to begin this my beloved, (blame the fear of mediocrity) but do I say? Brevity has become my forte. Today, being my birthday, I want to write to you. I am growing old and it's time I started to think about us.

I long for the day my love we will be lost in our world together. The day I will take you home to meet Nyakio, my mother for her acceptance. She will welcome you with Sufurias and ‘Kanyumbani’ soap and will want see how well you can make those sufurias shine. (What is of a woman who can’t clean utensil?) I cannot wait my love, to see you walk down the aisle, dressed in that Black Vera Wang bridal dress( White is so mainstream, love) and those fine Jimmy Choo six-inch pieces of heaven. I long for the day we will take a sojourn to the Maldives for our honeymoon, or visit the Bora Bora Islands for a lifetime genital tangle in the renowned Islands. 

My Eve, your Adam here awaits in patience to be lost in your charm. How I will always lick my phone screen when viewing your sexy Whatsapp display photo. How my Phallus will pulsate when your name lights up on my phone screen as you call. How I will woolgather after I read that “I can’t wait for you to get home’” text message when at work. I long for the days I will come home, after a long day, only for you to receive me at the door, naked, in six inch heels holding that bottle of our favorite French cognac. I long for the time I will slide my fingers up your dress, naughtily, as we have diner at that fine restaurant, (Villa Rosa being my semblance of preference) and not give a bat’s nipple if people will see us or not. I am waiting my love, for the days, I will pull myself behind you and breath into your neck and nuzzle it with my tongue as you cook breakfast, in my kitchen dressed in my white shirt. (There is nothing that turns on a man like a woman in the kitchen dressed in his shirt and nothing else on.) How long will I wait to have you drinking wine from my mouth? Do you know how I long for time you will lick yoghurt from my back?

My shameless adoration, I am waiting for those sweaty nights, our endless nights that will be marked by mind blowing, sheet staining, bed cracking genital tangle. I will make you scream and writhe and explored.  I will pull you close to my chest and pin you against that wall as I lift your thighs with my hands. How I will kiss the woman out of you, as my palms delve throughout your body to explore your body geography.  Matters coitus are fundamental in this institution of marriage. Therefore, I will not hesitate to do you in the car before I drop you at your office for work, or at the maize plantation behind our house, my love (mafefeini- in kikuyu), or at the shower on those early morning, and leave you glowing for the rest of the day. I want your nipples to harden when I kiss you goodbye for work, I want them to harden when you spot my car driving to pick you up from work or when I send that basket of chocolate to your office to make the ‘cramping’ more bearable, when it is that time of the month.

Mutumia wakwa (My wife), my sunshine, my stomach butterflies, yours truly over her is a man of his own chivalric codes. I am gallant and can be over caring, especially when drunk. I want to be your provider and sustainer. I will clothe you, feed you and shelter you. You will drink from my pocket. You want that Coco Chanel shoe, I will pay for it. Hairdo? Come get money. Money for your mama? You can have it. You will never want. You see my love, I am not of that tomfoolery school of thought that a man should bear the burden of bills with the wife. That you should pay for the cab as I pay for diner. That is hogwash. Utter bullshit. If a man cannot provide to the last coin for the wife, then he should not marry. That is the mantra I have conformed to. I am a worthy custodian of testicles, two of them, balls big can’t even dance in my pants. I herein confess to make sure you are one gratified missus. 

Rib from my own, I only ask for your understanding. Just understand me more than anyone else ever will. Understand my insecurities and my fear of failure. 

I love to read. I am a voracious reader. I will occasionally spend a night on the couch engrossed in that Nora Roberts, Dean Koontz, Danielle Steel, John Green or Sidney Sheldon book. 

I love Pilsner. I adore Pilsner. I drink Pilsner. Pilsner loves me back. Pilsner will be the bitch I will cheat on you with. Her taste, horseblankety. She is spritzy. She is where I find solace, especially when am listening to Mugithi by Murimi Wa ka Half or Mike Rua. Bummer, right? 

I am a lover of rock whichever type, soft and heavy brutal metal rock. I listen to Lady Antebellum and rock on Behemoth's Ov Fire and the Void brutality.

I have one conspicuous celebrity crash on one Ciku Muriuki of Nation FM, I oogle at her cellulite, but that will not compromise my love for you.

Lastly my Love, I am a man of God, and I will be here praying that my Almighty Deity reveals you to me soon.

In absentia, I Love You, with a cunnilingus love that is gracefully given, with the air of ardent worship.

Body, mind, soul,

Mwaura Mburu Nyakio.