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.
