Moraa whips out her I-phone and traces the gallery with her fingers. She taps on a lengthy video recording, a sex tape she made with Ted in his office a few years ago. It’s of perfect quality. If it were to leak, it would probably go viral.
“Give it to me baby,” she can be heard grunting in it.
“I am, I am!” Ted can heard responding as he tries to keep up with her naughty aggressiveness.
“Talk dirty to me.’’ She issues a command.
“What?”
“Talk dirty!”
“Well, hell, okay.” Ted nods. “Open your legs wider hoe. Spill your sweet fluids on top of my documents.”
They both burst into laughter because Ted has never been good with dirty talk. But he’s good when he comes to the actual action. He continues pumping into her as she moans. She is sitting on top of his office table, her ass laying firmly on an A4 piece of paper as he pummels her while standing. Her legs are crossed tightly around his waist and as a result, the grip is heavenly.
Good old times.
She pauses the video and puts her phone back in her purse. She stares out of the private ward’s window.
Moraa has not spoken for weeks. Not to the nurses or her husband Ted’s doctor, her mother, or closest friends. Since Ted’s heart attack, people knew not to call; she would pick up the phone and only listen, then quietly hang up. Now when Moraa walks into a room, there is the acute exhaustion of her silence. She is there to listen, nod her head, understand. There is nothing more for her to say. She is silent with terror. She has felt the succinct, flat drop of abandonment for the past year, and now it has assumed form.
Moraa is thirty-five and her husband, Ted, is thirty-six. One month ago Ted had a heart attack, and the doctors have now given him days, a week at most, to live
It happened at a restaurant that they had stopped at after visiting a friend. The friend had served them very little food so they figured they should eat something more before heading home. Then Ted had a heart attack as he was holding a piece of well-fried steak. It happens to everyone just like this, Moraa had thought. You are sitting on the toilet, having dinner at a fast-food restaurant, or staring at some papers in the office, and you go just like that, or you start the slow process.
He had slumped onto the food, his fingers vibrating. She had gone wild, remembering nothing until after the sedation, when Ted was lying in bed at the hospital, next to a nurse.
Ted was a manager at an advertising firm. She was a lawyer who had represented him when an MCA wanted to grab a piece of land that he had bought in the outskirts of Nairobi. From there, they had become close. They had sex in his office multiple times when the other employees had left. The sex was too good that they decided it should last forever, so they got married.
Shortly after he had won the land case, Ted had decided to sell. That piece of land had given him enough headaches already. He disposed it and spent the money treating Moraa. Trips to Diani and Maasai mara, dinner at five star restaurants and everything that would make a classy lady like her happy. On her part, she had made sure she was everything Ted wanted her to be. She always looked good for him and dropped her panties for him whenever he felt like getting inside her. It never mattered where they were. In the washrooms, in the car, in a swimming pool – they would do it everywhere like teenagers.
But over the past year, Ted had grown distant. He spent more hours in the office. He said he needed to work more so that they could continue living as comfortably as they were used to. They were having financial troubles despite their good jobs. This could be blamed on overspending. By the time of the heart attack, they were in astonishing debt. There were two mortgages and most bills and payments were late. No health insurance. No life insurance. No savings. She had paid for the hospital with a credit card. She was drawing money on the last credit cards to pay for the doctors. She had put up her Toyota Rav4 for sale but she wasn’t getting a buyer with the right price. She kept her jewelry. She wouldn’t sell her jewelry. Now she wore as much of it as she could.
They didn’t have any children despite him pouring his seed inside her a million times. Moraa had suspected that years of relying on the Depo Provera contraceptive injection could have made her barren. She had used it since her teens.
Lately, her days were filled with nothing but gloom. She had stopped talking when she realized at his death she would be left with nothing. They had no asset or worthy investment.
Everyday in the hospital, she would touch the sponge to the pale ash of his skin, falling inward like dry rotted wood, then walk past the nurse into the bathroom. There she would wash her hands repeatedly with liquid soap, spray herself with perfume, redo the makeup on her face several times. At one time, she masturbatéd with the nurse in the next room. She had missed sex so much.
Every evening after leaving the hospital, she would get into her car and drive back home, watching the sky. Why had things changed so much in one year? Things shouldn’t be this way. Ted should be on his knees, eating her pussy in his office, not lying in a hospital bed.
XXXX
It’s now on a Friday evening, about six weeks after Ted’s heart attack. Moraa is driving slowly after leaving the hospital. Storm clouds are coming in fast, leaking wet lavender and coarse gray violets into the edge. She sees aubergine and peach light in the west. She takes the curves of the roads slowly, staying close to the yellow line.
She pulls up inside a Total petrol station and parks her car. Her hands are numb and her left leg has fallen asleep. She will wait for the thunder and lightning. She has all the time in the world. It begins with heavy, dusty drops of rain and the sound of the elements colliding, rumbling, like an elevator dropping. Then white light in veins, like the veins of a man’s arm running from the wrist to the shoulder, then nothing. If God is a man, then these are his arms; if God is a woman, then these are her lover’s, Moraa reasons.
She wonders if, at this moment, her husband has died. If she should be there, or here. No one knows how tired she is, and in her soothing airconditioned car she tries to cry, thinking the storm will let it out. Moraa massages her leg and decides to keep driving. The storm is getting stronger. The lightning is framing inconsequential things that she normally wouldn’t see when she drives. People are driving strangely, making wide left turns and almost hitting curbs, stopping for no reason and yelling at the driver next to them.
She is hungry, thinks she should stop for some chicken, but there are too many fast-food stands for her to be able to make a decision. The possibilities of taking one firm drive in any direction are endless; she will keep driving tonight until the car runs out of petrol. She doesn’t know what else to do.
All of a sudden, she spots a nice-looking club. She drives onto the dirt lot where she parks. She turns the air conditioner off and rolls down the windows, letting the tropical blast of night air clean the car out. She turns the headlights off and watches people move into the club. Some are couples, holding each other. This should be Ted and her.
Moraa looks in her purse for lipstick and money. Her lips must be repainted. She uses the rear view mirror to do this. She does not know why she is here except she cannot sit in Ted’s room anymore and watch him suffer. She gets out of the car and locks it. She begins walking towards the entrance. Her high heel catches on a rock and she falls down, then gets up and steadies herself.
The storm has now calmed but the wind is still present. The hot gush of air pushes her beige silk dress against her body. Finally, she is inside. The club is full of color and movement, defying the regular flashes of lightning.
She sits down, orders a drink and sips it slowly. She shouldn’t be doing this when she is alone without Ted. Alcohol usually increases her desires so much. It is at this moment that she sees a man staring at her. He is the most muscular man she has ever seen. Not a bodybuilder, but just huge and hard, with tattoos crawling up his scarred arms. Despite the cold, he isn’t wearing a coat or jacket. There is a tattoo of an eagle in flight across his arms. She looks at the floor, then looks up again, sees he is still watching her. She sees his eyes, dark and masculine, almond shaped with thick lashes. His nose is flat and flared. She knows he is younger than she is. He doesn’t make sense to her. She is used to men who are easy to decipher, size up, control. But he seems sophisticated. He groans, stretches his arms above his head in a sudden wave of rain and lets his muscles flex, then yawns, scratches his cheek, and grins at her. One of his eyebrows is half-singed off.
Then he looks down at his crotch and up at her, licking his lips. Suddenly, he walks to where she is sitting. He smiles at her as though they are friends.
“You are one beautiful woman. I saw you come in, you know. I watched you. And I’ll tell this. I’m a straight shooter. And to be honest, there’s nothing I’d love more than to make love to you tonight.”
Moraa is shocked. She tries to speak but she cant. Her chest is tight. Her vocal chords sting.
His voice is soft and basso hoarse. She isn’t even aware of it when she stands. The man just attracts her like a magnet. He effortlessly puts his arm around her and walks outside and to his Range Rover. So he’s a baller huh? He opens the back door and tells her to hop in. She does as instructed. Why is she trusting this man and doing as he says? She has no idea.
He sits next to her and their bodies come into contact, His muscles are surprisingly soft or it is soft skin wrapped around stone, she is not sure. He touches her thigh. She doesn’t know why this man is touching her or his name but she doesn’t stop him. This feels so wrong yet so right.
“I want you real bad, lady, I got a hard-on right now and I’m going to use it to please you okay? If you don’t like it, just say the word and Ill stop.”
He looks at her and smiles. He strokes her hair. She stares straight ahead. His hands are huge and cracked; the calluses on his palms catch in her hair. He lets go and she closes her eyes again.
He grabs her fingers and rubs them through the tattoo on his arm.
“Feel the eagle on my arm. Touch him. Can you feel his wings? Can you feel his feathers? He’s flying. Feel him.”
When he sees that she is rubbing his hand voluntarily, he moves to the next step.
“Now let me feel your nipplés. Each one. Slowly.”
He grabs her breasts through her dress and starts fondling them. He does so with a speed with a precision that takes Moraa’s breath into spasms; a cancer that is colorless and suffocates. One of her heels comes off as she rubs her leg against his. The man has pinned one arm and leg over her; she can feel his erection on her hip, extravagant and moving with the same force as his limbs.
Minutes later, she finds herself nakéd. She doesn’t remember the rest. He has whispered obscenities and hung them like doves at her neck. He has held her like a father, made her touch his genitals, and touched her vagina through her briefs, rubbing her pubic hair with his immense hands until it hurt. He’s licked her breasts until they are shiny with his saliva.
An hour later is when he ejaculates. They are both sweating on the back seat. She has never been pummeled non-stop for that long before. The man just kept going and going. She must have had about three orgásms within that hour. When he finally spils his seed inside her, it’s too much that a good amount flows onto the seat.
“That was something else.” She finally speaks.
“I know. And if you want, we can do this often. I am not a hit-n-run kind of guy. I’ll teach you how to suck my beautiful big cock and lick my balls. I’ll teach you over and over until you get it right. I’ll save all my come for you, baby. I’ll enter
you in the ass and eat your pretty cunny until it sings. I’ll comb your hair while you sleep and play with your titties while you dream of me, so you’re wet when you wake up.”
This words turn her on so much and they go another round. After that, she dresses up, goes back to her car and drives back home.
What a night!
A week later, Ted is dead.
A week after that, he is buried. Two days after the burial, she heads straight to the club where she met the man. She needs him. She needs someone to take away her grief. His name is Denno and he is a deejay at the club. He had given her his number but somehow she had lost her phone.
She asks one of the security guards whether they have seen him and they point to his Range Rover in the parking lot. She approaches it. It is shaking vigorously. Sounds are coming from inside. She opens the back door.
Denno is naked, with another woman.
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