Category: Promiscuous

The Condition Part 2

Continued from … The Condition Part 1

“Hi, you have reached the voicemail of Judith, please leave a message and I will certainly get back to you”

“Ah sorry you said what? Judiiiithhh noooo I I I was meant to talk to my nephew Joseph. <beep> Since I’m here I might as well say “that’s the most sexiest voice universe has ever made. Since you didn’t say ‘Mrs’ I wouldn’t be faulted for leaving my number. 0772934811 please do cal.. <beep><beep>

“Oh I heard the beep in my phone my money, I have run out of airtime but I wouldn’t min….

The phone was off way earlier than anticipated and he was just going on and on by himself. He cursed. He was about to say his name and his mind. Could she have got the message. Would she phone. Was she a Miss or Mrs. It was worth trying. 

“For all those boarding flight UM232 from Vic Falls to Harare, please proceed to Gate 1 we are now boarding”. The instructions came from a cocky voice and the speakers’ dust matched the voice, just as everyone made a beeline to the plane. Whilst aboard she fastened her seatbelt and was ready to doze off when the flight attendant spoke. 

Thank you for choosing to fly Air Zimbabwe 🇿🇼… “choosing from what when it’s the sole airline servicing the route” she murmured and fell asleep way before the plane was airborne. 

As they touched on Harare International Airport she hurriedly collected her bags and led the way. Obviously the landing woke her up. She wasn’t surprised by the landing but rather annoyed at the repeat by the stewards of their well rehearsed statement. 

Thank you mame, we hope you enjoyed the flight and thank you for choosing to fly with us. Hope to see you soon” she frowned. Why do they keep saying thank you for choosing us, as though there is an alternative. After going through the revolving doors she switched on her cellphone and noted she had voicemail. 

She jotted the number down and did a dummy payment on the mobile application so that she gets the name before she cancels the dummy payment. She gathered her esteem and decided to return the call. After all, the unknown caller had praised her and she thought why not give it a try

Hi my name is Judith, how are you Mr Kusena“. She decided to go formal. She giggled all the way from airport to their Gunhill home. The guy wouldn’t stop talking and he dished quotes faster than anyone she has ever known. As she entered the house she promised to keep in touch. The funny part is Mr Prince charmer wasn’t on Watsapp, hmmm strange 🤔. But she thought some people wouldn’t want the app either. 

“Love makes you blink when you should hold a stare and smile when you shouldn’t care” ~ beauty’s daughter

As days go by she would call him in the morning lunch and evening on way home. She asked what he did for a living and he answered simply. “Just like anyone else, I’m a hustler and I’m vending for a living”. She laughed as she reminded him everyone is always vending and hustling. 

They finally settled for a lunch outing. But he chose First Street Chicken inn. He had the courtesy to say he will be waiting outside by the entrance. 

“It’s impossible,” said pride;
“It’s risky,” said experience;
“It’s pointless,” said reason; 
“Give it a try,” whispered the heart….

As she arrived a little before time, she sat in a corner with her back on the street for fear of being identified. She didn’t see anyone who resembled her Prince Charmer. 

She was served a juice and the clock struck 1pm. ‘Will he be on time or the guys never make it on time’. Typical of public places a man being led by a child walked in. From the setup of holding a white stick and the left hand on the child’s shoulder meant he was blind. A begging bowl in hand meant he needed help. 

The blind man went first to the table where Judith was sitting and the kid pulled a chair for his dad to sit. 

No no no sorry the chair is taken and I don’t have any money please try begging somewhere else“. She pointed with her left hand clearly showing the diamond ring on her finger. 

The blind man and child sat patiently and calmly waiting for her to finish. After a while he cleared his throat and said in a begging voice 

“I am the guest you waiting for. My name is Bernard I did our table reservation as per promise and I was waiting outside by the entrance. When you sat at this table my son told me that you are here. I couldn’t see you neither can I see time, as you can by now tell that I’m blind”

                                                

     -oOo-

Life through the disability lens

NB: Based on a false story

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The Ressurection 

Continued from part 1 Who do you tell when you love ❤️ someone

We all stood there and just the breathing could be heard. Nobody talked. In times like these even the niddle could be so loud if dropped on the floor. 

We were all mind racing. I sat there but the truth is my mind was wondering up and down. My soul paced up and down and my heartbeat didn’t help matters either. 

The Police 👮 Constable seems to enjoy this. His eyes remained fixed on me. He must have carried this precision so many times that he even became used to scaring people with his direct stare. I was going to give him a nasty look, but he already had one. He cleared his throat like a judge who was about to deliver a verdict. 

He began to read the note that lay on his table. The same note that cancelled my wedding, the same note that I was the first to see as it dropped from the dead. Was she dead, I kept asking myself. I was hoping not. In such times, such prayers don’t get answered and you pray that the sky is congestion free, for you need your answers fast. 

Dear …. continued the officer as his eyes scanned through the note

If you are reading this please don’t be angry at me. I have decided to meet my marker. I have loved you since day one.
(The wife frowned) I have shielded all the girls who loved and or wanted you. I thought you were going to realize I never had a boyfriend all in the name of waiting for you. And this is how you repay me. Marrying someone under my watch. 

If it shall please you, please note I’m 4 months pregnant 🤰 

What? 😮. Me and the newly wedded wife managed to say in unison. “But… no it can’t be”. I said out aloud. But the loudness of my voice was interrupted by an even louder slap on my cheek from the wife. Even the Police officer frowned with envy that he too hasn’t slapped anyone with such mighty. I fell on the ground. What in boxing they call tko technical knockout. 

The doctor entered the Charge Office to give her side of the story, as she is the one who attended to T1. The friend of mine who shot herself at my wedding and we had to cut the wedding short. After all I was being arrested and charged on my wedding day. My wedding was what the British call a “dog’s breakfast”.

As she entered to deliver the news, she was shocked to see me lying on the floor. She didn’t know what to do. To deliver the news or attend to my bleeding mouth. I stood up in a clear sign of solidarity. I don’t mind dirty water but I do mind drowning.

“T1 is alive”. Said Mrs Devedzo, the doctor 

I leaped in air with that killer punch celebration.  I was celebrating my freedom for I won’t be charged for murder of T1. Even though I knew her survival might mean a whole lot more distraction as I’m now answerable to the wife. 

The officer said I was free to go. Just as I was about to walk out of the police station, I asked the officer if he could finish reading the note. 

Fast forward to today, 5 months later, in the dusty rural areas of Dotito, we are in a Roman Catholic Church for a funeral wake. T1 eventually passed away in her sleep due to complications at birth. She delivered a healthy baby girl who I named Tamiranashe but unfortunately she couldn’t make it. Doctors gave a laundry list of explanations none that I could believe. Father Raymond the local Priest was running late. The church was filled to capacity to pay the last respect to T1. 

Beautiful girls in mini skirts so short that left everyone to their imagining best sat on the front row. Even the married man shifted uneasily whilst their wives frowned, and the bachelors couldn’t stop peeping. As people sang waiting for the Priest to arrive I remember how as kids we used to interpret the drum beat and we coined a song “Fata murungu, Fata murungu” loosely translated to mean the Priest is a whiteman. 

The announcement came that Father Raymond wasn’t going to make it so Father Hebert would preside over the funeral. As he entered the church, by virtue of his name, everyone was stone cold to see and notice that Father Hebert was a blackman 😮. So why Hebert when he is black. Even the rural folklore whispered the rains would come late this year. Hazvisi zvega izvi. The last words I recall from the Priest was

“Life is pleasant 
Death is peaceful 
It’s the transition that’s troublesome” 

The ‘dust to dust’ hymn was the final song as her coffin was lowered into the grave. Wakabva kuivhu uchadzokera kuivhu. (Ashes to ashes)

There was a loud bang, popping sound that shattered the ears, those of nervous hearts fell down whilst some of us with military action took cover, only to realize it was a 3 man gun salute in honor of their departed comrade. Who was she really? 🤔

This was the resurrection that never was. The song faded away as I rubbed myself up, knees first for my only remaining suit. Last one standing after a nusty divorce. 

‘Fata murungu, Fata murungu Fata murungu’ I hummed 

                                        oOo

NB. Based on a false story

Story of my life Part 2

Care to read Part 1 here

Continued …

It was exactly 2 years after the tragic death of my son, some unruly over-speeding guy who knocked off my son and he died on the spot. The police blamed me for negligence. I blamed the council for not putting speed humps on the road and more directly the driver for a speed too much in a residential area. 

As I came out of the shops I saw kids laughing and pointing to a corner. Curiosity got the best of me. I went there only to discover that there was a child being mocked and bullied. People shouted at her. Moreso nobody wanted to touch him. I asked for the parents and was directed to a house in the middle of the neighborhood. 

The mother of the child was in a temper. Step mom to be exact. She didn’t want to hear anything to do with the kid. I offered to take care of the kid for her, after narrating my odeal. She looked stern then smiled. A deal was sealed. 

The rumor mill began circulating again. How on earth could I adopt a child. Everyone called me cursed. Moreso with the condition of the child, everyone felt it was taboo to have such a child. It was unheard off. An abomination in this part of the world. If only they knew better. Muhammad Ali once said “Hating people because of their color is wrong. And it doesn’t matter which color does the hating. It’s just plain wrong.”

I took great care of my newly adopted son like he was my own. He was now my own. His relatives had denied him. They had cast him away. My teachings tells me that “Our true nationality is mankind”

Enrolling him into school was a nightmare. The headmaster only agreed after reaching an agreement that he would sit on his own desk. 

If I thought raising a child out of wedlock was a nightmare then try raising a child who has been condemned by the society. It didn’t help matters as I too, was condemned by the same society for promiscuity, giving birth at 17 to what I still boldly declare was out of love than anything else. 

My begging routine increased. I did all the work that was available to cloth this boy. To feed him and to educate him. He is one boy who had a hobo of nicknames. When he came home one day looking pale, I was worried. After he had told me that he fancied a girl and proposed to her but was rejected because of his condition I felt a lump on my throat. I was angry. 

He never did sports at school. I remember too well that when he was a soccer team goalkeeper the other schools boycotted the match altogether unless if he was removed from the team. His only ability that no one could dispute was his intelligence. He always excelled in school and thus earned him a few friends. Friends at school only, all because he had left for Harvard where he graduated with a degree in Medicine. 

It was only 8 years later when he came back treating an outbreak disease. The disease had wiped out homes and continued to do so. After a lengthy telephone conversation he had sort donations from #CDC and #WHO, he led the team of doctors to eradicate the disease. He chose his home area first since it was marginalized. 

As people waited in the hall for the Doctors from America to arrive and cure their kids, people were chatting noisily and some trying to out do others in speaking. The first 5 doctors walked in and people applauded, then he walked in last and there was stone silence. Everyone couldn’t believe their eyes, others mouth opened, others half smiling and some frozen half way when they clapped. 

“But he is an Albino”, the elderly gentleman pointed to him with his cane. “Our society does not allow Albinos, that’s why we have too much rains. It’s taboo. It’s a tell tale sign”

Sensing tension the Health minister said “I present to you one of the best doctors the country has ever produced, your own kinsman and the leader of the team. Please let’s not be racist and give him a round of applause”

His opening remark was simple but loaded with message. “Mindsets play strange tricks on us,” he said. “We see things the way our minds have instructed our eyes to see…

At the corner of the Hall I just thought to myself “It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences.”

No human race is superior; no religious faith is inferior. All collective judgments are wrong. Only racists make them

                                                   oOo

NB. Written in solidarity with Albinos world over who are subjected by their society. 

*Based on a false story. 

Story of my life 

Having met Shadreck mid high school, a wealthy businessman’s son, life was rosy. He spoiled me with all that I wanted. I was the only girl in my rural area who could wear designer sporting attire. All thanks to him. As fate would have it,we did it, yes, for fear of losing him to other girls. 

Competition was stiff on him, so I was told. They advised me to give him all so as to contain him. I wasn’t amenable, infact I was iconoclastic. I resisted but later on submitted. Just like the deadly sniper, it was just that one shot and enough to bear a child Brandon. I had to drop from Tenth grade (Form 3) to nurse our son with the promise that once he has finished his Advanced Level we were going to marry. 

Fast forward to today, he doesn’t want anything to do with the child. Let alone me. He tells me in no printable words that I was a whore and how would I open my legs when I was only 16. Where had I seen that before. It’s all my fault now. What about the promise?. He asks me for where he signed this ( mou ) memorandum of understanding as evidence. What a highbrow. 

Things that education can do to people. I just sob in my sincerity. I never thought he would change. Was it because of education or the lights of the big city. Was it because I was not educated like him or because I never wore any trousers, perfumes, mini skirts that resembled more of a belt than a skirt. I wonder. 🤔

Now, in the society, I’m a disdain . In church people nolonger want to sit next to me. I’m the good example for wrong reasons. All verses seem to point to promiscuity. All he preaching tells people to be morally uptight. Even when the Preacher said “if you don’t meet the devil in your life it means you are hearding in the same direction“. Everyone looked at me

                      
In communities, the women shout so loud to each other about their daughters having passed with high flying colors at university. Is it because I never saw the front of a university let alone finish my ordinary level. 

The father of my son has since married and went for a pencil slim girl. She has long hair that almost reach her bums. Long nails and trims her eyebrows. Yet I’m short or chubby much closer to the ground, round face and the so called hard Mashona type of hair. (Kinky hair). They say history is for the victors and some will be remembered whilst others are forgotten, but facts can never be changed.

I have to do part time work to feed my son. Wherever I go they ask for educational certificates which I don’t have. Even as a maid they tell me I might be bad influence to their kids. If I did it how would I stop their children from doing it. Even those that have toddlers they tell me they would rather have someone without a kid. For they fear their food might fast disappear as I feed mine too from their pantry. Maybe they are right for “Sanity is not statistical” and “The consequences of every act are included in the act itself.”

As I sit by the road side with my baby at my back. Too tired to continue with the water bucket that I have to carry on my head from the water well. Maybe too tired because it’s been days since I ate a proper meal. Too tired after long nights trying to join pieces of cloth together to make clothes for my son. Too tired of thinking the if and buts or whys. 


With my palm around my right cheek, my head tilted and being supported by the hand, I see scholars in their uniforms coming from high school. Done with their day’s business. Among them I see pairs or boys and girls arm in arm. Love in the air. Some with their hands on their lovers waist. Obviously the hands for boys being a little lower than the waist. 

Tears rolled down my cheek. 

I was taken back to the real world by a loud scream and a sudden screeching of brakes. Dust rose so rapidly and I was choking. This is when reality struck….

To be continued

                                         – oOo

*Based on a false story