“You have 18 kids? Do you pay child support?”
“I can’t pay no child support! They [the women] know…” he can’t afford it, says the very black American-sounding young man.
“What about contraception? Is that not an option for you?” responds the bemused inquisitor, to the amusement of a live crowd, from the cued laughing sounds of it.
“I was young…and ambitious.”
This was an audio recording played yesterday morning on my trustee 105.5 XFM, the everyday all-day Kenyan rock-head’s station. Of course I don’t know that the perp was black, nor do I know that the inquisitor was white. But: suspicions a-sneaky, my mind a-freaky.
Now think about it. Is this kinda brouha (because the last ha was deemed inadmissible to sense) not the very crap we allow in our society when we consciously ignore any and all talk about sex? Forget that he has a whole football team, nay, an entire changing room, of children. They could probably play a game of 11-aside, with the women part of the teams, and still have enough bodies leftover to play linesmen and part of the fan support. As the man plays referee, since any self-respecting football fan will tell you that the ref is the biggest fool on the pitch.
I’ll admit to being sorry, however, for being so overly presumptuous as to figure the man could actually afford all the equipment required to facilitate this kinda game, let alone a Sunday dinner complete with cornbread and some Kool Aid.
See what we do to ourselves, black people? Of course there are crazy white people out there, as there are reds and yellows; the KKK and general redneck fuckerries of yore, the red Communist brouha, the red vein-juice regularly flowing in the Middle East and India. But this? This could be avoided with a simple culture of honest open talk!
“Son. This is your penis. If you put it in this…” father proceeds to show Google image of a vagina to a Young Turk, “…without this…” another Google image of a condom “…being wrapped around your penis…”
How hard was that? Are your sensitivities now pricked anywhere near hard enough?
No harder than this poor sod’s prick was when he went on a fucking rampage, I might imagine. I sincerely hope you won’t prefer thinking that your daughter is not going to be affected. How do you know? How can you say, for certain, that this, or worse, is not what awaits her in the jungle we cultivate for our future by not talking about sex and the precious gift that is womanhood? Or as one particular wench I’d like to biblically ‘know’ says, her ‘laughter and the sweet scented sanctity between [her] legs’?
Imagine a world in which sex was discussed freely. I’m talking about Vagina Monologues held in the chief’s baraza out in the middle of Jangwa County, in the desert, not in Capital Cities and City Halls. Waza Dunia. Imagine. Your. World.
Is what we have here enough? Can we prevent the proliferation of single-seed families all over our world without engaging our children in better preparation for their futures? And believe you me, sex runs this world, so the kids had better get used to the idea. As should you, dear reader.
Any time I hear or sniff out even the sneakiest scent of sex, I just as quickly wanna sign up for a piece of that action. Take Sunday, for instance. I promise it was after the duly allowed church-going hours, so you can set those anti-XFreddy placards and Red-Armed pitch-forks down. The effigy looks good, though; methinks me likey!
*wink wink-back at The 150 Shades, me love you long time*
Back to Sunday, and Back to The Future. At least mine, that’s for sure. There I was, seated by my trusty lappy… We’ll call her Lap-Dance™. So there she is dancing on my lap, sailing through the Twitter sphere of life, and voilà: a new follower! A female follower at that, mused my mind. Something about the profile picture and name just oozed femininity.
Now, normally, I don’t bother myself too much with who follows or doesn’t, until, at least, I use a Social Media tool or other after a while and bulk-unfollow any baggage I don’t need on my timeline. But something about her Twitter love handle just got me curious. So I shift Lap-Dance™ on my place-that-we-will-not-mention-coz-society-says-so, and click on the profile.
The following is a word for word transcript of what my mind told me, and what I said back to it, in the next 15 minutes:
Mind: Dude! This has got to be the Social Experiment of the Hour!
Me: Nay, nay, nay, nigger! This one will serve for the decade!
Mind: It was just an interesting Twitter handle, with an interesting regal looking feather of a profile pic that followed me.
Me: Curious, you read her bio.
“Davina Owombre, a Nigerian short story writer. A published author of a
sexy title known simply as ‘Sarah’, in a collection titled ‘See You Next
Tuesday: The Second Coming.’”
Mind: The bio said coming. Twice! Further, it said that she would, would ‘Sarah’, see you next Tuesday!
Me: And so you engaged her. Asked her if you were really gonna see her next Tuesday.
Mind: Then you immediately sent a link to her, a review I had just finished
reading, about her story. Sometimes you can be such a nitwit, Me.
Me: Yeah, right. I didn’t hear you complaining as we sparred on, did Davina and I, segued in jest…
Mind: But whose idea was it to request a trade? One of my stories, for her ‘Sarah’, remember that, nitwit?
Me: One of ‘your stories’? Are you kidding me right now? Who types them out? Do you fool? And will you stop calling me nitwit, nitwit?
Oh well…let the two of them keep on arguing. You and I, dear reader, can be happy to know that, as it turns out, Davina said yes. She sent me a copy of ‘Sarah’, which began thus:
“A sweaty cowboy staggered up, grabbing a chair. The cowboy still on the floor crawled toward the bar. Other cowboys in the room went wild booing and cheering. The chair-grabber raised the chair and broke it on his opponent’s back.”
The ending, however, was less Coward of the County, and more Hero of the village:
“Sarah smiled her new special smile. And she parted her legs ever so slightly to reveal white underwear only he could see. Ani settled down to read.”
The piece was so flawless, Davina’s scenes so effortlessly curved out that they formed a mental picture as they oozed out of the page straight to my eyes. She is now about in my box 
The gmail kind, just so we’re clear. And the ‘she’ in this case is ‘Sarah’…not Davina.
OK, I lie. The last email I sent Davina, after a series of them, ended thus:
You naughty gal you. Wink accepted. Wink countered, seen and raised with a tip of the little Johnny. Or is it the little Akpor?
__________________________________________________________________________
Davina Owombre is a pseudonym that the author of ‘Sarah’ keeps as private as possible (hence no picture) because she had to sort of go ‘underground’ after receiving a barrage of criticisms and threats in Nigeria for daring to publish a same-sex short story involving Africans long before it was fashionable to do so (we’re talking about a decade ago).
She will feature in Freddy’s second piece of the month for Storymoja, every month, between now and October 1st. So tune in, every second Tuesday of the month, for more of Sarah’s wiles 
—
Fred Wambugu, preferably known as Freddy, is a writer/ enterpreneur with a liking for agro ways. Both the loud-mouthed angry “for no reason” and arable kinds.
When not farming or talking, Freddy owns of a hard-hitting anything goes blog, theDiary of a Serial Schizo and founder of inThync Kenya.
For more details on the writer, he has suggested that we tell you to scream at him on@french_freddy (Twitter) or Yule Mbois Mndialala (Facebook).
Disclaimer: He will holler right back. Loudly. Or lovably.
