In a Lingerie in Town

In a Lingerie in Town

Easter Holiday was my boyfriend’s birthday and I was determined to get him a gift. I did what any cool girlfriend would do – I decided to offer myself like a Christmas gift from Santa Claus. Men do not need socks, ties or loafers for a birthday. Watches are so mainstream and no man wants to be taken out for dinner on his birthday. I had thought this through and in my head, it was very clear and I figured out it would be easy.


I got a lingerie from an online shop – these weird lingerie that uncovers the parts that are always covered in ordinary circumstances. The lingerie I chose would make the angels of heaven pause their music in bewilderment. But what the hell! We are here for a good time not a long time.


A gift is all about the packaging and delivery so I squeezed myself into my new lingerie at around 10 am on Friday in my house. The idea was to cover it all up in a trench coat and make the easy ride to Kiambu to surprise my boyfriend who I was confident was going to get his mind blown. I could already see his social media captions afterwards…


Best girlfriend ever…

Coolest chile on the block…

My ride and die…

To be honest, I was making this much effort because my birthday is later in the year and it is logical that he should blow my mind when it came to my gift like I was prepared to do. There were several extremely expensive things I was thinking would have really been good in my possession.


My lingerie was white like a really slutty see-through net wedding dress with red stripes all over pointing to regions that the sun never shines. Inside was an extremely tight panty that had gaps in places it never should have had. The panty also had red linen attaching it to some pink bands that were wrapped around my thighs. It is amazing how creative these designers can be. Dressing up in that thing took a whole thirty minutes but by the end of it all, I looked like the lady on top of the cover of the packaging.


I put on a little perfume – my boyfriend doesn’t like perfume but a little doesn’t hurt. Owing to the fact that I knew we would spend time really close, I intended to be as pleasant to him as possible. I got ready, put my hair in a way he had initially said he liked. I successfully transformed myself into his personal plaything and I loved it. It was a little cost for the amazing boyfriend I have.


I left the house at 11am already feeling utterly uncomfortable with the tightness on my skin. Within the first few seconds of opening the door, I was already regretting the choices I had made so far but it was too late to turn back. The climb down for six floors felt weird, especially because wind rushed through my thighs and blew beneath. It was a new feeling that I would have to take some time to adjust to. Never the less, I forged ahead. I clutched my trench coat even tighter, burying my bare chest beneath my crossed arms.  This would be easy.


Now, I live in Kasarani, Nairobi in an apartment around Santon. My boyfriend lives along Kiambu Road, which is a comfortable twenty five kilometre stretch from my place.


I boarded an MSL matatu from my usual place but immediately I got on the bus, I discovered the first mistake I had done – I had not put into consideration sitting down in my attire. I knew the trench coat button would only cover so much, meaning my thighs would be out in the open. I panicked. The bus was almost full so my seat chances were limited to a few. The bus was on the move right away, giving me no time to come to a decision and so to avoid falling, I held on to the bar at the top.


Madam kuna kiti pale, kalia twende.


The conductor was advising me to sit but there was no way that was going to happen. My current position had left my nakedness purely reliant on one trench coat button.


Niko sawa tu.


I responded that I was okay standing looking guilty like a child caught with their hand in the sugar bowl. The conductor became suspicious at once and started looking at me in an investigative manner. I followed his eyes as he investigated the length of my trench coat. His lips let out a nasty disgusting grin like he had discovered a gold mine. Inside, my heart pumped with both fists. I regretted this whole charade, I even found myself denouncing the expensive gifts I was hoping to get on my birthday. I prayed silently that should God see me safely to Kiambu, I would never do this again.


God answers his children very fast, naughty ones and mannered ones alike. In this instance, he came to me in form of a woman, well into her fifties, who paved way for me to get to a concealed seat by the window and behind other seats. I accepted appreciatively and sat down at once. I do not know why she had decided to help me but the moment I sat and she saw my uncovered thighs, her face drew a nasty sneer like she had sipped a lethal brew. It was possible that she thought I was a prostitute, yet, there was nothing I could do about it. I bent my face down in shame and tried to distract myself with my phone.


A few minutes later, the lady moved from that seat to another further away. I think she did not want God to look down on her and associate her with a prostitute. Or maybe she thought STIs are airborne. I was heartbroken.


I logged on to Twitter to wish my followers a Good Friday before I stopped by Facebook to like a post that my father had tagged me. I then went to WhatsApp and wrote a message to my boyfriend, that I would be there in twenty minutes bearing his heart’s desires as his birthday gift. The message was delivered but only one tick came to view meaning he had not viewed the message and was most likely sound asleep.


It is easy to get to Kiambu Road from Thika Road, you just alight at Muthaiga and then cross the footbridge to the other side and board Triple S Matatus to Kiambu. I did not do that. I made a quick calculation and decided that going to town and boarding a completely empty matatu would be the best option as I had learnt through a tough experience. So off we went past Muthaiga, so close yet so far.


That was the single most stupid decision I have made that day.


I thought – if the matatu I was in dropped me at Archives, then I would board a Kiambu matatu right there. Zero risks. What I did not account for was the traffic on Thika Road that lasted for more than an hour. I could not wait to untie my tight undergarment that by then, under the heat, made me feel like I was in hell basking in the eternal flame.


Stage Mwisho


The conductor screamed and I looked outside to confirm we had arrived. We had not. We were at Ngara! I panicked. This time I suspected I would faint.


Passengers clicked on their way out in frustration and as I followed in line, I was hoping that the world would open up right there and then and swallow me. I had to think fast. I had to come up with a way out of this mess.


I alighted and stood beside the road hoping no one would pay attention to me. I made the decision to call an Uber-like I should have done from the very start, but that was also another wrong decision. Uber app said that Charles was six minutes away but twenty, thirty minutes later, Charles was nowhere to be seen. I called him for the umpteenth time and he refused to pick up and I cancelled the trip after a warning that Uber would charge Ksh 150 on my next ride. It was stupid calling an Uber with the traffic anyway.


The alternatives at this moment were: a motorcycle which with my sex costume was impossible or simply, to call my boyfriend and ask him to come pick me up – but this would ruin the surprise. The last one, which I chose, was to walk to the nearest stage and board the first matatu to Kiambu.


So I walked. I passed by a car garage and they all stopped and shouted all sorts of things at me including how much I charged for a blowjob. I kept walking. I was going to surprise my boyfriend at whatever cost. I walked past Nyamakima all the way to Moi Avenue. At this point, I was hungry, it was headed to 2pm and the friction my thighs and my costume made, certainly made my skin red with blisters. Yet I kept walking.


I got a chocolate bar from a street hawker before I reached the bus station. The best matatus to Kiambu are usually at Tom Mboya Street but I had lost my will to keep walking so I just boarded a fourteen seater matatu at the Nairobi Bus Station. The only empty seats were the last row and you all know how tricky getting to the last row of a fourteen seater is. I did not care anymore. A couple of people made Kikuyu remarks behind me, and I was glad I did not understand Kikuyu – I could feel they are commenting on me though. I had lost my ability to care with the exhaustion, fatigue, hunger and itchiness. I cursed my lingerie. I even cursed my boyfriend remembering all the bad things he had ever done to me and I was here making a monkey of myself to please him.


When I checked my phone, it had seven missed calls from my boyfriend and even more messages.


Where are you?

You said twenty minutes

Baby are you angry at me? I was asleep

Please pick up.

I am coming to Kasarani so that we can talk.


When I called him, it was to tell him not to leave the house but he said he was already at Kasarani Stadium headed to my place. I told him I had gone to buy something in town first and he should turn around and meet me at home. He suggested to wait for me at Naivas Mall along Kiambu Road but I declined. I was still determined to surprise him.


The matatu was fully boarded and took off at speed. We would be at Kiambu in the next thirty minutes. My energy had been rejuvenated by the call I had made. My boyfriend was still going to get his mind blown. I got out my chocolate bar to reduce the hunger but a small boy seated with his mother could not stop staring so against the protests of his mother, I let him have it.


If Nairobi was going to be a cold… cold place, it was the duty of a selected few to smile in the face of aridity and disenchantment and show love where no one else would.


My boyfriend texted about twenty minutes later to say that he was already back home waiting for me. He drives fast. I envied his promptness to achieve movement to wherever he wanted to be. He knows all the shortcuts and police roadblocks. He knows when to overtake and when not to. He is proficient and always so good at whatever he set his mind to. I felt a sense of hopelessness creep in like an uninvited guest. I could not even do a simple task of surprising him. At this point, I turned away from the other passengers and wiped a rogue tear that had begun trickling down my cheek.


The small boy saw me cry, however, and he thought it was because of my chocolate bar. He handed me a piece trying to cheer me up which I was going to resist but changed my mind, I accepted it and smiled. He smiled back. Such a beautiful sight, I thought. I wondered whether he knew what lay in wait for him in adulthood.


I got to Kiambu eventually and took a TukTuk Taxi to the exact apartment my boyfriend resides. I did not want to take a chance on walking anymore. I had had enough. The driver was a chatty guy who insisted I sit with him at the co-driver seat instead of the back seats because as he claimed, ‘it was dusty’.  I sat beside him and the moment he noticed that I was in an extremely short cardigan, he avoided staring keeping his eyes on level with mine at all times. He talked a lot. I wondered if he also thought I was a hooker but he did not seem interested in who I was as much as he was into who he was. He told me about farming, traffic and the president. I enjoyed listening to him.


He dropped me off shouting behind me…


salimiana sana na mjibambe, alafu pasaka njema.


He had understood what was happening, quite fast for a TukTuk driver. I thought.


I walked to the door and paused for a second before I decided to walk in. I thought about adjusting my lingerie appropriately before surprising him and no sooner had I started, did I stop and gave up. I knocked and the door flew open only to find welcoming arms of my birthday boy. My drug and my misery. I gave him a tired smile and he tried peeking beyond my trench coat. He was starting to get excited by my idea of a birthday gift and I let him droll a little longer.


Eventually, before things went further he had to sit and listen to my wretchedness, the horrific encounters since 10am to then. I looked at the wall clock, 3.30pm. I was frustrated. I kept talking and he just stared. He does that a lot – just staring. I can barely tell whether he is listening or not but it never stops me from talking. When I came to the end of my story, he just threw a remark that I should have carried the lingerie in my bag, walked into the house and secretly changed in the bathroom.


I got angry, not at him and his remark which was probably right, but at myself. Anger does not have a compass pointer so I acted pissed at him.


Anyway, we did not even have sex, I was too hungry so I just changed into his T-shirt and sweatpants promising him to do it better next time then we ate.




Commercial Break…


Did you hear that I was nominated for the BAKE Awards, Best Creative Writing Blog? In case you have not, that’s whassup!

Have you voted? Are you sure you have voted in the BAKE Awards 2018? Did you scroll down to Category 3 and then ticked Option B? Are you sure you did that? Did you get a confirmation Email saying that you voted for this blog for the Creative Award of the Year? Did you ask mama to vote too? What about your side chick? Does she think I am funny? It will not be funny when you get caught texting her by your main chick but that sounds like a family affair that I should keep away.

If not, here is the link:

Time to vote is still there to 30th April.




In other news, I got a new editor. I will introduce her to you one of these fine days if she does not edit out this part.


Feature Image by Mukiri Gitiri.

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