Son, your mother was not a result of selfies

WOMAN TAKING SELFIE [PHOTO/COURTESY]

Son, this will be the first letter I ever write to you. And till the day you become of age I will write to preserve my life activities for you, for you not to mess up. Well, where do I start? Oh… I know, how about I take you a few months ago before I started writing this letter.

It was a Friday night, your uncle and I had plans to visit a new joint along Thika Road.

I loved putting on fitting jeans and old classic shoes which made me look like a cowboy from a distance. It was not until I tried putting on a suit on my sister’s wedding…I realized my behind looked better in a suit. During the wedding, a girl came out from nowhere and tapped it and walked away saying…“at least I touched it!”

I didn’t punish her son, for I knew my behind had punished her enough.

Your uncle was a ‘girl magnet’. All he had to do was raise his hands and girls would flood around him. You see, he attracted the girls and I made them laugh but always broke down the bills into two, almost always as the girls went home laughing with nothing but laugher and alcohol in their bellies. But the most amazing thing was when he got married, his hand only went up in his bedroom and only one girl would flock his bed.

I promise not to divert the story again son, I will stick to the Friday night and not jump the story.

The music was soul soothing, the lights were blue and flashes made my eyes amazed as the girls walked half-naked with six-inch heels. I didn’t fully understand why they had on short skirts on a cold Friday night. But they looked amazing and I enjoyed the sight. And as usual, your uncle would pick the place to seat for he had the eye to spot the right girls. “Here, come on. I see them. It is red and white brother,” he would always say that every time he saw the one we were to hunt down that night. And before long his hands were up and just like magic, they flocked our table.

Son, I call myself the Neo-Africa which meant I would tell the truth for the truth would set me free. And sometimes some truth would get me into problems. When I was with your uncle, I didn’t have to fear. His body scared all who tried to come between me and my words of truth.

Like clockwork, the girls were soon settling in and getting acquitted to my jokes and charms. And as a rule, your uncle would be the first to choose the one he wanted. He attracted them in the first place, why not let him have his way. Talk about being selfish at some points of life son. It didn’t bother me for I knew next week she was to be a girl I met in a bar. I know the above statement looks rather rudely put, but I am the storyteller who told the truth. See son, the girls also knew what had brought them to us.

I forgot to mention, he would place his car keys on the table. Another magnet son: A car! It has never made sense why the girls of my generation love cars. And at the same time, there was a girl by the name…by the name…I can’t remember her name. She wrote for one of the local dailies and would dismiss the efforts of men who drove blue Subarus. Luckily, your uncle at the time had a Peugeot. He was in the uncategorized session, meaning he was the uncategorized session qualified to bag himself what he described as the true African woman.

Son, let me divert a little from the story and tell you about the true African woman. A longtime ago just as the white men were settling in Africa, (I have to clearly state you will not get this information anywhere else or read it anywhere else, but from this little letter I write), they had for the first time seen something they have never seen. They were so impressed that they gave all their belongings to the black man for the taste of her flesh.

And soon after the African men took what the White men offered, they took her on a tour to Europe, just to showcase what our rich African soil could produce. Something of quality, something of substance, something you could sleep on and forget about the importance of a pillow. Son, sorry for the words of truth, but I will take offence when I see my Africa woman being called ‘fat’ by one of her own. See, the ‘woman’ who wrote and called my African women fat had nothing much to hold on to apart from the words she typed on paper.
Son I always say, don’t call them ‘fat’, just say they are blessed.

To my Friday story with your uncle, I promise to finish it now. Where was I?…oh…the girls were around, car keys on the table, my jokes and charms were soon getting to their mind. Drinks were in plenty for we had a little money to spend. And as usual, your uncle took a while before deciding which girl to settle on. He liked a girl with a signature on her chin and hefty bank account behind her. For he need security if he were to withdraw. Hmm…those words, don’t read too much in-between them, just read them as they are son, for your mind is still innocent.

That night after your uncle had made his decision on the girl he was to take home, they were all over each other; holding hands, laughing and taking selfies. The girl she brought with him and I just stopped and stared. To cut a long story short, the girl your uncle choose that night, ended up as the girl who took him out of the Boucher’s boat and I was left all alone. This is when my journey to look for your mother started.

 

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