This post is by a friend who inspired me to write this piece. When he told me he was writing something, I kept pressuring him to send it so that we could host it here. I have edited it a little; I think he has an affinity to full-stops (like I have for semi-colons) or is allergic to other punctuation marks. I told you he writes well... so here we go.
That's how it starts. That's how I came to meet this girl who dances in my fantasies. She told me she wasn't in that auditorium. So she didn't listen to Antonina Mutinda that night.
No wait, I met her way before that night. Hers is a sequel of narratives with no source.
But this part unspools from that sermon Antonina preached.
Come I show you how...
Antonina is a woman. I think she is kao or something close to that. Or her hubby is kao. So Antonina is beautiful and refined. Like her genes were handpicked. But forget the aesthetics. Antonina is confident. She oozes it out of her every pore. And she is charismatic on stage. She is a woman who got God. And a woman who got God is beautiful.
Antonina preached. She prodded and coaxed and cooed about the mushy thingy between men and women that night. It was her second night in the campus Christian Union and her words wove it into a beautiful, powerful sermon.
Now there's something deep and divine about a woman who prays.; something that runs deep and decants to the bottom. Forget the woman with a book; or the woman with music in her voice. No, real men dig women with the Word. Boys chase girls.
Antonina made me want to date. And marry. Marry a woman of the Word. An Antonina Mutinda-woman. That woman who walks into a room and the contents gravitate towards her and huddle around, listening to what she has to say: Unconsciously. It’s not in a short skirt, or her body. Today we dig deeper into womanhood and let boys have a discourse on the cosmos. We are men and its 2015.
She made me want this woman: the woman who smiles; an infectious smile that smears on her face as she talks.
She is Mwende, or Atieno, or Nyambura. I am not yet sure. I have got lots of time to make up my mind.
She is deep; because she is a woman with a book. So we read. And share books. No, she gives me books.
I think she reads magazines. True Love, Parents; I am not sure. She hovers over the words-scavenging for something to blog about. She writes- Banging on her laptop next to steaming dark roast in a pink cup that lays forgotten and abandoned, dark with envy.
She blogs. About fashion mostly, a stark contrast to her unedited appearance.
I think she is a coffee person. So we meet at Savannah. And laugh off the overpriced coffee and the middle class snacks. She tries to pronounce Cappuccino. She fails. So she laughs and slaps my back. Like we are bossom buddies and we grew up together and the jazz. We sit there biting on small talk as we watch dusk chase the daylight. Nairobians scurry to GPO or KenCom to beat the spiraling peak hour fares. The watchmen in oversize uniforms salute endlessly to important Nairobians who grin and wave limply over tinted half rolled windows.
She wears dresses. Floral prints and feigns ignorance of her cute legs. I tell her I like her hair. A dark flowing mane she wears like a crown. She says it’s natural. African-kinky or something like that. What's the difference?
She doesn't wear makeup. She doesn't need to. She fronts her confidence. Her feminity only mumbles incorrigibles in the background. Almost cocky.
I don't think she sings. Or dances. Except in my fantasies. She keeps her music on her fingers, long arty fingers that look like they were curved for strings. She sings her heart's songs through her pen. Stanzas. Lines. Rhymes. She claims to be a poet. I think she is only a painter. Who paints sunsets on gloomy skies, with words on canvas.
She looks like a weaver; Not of kyondos. She is a word weaver. It's there in her pieces; in the richness of her lines.
She is a traveller. So she wears a short and a blue vest or pink. Her favourite color is pink (Which I tell her is just a sissy red). She hops in a matatu and sits on the back-left. Always back left. She reads in traffic- To avoid the pleading eyes of humans with begging bowls and children with naked bellies on backs.
She listens to music. From white earphones filled with an artist she loves to listen to: Francesca Batistelli, Damita Haddon, Women of Faith, or a country album by an artist with a rare name which carries her soul to the Scandinavia.
That feathery soul that longs for boundaries beyond; I sometimes fear I'll wake up to find her gone.
That her flickering candle will one day snuff out, blown by a puff from beyond, leaving me holding a smoking wick with sooty fingers.
Sigh! I need to go now: To finish the story from the other side.
I still want this woman: This woman with the Word.
She still dances in my mind: To her stanzas and notes; in measured movements with bare feet.
We text. And talk. We share dreams, my dreams. And books.
She still smiles. A sunset smile. I tell her the day she stops smiling, she will fall off the ledge of my fantasy.