Swahilific : Diary of Campus girl ~ pt 72

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The party proceeded without any drama. Mimih had told Zuhura about the other party where she had a nasty confrontation with Susan. This time, however, both seemed to be drama free, well-behaved divas.

Vivian happened to be the busiest person around, walking up and down, smiling to this person, hugging the other, touching one affectionately on the elbow, whispering instructions to waiters, talking to Jimmy now and again. Zuhura observed that she was good with this, and while many people just enjoyed the party, it was her who ensured that all went smoothly.

“Hey darling!” she approached Zuhura who sat in her designated place in the VIP. Mimih was standing in a corner, one hand tucked neatly in Jimmy’s elbow as they conversed with two distinguished-looking gentlemen.

“Hey there,” she smiled back.

“I hope you are enjoying the party?” Vivian asked.

“Totally,” she said. “It’s marvelous.”

“Oh, look at you, you’re just having fresh juice!”

“Yes I am, Vivian,”

“As in why? We have a whole lot of premium drinks here. Come on, you are on VIP, drink as much as you need to,”

“I don’t do alcohol.”

“Why, born-again manenos?”

“Hardly, but close to that.”

“You should attend these parties more often, you know,” Vivian suggested, picking a soft drink from a passing waiter.

“I am not much of a party girl.”

“No, I don’t mean like a socialite or something. This, darling, is the best place to make beneficial connections. All these fellows you see here are the movers and shakers of every top company you can think of in Kenya.”

“Mimih said as much,”

“But be cautious. They can be as perverted as they are successful,” she winked, as she left.

While she may have been interested in getting credible hook-ups for part-time or even full-time jobs, she was, for this night only, interested in only one person and she couldn’t, much as she tried, get a plausible reason why.

Salim.

Salim was hard to miss with his build, unforgettable face and magnetic character.

She spotted him at a table in the other corner of the VIP chatting with a few women, drink in hand. Judging by their undivided attention, the ladies seemed to hang on to his every word. She even doubted they could remember, if they were asked to, the taste of their drinks or anything else around them apart from Salim and his charisma.

She felt a ball of jealousy wrap around her throat again. She wondered why a Muslim should be out there socializing so freely with non-Muslim women. She remembered how Mimih seemed pleased with the evidently pleasurable nostalgia when she talked of her affair with Salim, and how the sex was out of this world. She swallowed again. She made a point to pull Salim to the side before the evening ended and give him some advice on self-respect!

“Hello Princess,” said a short man holding a full glass of wine in one hand while the other one seemed to be stuck in his pocket.

“Me?” Zuhura asked, looking around. There were two other ladies near her, all of whom seemed not to have been the subject of the man’s intended pick-up line.

“Well, I don’t see any other lady here befitting that title,” he said, getting closer. “We do live in such an unfair world, don’t you think?”

“How so?” she asked, going against her better judgment not to start a conversation with him.

“I mean, why in the world would any man in his right senses leave a dashing beauty like you all alone?”

“And why would you think I am alone?” she asked.

“Well, aren’t you?”

“No I’m not,” she answered, feigning all the disinterest she could muster. She looked Mimih’s way, and she was shaking her head vehemently while pointing at Mr. Short with her tongue.

“Listen, here’s my card,” he said, fishing out a pearl-white card from his coat pocket. “Give me a call tomorrow. We can have lunch, I’m sure there’s a whole lot we can talk about!”

****

Later that night, Zuhura wasn’t alone anymore…

Salim…

Salim was by her side. He had ditched the suit he had earlier and looked resplendent in a hugging white t-shirt and khaki shorts. His huge emerald ring still clamored for attention, same with the tribal tattoo on his upper arm.

“I was wondering what time the party would end just so I could be with you,” he said, pushing Zuhura’s loose head scarf from her head. It fell on her shoulders, waiting for further instructions!

“Me too,” she said, smiling coyly.

“So, what now?” he asked, guiding her to lay next to him on the bed.

“I don’t know. Am relatively new to this. You must be more experienced.”

“Well. I wouldn’t say I am that much experienced. Bodies have their own way of communicating, you know. They have their own language and all we can do is heed their voice.”

“Was it the same with Mimih? How did your bodies communicate?”

“Mimih? No. we never got intimate,”

“Really?” she asked. Drowning in relief.

“Yes. Really,” he said, running his hand through her hair, pulling her closer. Gently. Hungrily. She didn’t fight back. She gave in, allowing herself to be led along. She listened keenly to her body. All she could hear and feel was her increased heart beat and something else inexplicably arousing below her tummy.

“Zuhura!” he moaned.

“Please. Just take me!” she cried, eyes closed.

“Zuhura!”

“Yeeees!”

“Zuhura! Eish, wake up!” Mimih said, shaking her vigorously.

“What?” She asked, wiping off the remnants of sleep from her face.

Aih, yawa. This dream of yours. Who was it, Mr. Short?”

Zuhura blushed at the realization that her ecstatic dream had trickled into Mimih’s ears.

Salim was still on her mind as her heart sunk at the knowledge that it was just a dream.

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Abu Amirah

Abu-Amirah is a Mombasa-based writer whose story “The swahilification of Mutembei” was shortlisted for the Writivism 2016 short story prize. He is currently working on getting his first short-story anthology published.