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FacialKnight, Rape Culture
The only place that didn’t have these incidences posted on them was probably on the back of cereal boxes. The videos were everywhere. Social media outdid itself in this regard. You couldn’t switch on the internet on your phone without having your WhatsApp notifications going off the hook.We have been subjected to all manner of emotion. Anger, pity, apathy, abject disbelief, at the scenes of women being stripped and sexually abused with such fervor that you would be excused if you thought that this was our national past time.I am ashamed to be a man in this country. I hang my head in embarrassment, only to lift it begrudgingly and have a wee look at the horizon, hoping to find an answer in the amber sunset of human decency in our nation. After the protests, hash tags and reluctance of the government to take a stand on the matter, we are all still left wondering, where this beast emerged from or whether we have been housing it all along. A couple of weeks back, I was in a debate with my sultry partner in crime, Minx. She was of the opinion that most men have an innate violent predisposition towards women. She pulled out the stats, quotes from victims, a very compelling poem. It was a very spirited argument. Though I saw the sense in her statements, I was quick to counter that it wasn’t all gloom and doom, that some men are evil the same way some are good. She wouldn’t have it! In the end, we agreed to disagree. A couple of days later, the first stripping took place. Then another followed, this one more fatal as the victim lost her life.I called up Minx and apologized. She was right. Are we the barbaric nation we have been portrayed as? Or is there something a miss? I contend that we are in this cesspool, because we are a very sexual nation but are trying our best to deny it. As a country, we are on the verge of being over sexed. Look in the dailies, not a day will pass without some thick-assed girl posing as the new It Girl in town. Our news presenters are more models than they are anchors. When I’m watching the news, I wonder what is more breaking, the news or the anchor’s bra straps as it struggles to maintain that cleavage. Porn is sold “chini ya maji” by those guys still selling 50-in-1 DVD collections. Lets wander into social media, if you’re a girl and your avi doesn’t scream “Impregnate me!”, guys are unfollowing. They don’t have time to waste bundles on grandma panties and below the knee hemlines.Schools are closed for the year. I cant step out to go to the shop, without having my neck turned by a 15 year old, very buxom girl dressed like a statutory rape charge waiting to happen.The music scene just sells sex like peanuts on the road, the only difference is they now cater to the ladies too. Cue six-packs and gyrating male hips. With all these sexual scenes bombarding our eyes and loins, it’s lost on me how we don’t walk around masturbating or with dildos sticking out of our vaginae. Its a mad house! I’m not going to stand here and preach water then sip Guarana, I’m a big fan of naked women. I support their skin movement, wholeheartedly . What I’m finding increasingly tedious, is the insistence of this society to promote the sexual liberation on paper and in deed, then turn around and scream that it goes against our core African traditions! Tradition?? I think you misspelled “Hypocrisy”. Our Forefathers dressed in skins and furs. The ladies walked around half-naked. It’s only when the white man came into town that we were taught to be ashamed of our beautiful bodies. Our fathers were spot on with the nudity. They placed a higher value on the character of a person more than what garb they chose to cover their genitals with. Those stripping women in the name of guarding our values, please go jump off a cliff, and leave me the parachute. Had you done what you did last week,during the olden days, you would be skinned alive and your skin used to make a skirt for the aggrieved girl. Some men are unwilling to admit that a new age had dawned upon us, but are more than willing to reap the fruits. They’ll pay for a prostitute, stick their dicks in anything resembling a vagina, leer and spank any ass in sight. The only way they would be able to do things like those is because Women have decided to take their sex lives into their own hands. They aren’t bogged down by what a patriarchal society has outlined for them. We aren’t going to make better opportunities for the girl child to learn, become a Wangari Maathai or a Margaret Kenyatta, have her travel to distant lands and fly our national flag high so that she can come home and be told what to wear and whom to fuck. A long frock doesn’t a saintly woman make, and a micro mini doesn’t relegate a girl into the depths of whoredom. Its 2014,we are putting space probes on comets, we have a black man in the most powerful office on earth and I can dial-a-diaper!I think it’s time we came out of the closet. It’s OK to be horny. It’s ok to want to have sex indiscriminately with whoever you please. Coitus doesn’t turn you into Hitler, and being aware of your sexuality don’t make you any less African.It also looks like we don’t have much of a choice anyway but to adapt. The brutal scenes last week, scream of a male population obsessed with the female body. It arouses in them such feral desire, and since they don’t know how to express themselves in a more appropriate manner, they finger and spank the stripped woman under the pretext of safeguarding morality. Everything about a man is designed to please a woman: the strength to protect her, the mouth to talk to her and make her feel beautiful, his courage, to woo her. Even our dicks fit snugly inside her, all to please this queen. And as servants to royalty, we have failed our liege and disgraced the kingdom. A woman was formed from man. So you can’t hate women, because it ultimately means you hate yourself.


“Come out, Soni. This little guy is getting impatient.”

She has been standing there for over five minutes.

“Just a minute hun. I will be right out.”

You can do it. Just do it.

She stands in front of her wardrobe mirror. Her mind is racing. She does not seem to pay attention to whoever is looking back at her. The woman with a dirty yellow skin and dark hair that falls freely on her back, some on her shoulders, and a few strings on her chest. The woman is in the sheerest of black negligees, which does not even bother hiding the black knickers and bra. She does not see her, because she does not recognize her.

Not anymore.

She only bears a small resemblance to someone she once knew. But that someone did not have wrinkled skin, or flabby belly fat that falls ungraciously over her midsection. The woman she remembers had firm breasts that defied gravity. This woman she sees now is a stranger.

His face comes to mind.

Damn it Moseti, get out. I cannot have you here today, come on. It’s been eleven years. I cannot live like this.

She wipes off the tears welling in her eyes, powders her face again, and runs the nib of the pencil under her eyes. Closing her eyes as if saying a prayer, she lets out a lungful.

That last Wednesday night comes to mind.

The night before the abrupt end of their honeymoon in Malaysia. Moseti is leaving the next day, but she is staying for an extra week. She has booked his flight, leaving the next morning back to Nairobi. Malaysia Airlines flight MH17. Tonight will be see you later.

She wonders if tonight will be like that night. Whether Randa will also start by playing on the stereo. Kizomba music. Preferably Lento by Daniel Santacruz, just the way Moseti liked it. She wonders if that song will still make her think of waltzing into his arms. No rush. Scintillating love making. An endless playlist of kizomba in the background. Them naked in bed, with the hotel door half open, but who cares?

She pictures that night. The memory of his departure is such sweet sorrow. Every detail lingers in her head like a bad kiss. Moseti, he starts by making out, move doing to her neck. He nibbles it tenderly for a while then runs the tip of his tongue down a trail, going south to her breasts. He stops for a while as if to listen to the delicious symphony of their heartbeats. Then he begins sucking. Biting just a little bit. Not too hard, not too sympathetically. Just the right pressure to make her sigh.

He is on top of her. Their urgent naked bodies feeling each other…filling one another. The soft contours of her curves press onto his lean hard body. He is solid and angular.  The heat from her skin embraces him and she feels his penis arise. Alive. Hard like a rock. She quivers.

She longs for his lips, but the more she does, the more he takes them further away from hers. They travel past her belly button, going down to where a little trail of grass leads to a patch of bush. He finds a warm damp slit, makes camp at her naughty parts, and lights a fire. She closes her eyes, bites her her lower lip, clenches her teeth and opens her legs wider.

Their hands crisscross. Hers urging his head deeper into the junction of her thighs, where he slips his long tongue into her tunnel of love. His hands move around searchingly, confused. They rub her navel, and move up to her breasts, and they knead. Each touch is as soft as velvet. Occasionally flickering her nipples with his index fingers. She wishes she could chin her head just enough to lick her nipples with the tip of her tongue, but she can’t. And the frustration kills her.

He devours her labia hungrily. She pushes herself lower to his face then gyrates her ass. She wants her whole vagina in his mouth. He laps those lips. Makes out with them. French tonguing them until he cannot recognize the taste of anything else but skin.

He takes his hands away. He looks for something else to hold, something to grab. He lifts her midsection up, and settles for her ass…and squeezes it. Hard. As drips of oils ooze from her pussy.

Turmoil begins to brew inside her. It starts with a tingling feeling, then a throbbing sensation rising from her clit like a racing heartbeat. It spreads throughout her body in an instant. She moans and sighs and loses her breath. If he stops, she would pull out her hair.

She asks him not to stop. To go on. Faster please, she begs.

But he stops.

He withdraws his head.

The wave of tingles flowing from the center of her body out to the tips of her hands, her feet, hair, head, and fingernails begins to withdraw. She begs him to come back. Her legs part against him and she rubs herself on his leg, making his thigh wet with her desire.

She feels his erection pressing into her belly. It is now hard as a bone.

“Fuck me please,” she begs, starved.

And with just one swish, he obeys. He thrusts his impatient cock inside her unexpecting dripping canal of ecstasy, and at that moment, she calls God’s name in her mother tongue. “Ngai fafa!”

But he does not care. Blasphemy is a believer’s business. Right now they are atheists; calling God in the midst of words such as ‘deeper.’ and ‘faster’ and ‘there, oh yes, there.’ Oh! The sweet taste of sin.

She puts her hands on his buttocks, and beckons his movements. The cream trickles, it oils her bush. The slurping sound of his cock banging onto it, shafting in and out. His ghastly weapon angrily plunders her insides, propelling her to even greater heights.

Then she opens her eyes. Something like a storm is coming from the poetry of her being. She begins to shake and writhe uncontrollably like someone going into a fit. The storm curls her toes, she bends backwards as far as she can, and every muscle tightens.

She feels him move faster and faster and faster. She feels his goo traveling up his pipe, and then…then…then… and then he pushes in one last final time in a blaze of glory. The last breaths of ecstasy abound. And at that time, they knock on heaven’s door for that delicious, disorienting, euphoric, explosive release.

Five minutes after it had started, ends.

They are weightless.

There is a knock on the door. It startles her from memory.

“Soni! What is going on?”

That familiar voice brings her back. It calls her back to the bathroom. It draws her attention back to the knocking. A voice is asking if she is okay, she has been gone for over fifteen minutes.

“If you aren’t up for it today, maybe I could come back,” Randa says behind the door.

She turns the knob, and the door opens. Randa stands there, socks peeping from his baggy jeans, his white vest hugging his lean chest. She wonders why this university kid wants to be with her. It was meant to be a one night stand that ended up with him taking her number. Then her address. What brings him back? He is what, 24?

He’s a little young for romance with her. There may be a whole decade between them! She is totally flattered though. His interest in her made her feel beautiful. That she still has it. But She is a woman well lived.

Suddenly she is embarrassed that he is seeing her in a sheer negligee. She cannot do this anymore, and that is the naked truth.

She remembers the news. CNN, Aljazeera, NTV, KTN. She sees flames. A shell of an iron bird being lifted from the sea with a crane. She sees the wedding band flying off the twenty-seventh floor of the Kuala Lumpur Hotel. He is supposed to be in Nairobi. She calls. Voicemail.


“I am sorry Randa.”

Story reblogged from magunga.com. See it here: magunga.com/flight-mh17/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/MagungaWilliams