The Devil Loves Weddings

She wore her skirt seven inches above her knees, so that it cropped up her thighs when she sat down. (My mama used to say that big-legged women were going to kill me). And here I was flirting with my new landlady, and not because she was single and rich, but because she was simply irresistibly and ravishingly hot. Do you normally flirt like these with older women, she had asked in a girly voice. Certainly not, except with a good cause. I had replied with an air of audacity that only a circumcised village elder could master. And with that, the die was cast, her boat burnt and my unprecedented fairy-tale date with my new landlady flagged off.

She must have been in her late thirties, scary smart and crazy beautiful. My first impression of her was those egocentric, control-freak, corporate career women who had no time for sex, children or men. She had this exclusively stately ambiance of sophistication, elegance and classiness. Her hair was pricey done and fell on her shoulders perfectly. She spoke hopeless Swahili but spoke ‘proper’ English with a twang and sparkling of Muthaiga-ness. She was of medium height though her short skirt gave her the impression of added weight. She had an exotic name, Cherono, to go along with.

A week later, she had reserved a table for two in one of the Sarova Hotels in town, and as I pulled a seat for her, she generously gave me a blow-job smile. She was dressed in a flimsy skirt and a seductive lavender-coloured bra that seemed helpless to hold her boobs that were threatening to literally spill off, while exposing her juicy cleavage that were mercifully begging to be oiled. My attempts to understand the vastness of her business empire in real estate were met with dodgy, un-coordinated answers. Like a...