Tales from my plot: It’s hard being a godly man with the women in our plots o!


Being a man in some of these our plots can be very testing, I imagine.

You leave your house in the morning to go to, say, church, since you are a youth leader or a junior pastor or something else churchy, and while walking to the gate, you see a woman, with only a leso tied around her chest, hanging clothes on the clothesline. You see the contours of her body underneath the thin, old leso, and how it hugs parts of her body when she bends to pick a peg from that mkebe of Toss, and how the leso gets between her buttocks when she stands up to wring and hang that blouse. You can tell that it is because she has nothing else underneath.

You look away because you prayed before leaving the house and asked God to keep you strong in your celibacy vow, but you look away only to see another woman, in only a leso as well, bent over a karai of water at her doorstep, wiping shoes. Because she is bending over, the leso is stretched and pulled up her back so that the back of her thighs can be seen, all the way up to where they begin. Her backside, thankfully, is covered, but you can see the clear outline of her hips. Her breasts are swinging with every movement of her arm, and she will stand upright from time to time to open then tighten the grip of her leso around her chest.

You look away again because you swore that you will only look at women through the eyes of Christ, but again, you look away only to see another woman in only a light, cream or pink, see-through nightdress walking across the verandah to pick up her mtungi at the tap. The brown stockings on her head doesn’t prevent you from seeing her underwear underneath the nightdress, and you can tell what colour it is. You see how her posterior wobbles beneath the smooth, light fabric, with every step she takes. You see how the nightdress sways this way and that way in respect to her gait, and giving you brief glimpses of the seductive, feminine shape of her body. You see her mammaries wiggle and jiggle on her chest, and how they move when she heaves upon picking up her mtungiful of water.

It is 7:30 AM and you are already wiping thick sweat off your forehead and temple. Your armpits are already soaked in sweat and the knot on your tie feels too tight. You hold your bible in the other hand and focus on looking at the gate. But your focus is hijacked by another woman wearing very tiny silk shorts with little pictures of stars and crescent moons and ‘sweet dreams’ all over it, and a spaghetti top, sweeping her doorstep. The tiny sleeping shorts are, well, tiny, and you can see little, soft hairs above the waistband. You see her thighs, looking smooth like the pawpaw smoothie your mother would feed you when you were an infant. You try to greet her “Bwana asifiwe” (praise the Lord) while you pass her by, but you find yourself saying, “Ah, sasa, Cindy. We uko na stima kwako?” (Hey, Cindy. Is there (electrical) power in your house?”)

We are sorry, men living with us in these our plots. We are sorry. Be strong!

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