Go Kei; It's your birthday

Hard to believe but it has actually been 28 years since that fateful November morning, when after three hours of hard labour, my mother and I, both sobbing, she in relief and exhaustion, me in indignant mortification, lay next to each other, too fatigued to even acknowledge each other's presence. My bum was still hurting, even more than my underdeveloped muscles. I imagine it was burning red, after that mean looking inconsiderate midwife took to it with the back of her hand, to try and get me to do what I knew, right from the beginning and was later to be confirmed in the patriarchal society I'd be brought up in, was a big no no for boys, cry.


One loud yelp, is all that the stinging slap had elicited; the fingers tips of that big burly hand having come a tad bit too close to that hub of sensitivity that is my rectum. It is not surprising then, when you take the trauma that that event caused into consideration, that though the sullen attitude I held towards women in general and the slapping ones in particular since then had remained in place for pretty much the next couple of decades, I never went the gay route.


But sullen I was, and sullen I remained. Who wouldn't with all the undue attention these women continued to give me, pinching and pulling my cheeks, this way and that way; slobbering kisses all over my face; making faces at me; oohing at my poop accidents. C'mon now, what red-blooded male wants that kind of attention. Just feed me and let me be... find some other sissy to amuse yourselves with.


And the big deal they made of that particular day, every year hence. Sitting me in the middle of a bunch of snotty kids and making them sing, off key, some birthday song that some adult had invented, with triangular caps on our heads... puleez. Dressing me up in new, stuffy clothes that any self-respecting man would never be caught dead wearing, how embarrassing. I thought I'd escaped those ordeals when they sent me, against my will, to school, but alas, the teacher there was in cahoots. I should have guessed when she stated in that singsong voice of hers, " today is a special day for one of us." It was special alright.


I'm sorry to be subjecting you to this sour side of me but those memories really do irk me so.

Finally, after my tenth such public humiliation, when practically the whole village and their mother were invited to one such event, I decided I had had enough of this. I sat my mother down and explained to her in no uncertain terms that I was not going to endure that kind of humiliation ever again if I could help it. I did not have much leverage, so I used what little I had, the threat of desertion. Unlikely as it is, it worked... or the opportunity to embarrass me happened to stop availing itself to her. And for the next 17 or so years, with the help of self-counselling, and lack of disclosure to my friends et al, I managed to bury that date and those disturbing memories of it in the dark recesses of my mind.

For many years, that day came and passed, without my noticing it. I didn't have to rant about it, you did not have to hear of it. Girlfriends past and present, tried to cajole, in vain attempts at being my mother, but were effectively put off or thrown off the bus altogether. The one time I relented, we ended up at a packed Cheese Cake Factory and had to wait in line for close to half an hour. They gave us a vibrating alert-er which I unwittingly put in my back pocket, since I meant for my hands to occupy the front ones. When it was time for us to be seated, the alert went off.... A little too close for comfort. Needless to say, there was no cheese cake to be had, and the girlfriend sought immediate breakup, citing irreconcilable differences as regards birthday celebrations and what not.

Then this year I made the ultimate mistake of signing up on that social network they call facebook and like the ignorant fool I was, went on to tell all and sundry the date of my birth. Now all night yesterday, and all day today, I've been inundated with tonnes of well wishes and even more, questions about my plans. I'll tell you my plan, I'll throw my shoe at the next person that asks me that question. There is a plan for you.

O.K. Maybe I don't want to chance losing my shoe in cyber-space. Work is relatively bearable today, and probably won't be too stressed when I get out. I'll find me a cool spot at the Barnes and Noble and work on my other book. Yes, that may explain why I have not been peeling around here... but I'll be back... soon. That peeps is my plan. I plan to lose myself in my passion tonight.....

Peel 3: A fatefull day in Paradise

She calls out to the man on the street
'Sir, can you help me?
it's cold and I've nowhere to sleep,
Is there somewhere you can tell me?'
He walks on, doesn't look back
He pretends he can't hear her
Starts to whistle as he crosses the street
Seems embarrassed to be there

-Phil Collins

Its just beginning to lighten up outside. I can see fairly well with the little light straining through the blinds. I look at her lying there next to me.... On her back, snoring slightly, eyes shut... mouth slightly agape... breasts rising and falling..... rhythmical symphony.

Her dark skin... clear and even in the dim light... has no tell tale tan lines; no visible faults. Angelic beauty.... the beauty of youth. She has a perfect nymph's form, but for the tussled-up weave..... Yes, the ubiquitous weave, defiantly escaping from beneath the versatile stocking. That stocking that is just as offensive, if not more, as the weave it’s meant to be restraining.

She stirs, snapping me out of my reverie. I watch as she subconsciously rearranges her body... leaving it midway between prone on her back and resting on her left side, leaning back slightly as if propped up by some invisible column. Her left hand is bent underneath her head… making for a pillow; her face slightly upturned, facing away from me. Her right hand carelessly flung over the tussled sheets that are lying between us.

Her right breast is within my view; mango shaped and still gravity defiant..... rising ever so slightly with the rhythm of her breathing. A series of small bumps surround the dark coloration that is her nipple; semi-stiff as if aware of my dwelling gaze. The edge of her ribcage clear, as it tapers away from her chest giving way to the gentle rise of her belly. I follow the tell-tale stretch marks past her love-handles to the curvaceous hips. Those hips that had arrested my eyes the first time I had seen her. The image of them, sheathed in a sheer miniskirt, had since been permanently emblazoned in my memory.

****************************

Memories of that night, barely a week ago, replay in the background of my mind. I wonder if like Phil... I too should have walked away. But she had not given me the choice... she had followed me from that all night party.... silently daring me to turn her away. I hadn't had the heart... nor the will, and so we'd gone to my place... to sleep off the after effects of too much partying.

I remember wondering if she was worth breaking my rule of not bringing girls to my place. I loved my space... the last thing I wanted was anyone thinking that it was big enough for the two of us. But she didn't have a place of her own. That much I'd gathered from the sketchy answer she'd given when I'd asked who she lived with. She was living at her elder sister's house at the present, though she tended to split time between there and her mother's across town. She had vaguely alluded to having just recently moved here from Springfield.

We had half stumbled up the stairs to my apartment... her babbling incoherently and me quietly contemplating the future and what may or may not transpire when we get inside. I'd let her in and showed her to the bedroom. I'd poured us both a quarter glass of Alize each and watched as she quickly downed hers.... then she'd found a playlist on imeem and proceeded to dance around my bedroom... an amazing fete considering what a cramped mess the said room is.

I'd watched, somewhat bemused, as she had stopped suddenly in her step during a break in the song, then raising both hands straight up as if reaching for the ceiling, she'd began to tip forward slowly.... then all at once, as if some invisible hand which had been holding her up had let go, she had toppled, rigid as a post, face first into the fluffy softness of the down-comforter covering my bed. The force of her dead-weight landing on the spring bed had jarred me, splashing the contents of the glass in my hand all over me.

She did not get up.

Her passing out in a drunken stupor should have immediately raised red flags in my well developed defense system... but I too was in a state perilously close to hers. I had struggled with the buttons of her denim jacket before giving up and arranging her best I could on one side of the bed. Then I'd blacked out right next to her.

I was woken up 5 hours later by a strange alarm... which turned out to be her cellphone going off incessantly. I tried ignoring it, but figured after the fifth ring that it must be important. It was her family wondering where the hell she was.... she told me before answering and diving into a long discourse in Dholuo. It ended with her saying... in English... that she would be there in fifteen minutes. Then we had gone right back to sleep only to be woken up two hours later... by the same alarm. This time she left right away promising to bring me back some food later.

The call came in at about 5... in the afternoon. Did I care for some tilapia , she wanted to know? The question brought to mind memories of 'Mama Samaki'; the lady that sold us cooked fishby the road right outside our court in Komarocks - where I had lived briefly before moving to the States.

I politely declined the offer; not because I didn't care for the fish but for the simple fact that I wasn't sure I wanted her to come over. She did anyway, lagging a young kid. In the hour she spent there, I determined that she was onlyslightly more coherent while sober. Thankfully her year and a half old nephew was a good distraction.

I had tried to subtly find out more about her.... beyond the skimpy outfits, and the excessive drinking, but wasn't able get far. The conversation kept going back to what her friends were up to, how she didn't care much for this or that plan... how her mother wanted her to do this and not that.

What did she want to do with herself?

Well, she was gonna be enrolling for nursing school... she was gonna move to another state... Did I want to go out with her and her friend that night?

"Ummm.. NO....Thank you. Gotta work in the morning.." I'd replied, perhaps wanting to impress upon her shallow mind that there was more to life than partying non-stop. If she caught my drift, she did not show it. She said it was too bad I had to work and that she would call me after she left the club just in case I was not sleeping. When she'd left shortly thereafter, I did not anticipate I'd be seeing her again.... not under any circumstances.

*****************************

How ironic I muse as, smiling incredulously to myself, I reach across the gulf that's separating our so different personalities, gently cup that breast that still continues to rise n fall... as if in mock defiance of my inferred though unspoken superiority..... and catch my breath as the nipple perceptibly hardens beneath my hands. I watch her face, her lips tightly sealed forming a thin line across her face. A smile begins to to form at the corner of her mouth as I squeeze gently... the supple flesh yielding softly in my hand.

Her eyes flutter open... and the lips begin to widen into a smile before the owner stifles it quickly... giving me but a flash of white before the lips close up.

Mhhmmm! What doesn't she like about her smile..... I wonder as I continue to knead the flesh in my hand.

I watch as she begins to stretch... curving her back inwards so that her bust extends forward and away from me; and my hand. I watch her ribcage extend upwards as she inhales deeply, her legs stiff and extended; both arms come up and bend at the elbows.

And for a long moment she poses there... like a Greek statue. The curve of one tight buttock... visible; holding up a firm fleshy thigh, covered with the tell tale imprints of the ruffled sheet she'd been lying on. Her eyes tightly closed, as if savoring this moment....

Then slowly, as if suspended in time... she begins to relax, letting out a low moan in the process.

Her eyes open and lock with mine.

She smiles.... a hint of a smile, with her mouth closed. She raises her head and lays it on her open palm, her hand bent at the elbow supporting it against the mattress. Now she is looking down at me, and the smile is now in her eyes. I can feel my pulse quicken, blood draining from my head.... I lick my now dry lips and as if on cue, she bends over and gingerly places a kiss on them and with the same movement lithely drapes one leg over my torso before straightening and sitting up... effectively straddling me.

*************************

The creaking of the bed brings to mind that song - 'bed noise' by Lady Saw. I smile......

'Damn the neighbors...' I think.... 'let them cite me for noise making again!' I figure as I bring myself back to the task at hand. My hands seem to have become a part of those pliable breasts, now wet with the sweat that has her whole dark body glistening.

Her head is flung back.... way back for I can feel her hair brushing against my shin as her body rocks in an increasingly frenzied motion. Whatever became of the stocking?

Her hands tightly grip my wrists, pulling them tightly against her body, effectively using them as supports as she rocks back and forth; faster and faster and faster. I am almost certain that her effort will soon have us flying across the room. Those thoughts are soon lost as my whole body is racked with spasms that seem to rise from the depths of my being....

One after the other, they rise to the top and then dissipate to my extremeties... Pretty soon, like the climax of a July 4th fireworks show, they start riding on each others tail end... so that now I feel like my body is one spasmodic train, suspended high in eternal bliss.

It is in the midst of this that a lone thought struggles to the surface of my consciousness.... having fought it's way through a melting pot of electrodes and the whatnot that is standing for brain activity at this moment......

'NOOOO..... No Protection....' It screams out at me.

And for a fraction of a second.... it's as if everything is suspended in time. Everything on my end comes to a halt.... but just for a fraction of a second.

She must have sensed the hesitation - either that or that thought had escaped through my mouth, because she at that instant bends forward and grips me by my shoulders - her pelvis seeming to open further than I thought was humanly possible, the warmth of her femininity sucking me in and swallowing me whole and through teeth gritted in ecstasy, managed in a guttural whisper....

"Don't worry...... I'm safe."

Her words are barely audible thru the convulsions that have gripped her body. Not that it would matter, anyway, for at the same time she is saying them, whatever instinctive brakes I'd applied to that spasmodic train, slip.... crashing under the weight of the pent up centrifugalized orgasmic energy. It plunges unrestrained over a cliff that has suddenly materialized out of nowhere and goes flying into a dark abyss.......

A warm feeling embraces me as I am enveloped by the darkness of that eternal pit.

Slowly, I regain control of my faculties..... I fight to keep my eyes closed as my brain tackles the strangeness of my circumstances... in the midst of which are those few words, hanging conspicuosly in the post coital air long after she had uttered them. Those words, uttered in a most untimely manner and serving to give anything but the reassurance that they are meant to: Those words that are only rivaled in their incredulity by similar words uttered by the same mouth... under similar circumstances... the previous night.

"This is the first time I am having unprotected sex."

Peel 2: The future has always been bright

"Since education is the key... you now, my dear Serah, have the master key. May you go on to open those doors - not quite sure which, for the rest of us who didn't quite earn them keys yet, but have watched and cheered you on in your quest for yours these many years....." Toasting my friend Serah during a ceremony to celebrate her graduation with her second Masters in some Human Resource thing or the other.

Me I've been going to school... college, for the longest time. 9 yrs actually, and I'm yet to get a bachelorate degree. I could try to explain why a simple four year degree program has turned out to be a decade long quest, but like I said before, I don't give excuses.

I mean, I could tell you that I have all these many years had to work full time, party part time, dodge the authorities - sometimes; and to be frank with you, been rather hard pressed to put in any time or effort towards studying.... but me I won't. Others have faced tougher odds and made it in half the time.

And yet, I despaireth not. Something to do with my folks always believing in me to this very day. I am very bright, they insist, always have been. I am not sure about that, never have been. I recently looked up my cumulative GPA, which of course they have not seen, and it really was nothing to write home about. Of course, the four Es didn't help much... E, I assumed, standing for incomplete... a good summation of my life's endevours so far - incomplete.

And a sad one too.

Depressing actually. Me I actually had stopped attending my friends' graduation parties... I mean, watching someone with whom you attended College 101 (I think that was the name of the case. Forgive me that was 9 years ago... there has been a lot of courses since then) getting his first degree, and then his second and yes his third... and him introducing you as his first friend in college all these three times and expecting you to tell all them curious cats that you did not graduate with anything... better yet that you did not graduate yet, can wash out even the brightest of spirits.

This year, though, I relented and attended several graduations... not my friends', but their younger siblings'. These kids who I used to give rides home from college... that same college that I helped them get into in the first place.... showing their older brothers and sisters how to go about filling those applications.

These kids who I had lent my text books to... instead of selling them like I would have loved to. The same kids who'd invaded my house at one point or the other and pillaged my fridge before they could get jobs and afford McDees. Yes, those same kids who'd taken advantage of my long working hours and partied on my beer before they were of legal drinking age.

And so I did feel duty bound to attend their graduations... if only to remind them of where they are coming from... or, more aptly, what exit they missed... or was it a rest area that I got delayed at. See, Me I missed... nah, I skipped all the core english requirement courses.... part of why I have not graduated.... hence my use of metaphor is rather sketchy if I may say so myself.

************************************

But this was not always so... Me I really was a bright young kid... so they'd said. They being everyone else.... I learned to read when I was fairly young... By the time I was seven I read my favorite book- The Bible, daily... and with an uncanny fluency. That of course is no validation of my genius... but, for some reason, i

Nothing

'...The truth though is, I started out with nothing and I still have most of it..." Potashius

I once overheard a very wealthy gentleman of Indian descent say that he arrived in this country with $84.00. Now he is a millionaire, living a lifestyle that would be the envy of most high paid CEOs.

Me I had five soc ($500) when I left Kenya. A friend of my mother's saw it fit to give me an extra ka-ufiftee ($50) for "cai" - Kikuyu euphymysm for some non-descript spending, as I traveled. Of course I took her literally and bought me a cup of tea during my 8 hour layover in some huge impersonal european airport. I figured it would calm my nerves and keep me up.... there was no way I was gonna sleep and miss that connection to Boston.

So my first week here I was rich... $500.00 and quite some change from that $50.00. Of course some of that change was in Dannish Francs or whatever currency they used then and totally useless in the good ole US of A. Imagine my surprise then when I went to the store and after digging into my pockets for whatever change I had, the kind and polite store manager quickly pointed out ''none of that money is good here."

That was my very first experience, though I did not know it then, of racism in this storied land of black and white. I know now that she only refused my money because I was black. I actually didn't even know I was black... I had all my childhood suffered through endless teasing for my light skin... Imagine my surprise (pleasant) when I found out that I was actually black..... and lucky too since all the application forms I've had to fill out since then have this demographics section that wants to know what I am... and Black (of African Descent) is the only thing that comes close.... no brown. But I digress....

My instant riches didn't last long..... I learnt first hand how money can quickly disappear... even lots of it. By the end of my first week here... I was down to just the change. Yap,

Peel 1: Cry Blood....

.....fatherless children cry blood

'Kijana...... Kuku anaweza taga mayai bila jogoo kweli?'

(Young man, can a hen produce eggs without a cockerel's help?)

The desk sergeant asked, in mock astonishment, when in reply to his enquiry of my father's name I'd answered that I did not have a father.

'Is he dead?'

'No...'

'Is he divorced from your mum?'

'No...'

'Is he in Jail?'

'No.... I do not have a father!" I reiterated.

Me I knew I didn't. That is what my mother had told me when I'd enquired about him not so long before that.... So me I knew what I was talking about. I did not know about hens and cocks but I knew what mother said must be so.

At eight years old I did not care much about facts..... whether they be the facts of life or not. I took things at face value. Whatever I was told by an adult I accepted as truth and nothing but. Which is how I had ended up at Nairobi's Central Police Station.

*************

I had traveled eight hours plus, on a 'Nairobi Bus' coach, from Mombasa to Nairobi by myself. What was supposed to have been an overnight trip on a 'Mombasa Bus' had had to be changed to a next morning trip on a 'Nairobi Bus'.... the best alternative. The communication infrastructure in Kenya being what it was back then, we had no way of notifying my mother down country.

A note was given to the 'Mombasa bus' conductor to give to my mother, who would be waiting to receive me at their office in Nairobi, instructing her to pick me up at the 'Nairobi Bus' office instead, at 4 PM that same day.

Everything was going to be alright, my aunt and uncle had assured me... and of course I'd believed them. They were adults... right? Now here I was, more than 12 hours later, with some stranger contradicting what my mother had said... my ordeal these last four hours already having severely shaken my faith in the adults in my life.

My mother had not been anywhere in sight when I got to the bus station. I had waited patiently for her to come by as she surely would... trying hard to appear as inconspicuous as possible on the busy street though am sure I stuck out like a sore thumb.... my puny little figure, lagging an oversize bag, standing by the busy street.... crying, alternately facing different directions not quite sure from which one she would appear.

Around 6 O'clock, two hours later, and the sun already disappearing behind the tall buildings, I stopped a stranger and they directed me to the Mombasa bus office... I followed their directions as best as I could... found myself outside an office that, from the signage on the wall, must have been their old office , now closed and deserted.

By this time panic was setting in. I was terrified.... had cried all my tears.... and a sickening feeling had settled in the pit of my stomach... but I still held on to the hope that my mother was somewhere around looking for me as I rushed back towards the 'Nairobi Bus' office, praying that she had not come and missed me while I'd been gone.

On my way back a gent in a suit stopped me and asked where I was going by myself...

"To meet my aunt down the street," I'd lied instinctively. He had not believed me but had let me go all the same. I'd gotten back to the 'Nairobi Bus' office, now ominous in the darkness of the early night.... Surely my mother was going to be here. Of course she wasn't.

'Where is your aunt young man?' It was the same gent who had stopped me earlier.... and this time he was not taking any lies. I told him my story and he and his friends walked with me to the real 'Mombasa Bus' office. We found out that a woman fitting my mothers description had been there all day... quite distressed, and had just left not too long ago. No note had been delivered.

I had that evening ended up at Central Police Station where this police sergeant was trying to help me help him help me.

*************

"Do you have any relatives in Nairobi?"

"Yes, an aunt - Mama Idah...."

"No I don't know her other name.... "

"The husband's? Uuuumm.... Baba Idah!"

" I don't know what estate they live in but if I drove by their house I would know it... I'd visited them last year."

The officer had quizzically looked at the information he'd gathered from me so far and, after shaking his head incredulously, started all over again.

"What is your mother's name?"

"Marion Wairimu." That one I knew well..... I'd given it out at school numerous times.

"What is her married name?"

"She is not married."

"O.K. what is your fathers name."

"I don't have one...." Mumbling under my breath.

"What was that?"

I repeated what I'd said a little louder.

'I'm telling you that that is not possible young man.' His frustration evident in his tone.

'Constable, this kid thinks he is Jesus Christ...' he joked to his companion and to every other "Utumishi Kwa Wote" operative who either out of curiosity, or a sincere desire to be of help, had stepped in to find out what this eight year old kid was doing at the Police Station.

*************

While everything worked out for the best and I was delivered safely to my mother the very next evening, the memories of that embarrassing interview have stuck with me ever since. To be normal, I'd gathered, one had to have a daddy.... not having one was very abnormal, apparently.... And all my friends did.

I asked my mother at some point, relating what the policeman had said, and she had said that next time I should tell them that they were divorced... an explanation that I accepted though not without a grain of salt.

None of my peers knew what divorced meant.... I knew the definition but not the meaning of it, and that didn't help. I couldn't help but notice as I grew up that, in every house I visited, without fail, was a picture of a bride and groom in their wedding attire, hanging somewhere prominently.... A feature that I sought out every where I happened to visit, and one that was missing in our small living room.

How could they be divorced if they hadn't been married in the first place? Perhaps they just hadn't had any photos taken.... I rationalized... even at that tender age.

What does your father do? What is his name? Where is he? What does he drive?

For the next six or so years of Primary school, these were questions that were constantly asked... by teachers, fellow students and friends. They were questions that for the longest time made me squirm inside. Questions that I did not want to answer, more so as I grew older and wiser to the ways of the world... and the facts of life.

I attended a private school that my mum could hardly afford... One that she sacrificed a whole lot..... I only now realize, to put me through. All my peers were much more well off financially than we were. I knew because come closing day, the school being some three or so miles removed from the nearest town.... mine was the only parent who arrived by public transportation. This of course doesn't really mean anything... but then, it was just something else that further proved the fact that I was not like these other kids.

I hated to be different... not to fit in. But who doesn't. I compensated by building a complex... an inferiority one.

To me, as far as I could tell, the only reason we were not as well off as these other kids, was because I did not have a father. After all, it was their fathers that were bankers, senior managers, doctors, architects and business men. In my little mind... that was the missing part of the equation...

So, desperate to fit in, to be equal to the other kids, I at some point invented a Dad... based on a gentleman who was a friend of my mum's best friend, after he had taken us traveling for a weekend. He was everything I imagined a dad should be.... and he kept addressing me as 'sonny'.

Now I could dare show my face in class when the boys decided to compete on whose daddy was better than the other... Mine drove a Mercedes Benz, was The Managing Director of a great company in the capital city and took us to cool places, dined us at the best restaurants and drove us in his car.

**************************

I did eventually find out about my real father... one night when I was 16. Not much really, just the fact that though they had been friends, my parents had not been in love. He had chosen not to be in my life... whatever that means. I vowed to myself that I would never let my child grow up fatherless.... not if I was still alive.

Now.... close to twenty years later, I am back to wondering about my father. That vow I made is back to haunt me. Looks like I may soon have to come to terms with it. Who's to say that I will not make the same choices that he did. So I want to reverse that curse.... How am I going to do it? How does one go about being a father when the closest he's come to learning from one is when watching Cosby re-runs?

'It will come naturally,' Someone said.

I bet... just like it came to mine, and to all those psycho's we see every day in the news who abuse their own kids and drive them crazy.

"Oh! Don't worry about it..." Said another... "you are a great kid. You will make a great father."

Is that right? Great kids make great fathers? Maybe, but surely it must be after they've stopped being kids... coz I don't see them multi-tasking. I on the other hand feel and act a kid more now, than I did in my teens... or even as long as I can remember.

Perhaps they are right... But perhaps they are wrong. They are the same people who filled my head with all that BS about me being a bright kid... with a bright future.... going places and all.

Me I have learned not to believe these people who seem to have gotten fooled by my quiet demeanor.

Prologue: Today.....

......is Monday, June 2nd, 2008. My day at work is coming close to an end and unlike most Mondays, I have not noticed the hours crawl by. Actually I haven't noticed much today. I've been busy yes... but I've been rather pre-occupied too. This last one has been quite the weekend. One phone conversation in particular may forever have changed my life....

Friday afternoons are by far the favorite times of my work-week... the moments when I realize that in a few hours or minutes I would be walking out of this building and I would not be coming back until Monday.... two days of freedom so to speak.

This past Friday was no different. I had been busy all day trying to sort through a mess of a project that my Boss had laid on my lap a couple of weeks back and about which I had not gotten much done. I must have looked at my clock at some point and realized that the day, and the week, was almost over for I picked up my pace and managed to get quite a bit done.

I had then driven home, delighting in my new-found freedom and looking forward to Josee, one of my boys, coming over with a couple of girls. He had called earlier to find out if I had any plans for that evening. I didn't have any... not till after 11 anyway, so I had asked him to call after 5. I went home and lay on the bed... my phone close by, and promptly fell asleep.

********************************

I wake up two hours later to total silence..... but for the growling in my stomach. I am hungry. Quite hungry indeed, I decide after listening to a ten-second-long rumble. I look at the Ciao Bella Take-Out menu that I am currently using for a bookmark. I settle for the Baked Haddock Binici - 'always fresh Haddock, baked in a white wine with marinated plum tomatoes, fresh basil & melted provolone over pasta of your choice'.

I go with the linguini. The only option I heard clearly when I asked what kinds of Pasta they had.

One hour later, feeling rather proud of myself for finishing what must have been a two person serving of the baked fish, I settle back to watch game 6 of the Eastern Conference NBA finals.

Just as the game is starting, my cell phone buzzes... 'Private Number'.

There are only two people I know whose Caller I.D is 'Private Number'. Former flames both of them; one of whom I am rather disinclined to talk to.

'Hello!' I answer, really hoping this wasn't her.

'Sasa...' Throaty female voice on other end. Neither of the Exes speaks or knows Sheng.

'Poa..... How are you?' That voice is familiar.... too familiar.

'I'm o.k now, lakini I just got back from hospital. I had to go in last night...... ' Now I know who it belongs to and I'm really wishing I had not answered the damn phone.

'Why don't you get them to take off that gall bladder already?' She had landed in the hospital a couple of days after I'd met her courtesy of a faulty gall system... and apparently it hadn't been the first or the second time, and obviously not the last.

'I am going back on Monday to see the doctor......' I miss the rest of what she says as my attention drifts back to the game. I hope the Celtics can pull their act together tonight and end this thing.

' Let me tell you what happened. Aki I was in so much pain I ended up in the E.R. but the nurses told me I wouldn't be seen any time soon. Eh! Aki I was in so much pain and they did not want to know.... so I told my friend to drive me around the corner and we called the ambulance from there....' I watch as Billups gives the Pistons the first point of the game and wonder why she feels the need to go into details whenever she's talking to me.

Wait a minute. Did she say the Ambulance guys said it would be more costly? O.k. I know where this is heading and she is plain out of luck. I am flat broke.... I'm actually short on money to pay for a next weekend flight.

'... so they asked me if I was pregnant and I told them no. They said that had to test me for pregnancy anyways, since I was complaining of abdominal pains....' Pregnancy test huh! I muse as I watch Ray Allen's 3-pointer put the Celtic's in the lead.

'... I had to give a urine sample...' And what the hell do I need all this information for?

'... then the nurse came back and asked me again if I was pregnant. I told her there was no way, I haven't had any sexual....' That pregnant word again? This is going one of two ways.... I'd rather she wants to borrow some money.

The Celtics miss two field goals but at this at this particular moment I couldn't really care less.
She needs to stop going on about her freaking tests and get to the point... I am perspiring all over now, it feels like the prelude to a terrible nightmare. I struggle to regain my composure as I quietly urge her on.

'Uh huh... then?' Hoping the tremble in my voice is not evident.

What am I going to say if she says what I think she's about to say. Oh shit man.... please let her say she needs to borrow money for the ambulance. How could I let this happen? What was I thinking? You knew she couldn't be.... She definitely doesn't need money....

'Pa!'

'Huh?' I realize my inner voices had drowned hers out.

'Pa......... You didn't hear what I said?'

In truth I hadn't...

'Are you saying that you are pregnant?' I ask trying to sound as unconcerned as possible.

'Yeah! That's what the doctor said. I told him there was no way.... I just had my menses and besides I was on contraceptives....'

Yeah... right! I'm thinking to myself as she rambles on. You had to be the 1%. You are such a liar and you've picked the wrong person to play.

A thousand questions are reeling through my head.... why had she disappeared to Lowell without a word? Why had she flown thousands of miles away without as much as a goodbye.?
Why hadn't she used her phone to call me? Why? Why? What if......

'....they said that when I go back on Monday they'll do another test coz even me I....'

'Did you say they'll be doing another test on Monday?' I interrupt... desperately grasping at this last straw.

'Besides,' I add, emboldened. 'How can they tell when it's only been what... not even three weeks....?'

'Oh yes they can.... even after four days..'

Gee thanks... I'm glad to hear that.

'Well then, I guess congratulations are in order....' My lame attempt at sarcasm goes unnoticed.

'What did you say?'

I repeat it to her....

'What does that mean?'

Argh! I suppress a groan before explaining to her that I was congratulating her just incase she is really pregnant. Of all the girls I've been with, it had to be the most dense.... Arrrghhhhh!

I bid her goodnight... 'We'll talk on Monday after your tests.'

I go back to my game....

I am not sure if its the just-ended phone call or the heavy meal I had but suddenly am feeling rather sick. I half-heartedly watch as the Celtics secure their place in the Finals and can't wait for Mambo to come get me out of the house.

*************************

Later that night......

We are driving to Lowell... to some party, supposedly. Mambo is going on and on about this girl who's invited him to this party and the people involved. He's been talking for a while now but nothing he's saying is registering in my head. There are all these voices coming at me from somewhere.... nowhere.

'One of my girlfriend's pregnant.' I blurt out in the middle of one of his sentences.....

'What do you mean one of your girls? Which one? Joy's sister?'.... He asks, as if this was regular fare in our regular conversations.

'Who the hell is Joy?' I'm wondering. 'Oh, Joy!'

"Your silence says a lot'.....

I can't argue with that. I wouldn't have the energy anyway, if I felt so inclined.

'Dude! First question... is it yours?' Didn't know Mambo had a methodical side.

'It could be...' I answer tentatively.

'And what the hell were you thinking having unprotected sex in the first place?'

'Very good question that.' I acknowledge..... 'and please don't ask it again.'

********************

I am not sure I know the answer to that question..... Why? Is always a good question.... It serves to peel away the layers of this onion that is our lives.

And so the rest of the weekend was spent peeling.... and crying..... and drinking and peeling and crying some more. What follows are glimpses at these layers..... these many layers.

Addendum to the intro

Me I..... An autobiography. My fictitious life.

First, let me begin by apologizing. The writing of this book has taken an impossibly long time to start. Impossibly long for those of us in the microwave generation.... I suppose.


Everyone else knows that these things take time; and even those who don't, know that there are some things that take time and that this, more likely than not, falls into that category.

So, my apologies go to those of you who .....erm, whose patience has gotten severely tested by my going ons on how I was gonna start writing.... soon.

Me I never make excuses... Not for me, not for anyone. My mother told me... all the time, no one likes people who make excuses.... Of course she also told me that life was no popularity contest.

But I do want you to like me.... enough to make you want to buy my future publications. I honestly don't have a good excuse for not starting sooner... I have literally spent the last few weeks trying to think one up... to no avail.

Secondly, another disclaimer.... Oops! My bad. I guess this should've come before the apology. Oh well...

For you the Literary critics and the rest of you who are looking for a serious read... Good Luck, you might actually stumble across a passage or two that may closely resemble what you looking for, but I doubt it.

Me I..., is just a chronicling of my life.... as I know it, and not a quest for critical acclaim. Should it turn out to be worthy... well, I'll take the lump sum payment. That way I can drink it all away and you can all have something to write about in your gossip columns.

I can see the Headlines already.....

So Much For An Oprah Endorsement (Unable to handle his new found fame, Kei turns to the bottle for solace)

In the meantime, here goes nothing.

************************************

Today:

Today I decided to finally write this darn book. Never mind the applause. They say the first step is the decision, then the hard work begins.

Judging by how easy those last three lines came to me.... I think the actual writing will be a piece of cake. If only this buzz in my head would go away. I think its my muse trying to tell me something.... we've been have some miscommunication issues lately, my muse and I.

Oh! I think I know what she's fussing about... we drank up the last bottle of Vodka last night.That's her fuel you know.... tis the way she operates. I on the other hand could do without the hangovers the morning after. Especially since my duties at the slave shop don't call for the abilities of my muse.

Tsk Tsk.... Sorry guys.... I honestly meant to get going on this damn book tonight... am aching almost as much as you are to quench your desires... but she'll have none of it, not without that Vodka. She's so freaking stubborn...

Now I understand Hollywood's frustrations with the striking writers..... all this time I thought Jay Leno wrote his own jokes. I guess the joke is on me.

Tomorrow... I promise. I swear on my unearned royalties

Introduction, The

Me I..... An autobiography. My fictitious life.

Me I have embarked on a several hundred page journey to tell you the story of my life. My use of the term several is due to the fact that I have not finished writing it as yet. As a matter of fact, this here, folks, is the third sentence that I have written so far... But fear not, it will not be the last. Not unless I should drop dead in the next second, which obviously has not happened since I am still writing.

Ha ha ha... I got the last laugh on that one.

I'm sorry! I didn't mean to indulge you in my weird sense of humor, but since you are about to read about my life, you might as well get used to it. Not to brag or anything, I do have a great sense of humor... I always get my jokes... which is more than I can say for some certain people who you are bound to meet in the book.

Speaking of which, please let it be known, beforehand, that since there is a high chance that the only reason you are reading 'Me I...' is because you know me personally, or in person, or impersonally, then it is more than likely that you will find in the murky bowels of 'Me I...', a character that very closely resembles you.

In case you find that my depiction of said character is less than flattering to your self, and if that depiction should bring out the suer in you, and you should feel tempted to file a suit for libel or whatever other trumped up charges... then please let it be known now that that particular character is actually fictional. Any such resemblance to you is intentional coincidence on the author's part.

If on the other hand you hold no such sentiments, and you are in fact proud to be actually featured in a bestseller book, then please do feel free to purchase a few extra copies and distribute as X-Mass or mother's day gifts to your family and friends; especially those whose lives and escapades you've always envied. You have most certainly earned the bragging rights... but only if you buy the extra copies.

My other disclaimer... and this one is for all y'all in the law enforcement industry. 'Me I....' may contain what may amount to confessions to ...ummm crimes, of both felony and misdemeanor type.
Any such claims by the author of 'Me I....' are not to be taken seriously by anyone who in all seriousness might be in a position to use those particular claims against him in a court of law, a military tribunal or any other roomful of authority including those offices of the INS and the Border Patrol. All such claims are most certainly not true... they are but a product of a good imagination... perhaps not so good after all... huh!

Lastly, and most certainly not least, this one is addressed to one Oprah of the Oprah's Book Club fame.

Dear Ms. Oprah... or should I call you Madam, this here is a sworn statement by the author, that you are most certainly about to make famous, in regards to any claims and depictions in his writing. Please disregard any claims to fiction that may have been alluded to in the previous disclaimers. Forget even the 'fictitious' that is part of the book title. This disclaimer supersedes any disclaimers made before it.

Let it be known to you and the illustrious readers that make up the Bestseller-maker that is Oprah's Book club, that nothing written in this book is false. That the closest I came to fiction is in choosing the name I wanted to be published under. I sincerely hope that that one indiscretion on my part will be overlooked in light of the fact that I only did it to save my dear mother from the grief and unwarranted attention that having a world famous son has always tended to bring about.

Just an aside for you madam, my mom whom you will most definitely meet, not just on your show when you finally request me to be your guest, but most certainly in numerous pages of my story, happens to be the one female constant so far in my life. She also happens to be a senior member of the Women's Guild in her church and a respected disciplinarian in her village.

She will gladly attest to the trueness of my stories. She knows that I do not.... actually cannot... indulge in the luxury of lying. Not after all the near death experiences in her hands as she successfully beat the lying bug out of my precious little body.

*******************************************************************************

Now that we are all done with that disclaimer business, I would like to urge you to let go of your misgivings and any preconceived misconceptions that you may have. Mine is a long and windy journey, any such baggage is bound to be a hindrance to your reading pleasure.

I suggest that you do not attempt to read 'Me I....' in between important activities, like say during your coffee or smoking break; Or while your teacher is looking over his notes trying to find where he was before your inconspicuous giggling interrupted his boring monologue; Or when the boss walks out to answer a call of nature.

And don't use as an excuse the fact that I actually wrote the book during similar instances.... my case is different. The clock is ticking for me, you have the rest of your life to read... And should you die before you are done; fear not, they will have the audio version on the bus to wherever it is you will be headed.

Last disclaimer... (sorry)... I am not a lunatic. Twenty-something years of formal education have curved out of my life this warped version of sanity. The fact that I have not fallen prey to any of those crazy bitches looking to commit me to an institution of marriage is enough proof of it. No?