Sometimes, when I am ‘javellin-ing’ in a bus, I imagine that I am Daenerys Targaryen, the Khaleesi. The Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt Queen of the Andals, the Rhoyna and of the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. I imagine that I am this Breaker of Chains, just without the flowy blonde hair and the nice boobs. In my very creative castle of imagination, everyone in the bus who is standing like me, is part of my trusted council and those seated are my subjects, looking unto me to rule with utmost wisdom. Often times my council is not always complete, because there usually aren’t a lot of people standing in the buses I use.
That is until we get to Kappa, that place with ‘Welcome To Machakos County’ pitched on a stone. Once, a man was peeing on that stone just as the bus I was in went by. The man waved his dick at us! In fact, now that I think about it, he must have waved it at just me, because I coincidentally happened to be looking out the window, at the convenience of his penile shenanigans. I don’t know. But sad to say, the image refuses to leave my mind, many weeks later. Gross. Schucksheeebuuurgggheeeeeeeeew!
I never understand why the act of urinating feels incomplete to men, unless they are spraying the watery waste against something. Trees, walls, fences, landmarks, my clothes! (story for another day) What’s the deal guys? Is the aaaaaah moment when you pee on something, better than when you just aim for the hole, like the rest of us ordinary people? Please, I speak for myself and a lot of ladies who are curious to understand the analogy behind this. Do tell.
Anyway, back to my being Khaleesi. Once we get to Kappa, I am usually spoilt for choice on who should be who in my great council, because the condas just stuff the bus with people to Mlolongo/Kitengela. We usually end up looking like corn on a cob. At this point, there are people breathing down your neck, literally. The kind of breathe that makes you want to trade your skin for a new one, or get one of those thorough high-pressure water cleans at a car wash. But a Khaleesi needs to be a Khaleesi and do her job,which is to form her trusted council.
A pretty lady with nice flawless skin will be my Missandei. Tyrion Lannister is usually the guy who is the shortest of them all. Then, I usually pick two fine fine looking gentlemen to be my Daario Naharis and Grey Worm. And on a day when the quality of fine fine looking gentlemanliness is scarce in that bus, then one man does the job, and I just assume that Naharis is out killing unruly masters for me. (According to me, Grey Worm is hotter and I would rather have him by my side,balls or none.) An old-ish looking guy plays the part of Ser Jorah or Ser Barristan.
Together we rule, and life is good. It gets my mind of the creeps that take advantage of the fact that we are mashed together in that bus aisle like mukimo, and keep making uneasy physical contact with my body. And the idiots who think that an environment as crowded as this, with clogged air, dust, sweaty armpits, stinky breathe and diesel fumes, would be the ideal place to fart. I cannot say it enough. Such people should be tied and left at the peak of an active volcanic mountain, five seconds to its eruption. Yesterday, one such agent of the devil did this and some guy was so annoyed, he remarked,
“Hizi ni pepo gani hizi? Kama ni hivi, hata mimi kakinikujia sitahurumia mtu!” (What sort of demon is this? If this is the case, when my own is threatening to burst out, I will not hold back or feel bad for anyone!)
We burst into hysteric laughter. Everyone. Even the culprit was somewhere in there, laughing with the rest of us.
So, I am still in the middle of wishing I could unleash the fiery fury of my (imaginary) dragons on him/her, but it’s almost time for me to get off the bus. Behold, here cometh the moment when my derriere is uncomfortably rubbed against a thousand and one crotches and other haunches, as I make my way from the back to the bus’s entrance/exit. I should say, that there is a special place in hell, for those dimwits that won’t budge, even after you tell them nashuka. They just stand there, holding the railing, and size you up as you try to move past them through that ka-space that is just enough, for them to rub themselves on you as you pass and enough to wet their dreams. Hell fire awaits you.
It gets better though, once I am off the bus. Because my regular mahindi choma guy is always there, waiting to calm my woes with those soft delicious darling cobs of corn. A girl has to eat and feel better after a hands-on inter-county bus trip like that. Then, when she’s done bonding with the choma guy, she will take an okada home, where she will throw off her bra (and feel like the weight of the whole world has been lifted off her), put on an old t-shirt and the amazing Mr’s shorts (which she keeps forgetting to take back), catch an episode or two of Jane the Virgin, to which she will fall asleep. And morning will come, when she will wake up and repeat cycle.
ION, a girl finally collected enough Unbroken Noodles to get a .com of her own.
A girl welcomes you to her new blog.