Some refuse the loan of life to avoid the debt of death. to some, they don’t. so there i was, plucking the strings of my guitar to ham my twilight girl away. i had paid the room,Ksh 300 to be exact. I don’t sing, so i recited my poem to her, with musical beats. it wasn’t going to be a quickie i suppose. shocked she was. to her, it was like a fiction that serves as an aesthetic.
I smell a fragrance of a rose, i say. of the beauty that lay in you. She smiled and begged me to continue,oblivious that we haven’t made love. paid love. Suddenly there was silence between us, and a blackout followed. so i looked up the window, drew the curtains. The sky hide the night behind it and sheltered the people beneath from the horror that lies above-the lighting and thunder. it was raining. she had to go and get a new client. ” why did you bring me to the room?” she asked. all i wanted was to make her feel whole again. like a woman loved and appreciated.
And then suddenly she said…’you’re a man with a soul.’ I didn’t try to deny it — I was too happy, I guess. When a whore tells you you’ve got a soul it means more somehow. Whores don’t usually talk about souls.