“Anabelle, cheza kama wewe. You’re up!” A male voice but with a feminine pitch called out from the entrance of the dim lit changing room. He clapped his hands twice and shouted, “Chapchap!”
(Read the previous episode here.)
He has a pair of studs on, slightly plaited hair and a gum that he chews with his mouth open. He has his eyebrows neatly done and his eye lashes blinking evidences of mascara.
He is the stand between the changing room and the limelight where money falls like rain. Every strip entertainer passes through his inspection. He can say “That bra doesn’t look good on you, take it off ASAP!” Or “You mean you couldn’t get anything sexier than that? What do you think this is, a convent or something?”
He has an attitude like a bitch (dog) on menopause. But the entertainers under his supervision get used to the pressure because no money comes easy. They call him Diva. Also because they do not know his name. He never has personal relationships with ladies. So he never gives a shit about any of them or even goes crazy when they put on and take off before him.
She walks past half dressed colleagues towards the door. She slows down her pace with her right hand held akimbo. She stops and bends her hips to the left like a model at the end of a run way. Diva peers at her like she is a big bottle of champagne. All that was left was to cock her and her passions would gush out like magma from a furious volcano.
She has a dark complexion evenly spread across her entire body. Her legs have been fed into a pair of black high heeled boots. High heels, in this business, seem to carry a level of seduction. Even in your own private sessions mjango, if she walks in – in a pair of heels your banana would go bananas. She has a pair of fish net stockings on – that one would say in slang today, “Kuwateka tu kama samaki kwa neti.”
The fish net transcends her thighs into a pair of black, leather booty shorts. She’s got hips protruding accurately on her sides like the curves of an egg. On that waist, for your information mjango, lies the waist and pelvis bones from the ancestral lineage of Akoko. Known for her tiny waist and shapely assets. She was praised by Ntatiti dancers for her confidence. And the Nyatiti dancers of our times are hungry eyed men and even women, drooling and grunting over an X – rated show in one of the adult entertainment clubs in the suburbs of Nairobi.
Diva, fixed the strap of Anabelle’s black leather bra. “Go feed the animals bitch!” He said to her as he spanked her.
Her intro song on stage was:
“Turn off the lights pretty baby
Play me some make love song
Turn off the lights pretty darling
And play me some…”
By the time the song got to the chorus,
“Nishike… Nishike… Oh nishike yeah!…”
Every hand was in the air and lungs were being emptied into lustful yells. She probably would have needed a whip to beat their hands off her as she teased their sensual hunger slowly. She danced around and on the pole like she was born with it.
Their pants must have been soaking wet by then. Some were busy trying to get links to the manager to book her for a private session in the VIP sections of the club. They didn’t seem to get enough of her. They spilled alcohol on her and she bathed in it like a lady in a soap advert. She was careful not to drink any of it. There are snotty bustards in the army of bewildered men who can do anything to snare her for their own benefit.
In her mind however, the expressions of her entertainment look sensual but they are not sensual to her. What turns her on is the money being slapped on her face, or dug into her lingerie whenever she bends towards her audience.
Her body is on autopilot, trained to go with the rhythm of the music. She sings the song with her body. When they grab a hold of her bare necessities, they get electrocuted by gratification but she feels absolutely nothing. She smiles back at them like saying, “I know you like it,” and they would have their tongues drop out of their mouths.
Some hands that land on her have rings on. But she can only pity those men’s children. She later tells herself that in their adult ages, their children would reap the secret actions of their fathers.
A son, in form two, would sneak to the girls’ side of the Scouts Founder’s camp along with three senior boys and that would be his first time to touch a boob.
Their daughters would learn how to twerk at seven and would get to know what cunnilingus is and its slang equivalent.
Their daughters would probably end up like her. With a father who squandered his money on booze and women in places like these at the expense of their higher education fees. He’d catch a terminal disease like stroke and he’d meet his maker without having left his family in a stable position.
They, the daughters, if lucky would be sponsored to join universities by well wishers. Those that are unlucky begin to turn tables in sought for money. Being drug dealers would cross their list of ideas offered by friends. Selling the drugs to the daughters and sons who were lucky to get sponsorships. They become junkies and crack heads. Their sponsorships are withdrawn.
A fine looking man with dreads tied like a pony tail at the back of their heads standing next to a black, pimped Mac X call them by the roadside. He tells them that they can make good video vixens. That he has an upcoming music video deal and girls like them would fit perfectly in it.
They participate in twerking competitions in clubs for a price of Ksh. 10,000. They realise that no one just wins that money. One would have to deep their hand into the pants of one of the club managers until he promises that she will be declared the winner even if she twerks like a like a dog shaking water from its body.
The club managers would offer them deals saying they could make tons of money from using their talents. What talent, you may ask. The only talent they see in them is as avenues to make their strip clubs richer and more prominent. And that’s how they would end up not any different from Anabelle.
The crowd roars for a climax but she can only go as far as they pay. She dances her way upto the floor and a gentleman, in a black suit and a navy blue shirt unbuttoned by the neck – whispers something in her ear. As if he was waiting for that moment. She seems surprised after the whisper. She dances her way up as the gentleman walks off into the sea of revellers.
She ends her show and leaves though still while the masses cried for more. In the changing room, her colleagues nearly bow in respect of her prowess. She has met her target for the day. But she still doesn’t seem happy. Her colleagues don’t realise it though. They are in no capacity to do so anyway.
She looks at herself in the mirror and says, “Money can never be enough. Go get it baby.” She puts on her lingerie and a black trench coat, gets her purse and heads to the VIP lounge the gentleman had whispered in her ear about. She is stopped by two body guards who are immediately signaled by the gentleman to allow her in.
The gentleman is standing behind a huge man. The kind of huge that looks like he has been feeding on a pile of money. On his sides are topless chiquitas caressing him. He nods in approval. He doesn’t speak much.
“Tell me what I am in for first.” Anabelle says with a suppressed tremble in her tone.
“Nothing you have never done before.” The gentleman responds as he ushers her out. She doesn’t move though.
“Tell me now.”
He releases a sigh that smells of temper and says, “The amount you will get after tonight, you will need 20 more shows like the one you just had to make the same amount. So are you in or not?”
She goes in the direction he was ushering. They leave the venue in two big black vehicles. She seats at the back seat not saying a word. She recites the figure that was quoted to keep her sane.
Her gut gives her a feeling, but she ignores.
She is soon ushered into a huge bedroom that is well furnished. Velvet curtains drooping on the enormous windows. Candles all over that look like little trees on fire. A bed the size of a stadium in the middle of the room.
She sits on the bed. She brushes her hand through the beddings. Just then, the door swings open. He comes in dressed in nothing but a red bathing robe. His face is nothing pleasant to behold. Without saying a word, he pounces on her.
She is woken by a thunderous voice ordering her to wake up. The same man, from the previous night throws a brown leather bag that lands on her naked body. She realises she is in no clothes and quickly covers herself with sheets.
“Dress up and leave!” He orders again and walks out.
She looks confused as if she woke up on another planet. Probably the planet Thor comes from. She opens the bag and her mouth drops open at the sight of green leaves bundled with rubber bands. 500 shilling bills just glowing before her eyes. The eyes that were blindfolded throughout the entire night.
Her joy is short lived by a sharp pain that rushes through her Victoria. She wriggles on the bed as if to look for a posture that will ease the pain. She reaches her hand down there and draws it back. One word, blood. Suddenly her entire body seems to ache.
She looks at her arms and sees stripes running through her skin randomly. Like a child was practicing drawing lines on her. She slightly passes her palms through her arms and she feels like she had been whipped like a disobedient donkey. She feels pain on her bum too. She reaches to feel it and realises that the stripes are more over there. She then notices that she had marks on her wrists. She looks around.
Two pairs of handcuffs are hanging by the pillars of the bed. On the floor is a whip and a blindfold. She hopes to see used condoms but she is ordered out for a second time before she could think of searching around. Her heart races and she can hear it sound like the galloping of a horse.
She was just about to pass popcorn to my mouth when she paused the movie and sat still. Destiny had just had a falling apart with Ramona in the movie.
I sat up to find out what was up with her.
Then she began, “Mjango.”
“I think I would like to try this out.”
“Try what out? Strip entertainment.”
“Yea. I think the money is good. And I know I can do it. Plus the experience. Worth exploring.”
I shrug, “Well then. I hope you do know there is more to it than we think or see in the screens.”
“Yeah. I know. It’s not the first time it has crossed my mind.”
“And what’s your take on pain for pleasure? You’ve watched Fifty Shades, right?” She asked.
“You want to try that too?”
She then played the movie. While my head was back on her laps, I was only left to imagine how her movie would be like if I was to write it. And this is how I would conclude it.
On her way out she stops when she sees herself on the big mirror on the wardrobe door. Her clothes bundled in her hands as she hugged them onto her chest and the brown leather bag hanging by two fingers.
She stares at her bare body that looks like she had fought her way through thorny bushes. She broke into tears after a thought crossed her mind, “You sold yourself into stripping and now BDSM. Just for a bag of money. What do you have to say to yourself?”