That's how it was for Hanifa — she spent the whole day without seeing Rajabu, and jealousy sat heavy in her chest. Her mind kept spinning the same thought: he must be out there giving another woman the kind of pleasure that used to be hers. It never crossed her mind that he might just be busy hustling for the day. She wanted to see him every hour, to have him nearby — but that wasn't possible.
When he finally came back that night, she heard the sound of his motorbike before she even saw him. She rushed outside, pretending she just happened to be passing by. She managed to catch a glimpse of him — that alone made her night — but with so many people around, they couldn't say a word to each other. Just exchanged looks and kept their distance. If it were a penalty shootout that night, then both defenses had been tight — no goals scored.
It was a Saturday, a rest day, so most tenants were home early, crowding the compound. If she even dared sneak to his place, someone would notice and gossip would reach her mother in no time. Those houses had no secrets — even the mute could spread news without speaking.
And her mom was home too. How would she even explain going out that late? That would've started World War III. She knew it could get Rajabu in trouble too. So despite her craving, she held herself back, forced to stay put.
What bothered her most was wanting to prove she loved him more than Semeni — that she cared more, hoping he'd see only her. She forgot their whole relationship was supposed to be a secret. In the end, she gave up and decided to just sit quietly in her room. After all, she'd already had her fair share of "drill training" the previous night — no need to go begging for another session so soon. Students might be fun to be with, but prison isn't. Better remember — when a box of matches costs a thousand shillings, you don't play with fire.
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Sunday morning, church day — but Eric wasn't feeling it at all. His body begged for rest after last night's drinking, plus the "workout" Siyawezi had put him through — so rough he'd almost tapped out. When his wife woke him, his whole body felt like lead, sore all over.
Bedroom work is like any other exercise — overdo it, and you'll feel the pain the next day. That's exactly what hit him. He'd never been handled like that before, tossed around like a boat caught in a storm. And after that, he went out drinking again before heading home — the combination knocked him out completely.
He still had a mild hangover when he got up. Even showering felt like effort. When he came back to bed, he told his wife he wasn't feeling well enough to go to church. She stood there with her hands on her hips, shocked that a hangover could stop a man from worship.
"Baba Sara, your drinking will finish you one day. Imagine skipping church just because of hangover?"
"You've got no idea, my head feels like it's spinning in circles from all this fatigue."
"Please! Just go drink some soup — it's on the table. The kids are ready and waiting for you. What'll you tell them, huh?" she said, unaware of the real reason behind his exhaustion. Had she known even a whisper of it, the house would've been on fire.
Eric had no way out. He forced himself up, found his clothes, and dressed. He didn't want to disappoint the kids — he always took them to church. Seeing them ready, even their mother dressed to go, made him feel guilty. So he tagged along, hoping to collapse into bed later. His body begged for the mattress more than anything else.
That Siyawezi girl had truly drained him — he felt like he'd done army drills all night. His lower back and waist screamed the loudest. She'd taken every bit of energy he had — and then some. He was full to the brim, no appetite left for more. He'd boarded a Greek ship when he was barely a sailor.
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Sunday — a rest day for some, but laundry day for many. Those who weren't churchgoers used the day to clean their clothes and start the week fresh. Among them was Siyawezi. She stood by the communal well, a popular spot where many girls came to fetch water and wash clothes.
She wasn't alone. Several schoolgirls from different schools had gathered under a mango tree nearby, each sitting by a bucket, busy scrubbing clothes and chatting to kill the boredom. No boys were around — it was a girls-only zone, filled with soap bubbles and laughter.
One of them looked at Siyawezi and grinned.
"Girl, I heard you put that Mudi boy in his place yesterday! I never liked that loudmouth anyway — imagine, he once got me slapped by my brother just because I turned him down."
Another jumped in, "Zaituni, you're the one who exposed yourself till he ran to Jamali, and then Jamali beat you up."
"Girl, listen," Siyawezi said, shaking her head, "why hold back from giving what's yours to someone who actually wants it? Jamali's the fool here — taking other people's sisters and thinking his own won't get taken. If you've got a sister, someone will have a brother-in-law — simple math. The real problem is Mudi and his gossiping."
Zaituni laughed loudly. "Exactly! What's the point of keeping all that sweetness hidden till it spoils? I've already tasted man's meat, you think I'm just gonna quit? Ha! Not me, Zaituni daughter of Jumanne — born in Temeke, raised in Mbagala!" She burst out laughing, clapping hands with Siyawezi as they took a break from washing.
"I don't get these two — Faidha and Juli here," Siyawezi teased. "Always holding back, scared they might get pregnant. Come on, girls, this is the world's pleasure — why lock it away? There's no prize for keeping it unused. Loosen up and live!"
Zaituni nodded. "Every three months, just get the shot and you're safe — no baby, no drama. Just prep properly, don't rub yourself raw, and you'll be fine. Once you get used to it, girl, the man won't be able to leave you alone."
The others giggled nervously, unsure whether to take the advice or not. But Zaituni pressed on, bold and confident.
"Wake up, girls — this is the city! One quick hidden move won't kill you. Keep waiting for your boyfriend to come back from holiday, and you'll miss half the fun."
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