Freed Sharron

The queues were too long. We arrived there at 6 in the morning. It was now 10 but I was not even halfway done. The sun was burning so hard. My receipts lay in my purse which was clamped in my hands. And the other documents were in my small bag – carried by my dad. At last, I was handed the key to my room. My dad helped me drag my suitcase to the hostels, gave me counsel for about two hours, then left. And that marked the beginning of my freedom. Was I not supposed to celebrated it? I mean, don’t we all need freedom? 

I spent my early 17 years in slavery,  under my parents’ strict control. I longed for this day. The day when I would be free to make my own decisions. And do whatever I wanted to do in my own way. That day was finally here. The daughter of Magana had just been liberated. She was now to go about her business unrestricted. That was Monday the 12th of September that year.

I remember my first Friday in campus. He called me at 7 in the evening. He said he wanted to buy me supper. I was ecstatic to hear that from a third-year. He is the guy I met three days ago. All freshers pursuing Bcom had been summoned to pick their library cards at the library. I was going to pick mine but had forgotten the direction. That university is a mammoth of a place, freshers always lose way between the many tall buildings there. I had to seek assistance. So I approached this guy that had just hugged a lady and told her “bye”. That dude was so nice that he even offered to escort me to the Library. He told me his name is Prince, and that he was in his third year of study. We ended up exchanging phone numbers. We had been chatting since that day. So today he asked me to go to supper. I told my roommates –  who were all freshmen, about it. And they were all elated. None of them had received such invitations, at least not from a third year guy.

So I went. And he said cooking would consume time. We hence walked to that mama who sells juice over there and bought fries, and popcorns and freshly prepared juice. I don’t know if she still operates her business there. I wondered where his roommates were. Cause there was none in the room. It was just me, and him. He pulled one of the drawers in the closet and from there came a laptop, he came over and switched it on. I’m not sure it was his because I saw him struggle to input the password. Until he had to excuse himself and exit the room. And when he came back, he just tried once and the laptop granted us access. And we were off to a movie session. Obscenity took the better part of that movie. These are things I had hardly watched in my tender age. 

After about quarter an hour, he stretched his right hand and enfolded my shoulders. I was seated on his right. Then slowly, his hands’ attention shifted to my chest. And suddenly, his hands brushed my nipples. I lost speech. I felt weird. My heart raced. My body temperatures shot up. I wanted to flee away but my knees were too week. I shivered. “Sharron, kwani we ni vajo?” He asked. I didn’t know how to respond to that. He caressed my breasts. I was so excited. I felt like heaven had come down, on earth. And fell in his broad chest.

He then lifted me to his bed and lay me there. He unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. As I closed my eyes not to see what was in his trousers that he was struggling to get out.  Then hastily, he got hold of my bra,  and quickly removed it. My top had remained on the seat. I turned and faced downwards. I didn’t want him to see me bare. He wanted to remove my panties but I resisted. I gripped them with both hands.“Moja tu” he pleaded. I struggled, but finally he overpowered me. He dipped it in. I screeched! The pain was just unbearable. I implored him to stop and remove it. Was he to listen? I don’t know how these people were created – they never heed to your pleas in such moments. After about two minutes, he was done, he looked so tired. Like he had been digging, or like he had just lost a battle against a bull. So he fell off me, which made me curious to know why. I gathered courage and looked at him. That’s when I noticed blood on his thing. The subsequent rounds were not too painful though. So I got used to it,  slowly.

And I loved him, and kept coming for his services – at least three times a week. But Prince no longer satisfied me. I wanted the feeling I had experienced the first time he penetrated me. So I decided to taste another dude. He did not gratify me either. I hopped from James to Ken to Robert. But still, nobody hit that mark! Nobody satisfied me. After two semesters, I got enough experience to handle any man. 

Ah! I am taking too long? Pole. Let me go quick quick.

So I decided to up my game. I started riding mature men because they gave me money in return. I abandoned the mothers union panties cause I was so hot and sexy to put on such pants –  they never gave the public the best view of my ass. Thongs did. So they became my favorite. They made my bottoms wiggle and shake. I wanted it that way. Pop up pants were thongs’ close substitutes since they made my arse look big. I rolled with rich guys and rode in expensive cars. And campus life was so good.

I tied the knot soon after my campus studies. 

It is now four years since my graduation. I am writing this in a Msamaria Mwema; a matatu that plies Bungoma-Siaya route. That big brown suitcase infront –  near the driver, is mine.  I’m going to stay with my people at home.   Oundo, my husband, ejected me from his home today morning. He said he doesn’t want to see me again because of last night’s miscarriage. Yesterday’s incident  marked my fifth stillbirth since we got married. It is not my wish. I yearn to hold my own baby. I yearn to be called mama nanii. And be accorded the respect of being a mom. I yearn for somebody to call me “mum” each morning. I never get that chance. I cannot bear a kid. 

The guilt of babies I aborted while in campus haunts me. I’m never at peace.

By the way did I tell you my name? Sorry! I hardly give attention to such minor issues cause I missed so many communication classes in campus. 

Anyway my name is Sharron Maki. 

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10 thoughts on “Freed Sharron

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