I was beatified on the same day Sister Irene ‘Nyaatha’ Stefani became ‘Blessed’. While Blessed Irene Stefani began her journey to sainthood, I began mine to slut-hood. The only thing I share with Blessed Irene Stefani is Roman Catholicism and seven-frilled habits. Habits are religious cloths you moron, you can say dresses if you are a fashionista, fashion blogger, or are clueless.
While Irene’s beatification was a public ritual, mine was private. An over six-hundred-people-choir sang for Irene’s ceremony in falsetto in a sweet immix of voices, mine was incessant everything but sweet mosquito tunes. Not that I enjoyed it, I cursed the senseless Mother Superior of my Order throughout for her tough stance on things of comfort like mosquito nets. She insists that we should suffer throughout our lives even to the point of risking Anopheles mosquito bites and getting malaria. For her, flagellation, crown of thorns, crucifiction, and all what Jesus went through is much more than being bitten by mosquitoes.
Sitting with my hands on my knobbly knees like a Sunday school six-year-old girl, a holier than thou smokescreen for the shenanigans that was to come, I watched the most handsome man I’ve ever seen undress before me. A distant cousin of Irene. These things run in the family, right? Perhaps in 2105 AD people would flock to Brescia, Turin, Italy for his beatification. The Devil’s Advocate wouldn’t know of this night, what he did with a young virgin Gikuyu novice who couldn’t keep her raging hormones under control and to herself the very day his distant cousin was beatified.
You know, we Gikuyu women are go-getters. The whole day I had plotted how to get one of Sister Irene’s male relatives to break my virginity. It’s not advisable to die a virgin especially if you could end up in a harem of 72 virgins who would be given to terrorists in heaven. Can you imagine how it would feel having sex with a mass murderer, worse still who’s not of your religion?
We were having common dinner after the tiring events of the day. He was seated next to me. I felt his leg slip on to mine but I did not try to dodge it. Instead, I pastiched the Song of Solomon 8:1 – 3; “If only you were to me like a brother, who was nursed at my mother’s breasts! Then, if I sat on you now, I would kiss you, and no one would despise me. I would lead you from here and take you to my cell, that Mother Superior has forbidden another soul stepping. I would give you what you desire, the feel of warmth betwixt my legs. Your left arm under my head and your right arm fondling my breasts.” Well, he was not expecting that. Talk of being honest, and raw.
It was not difficult to get him to my cell. After all who could suspect what I was up to?
Sex is central in human life. Ever since Moses brought the Ten Commandments down from Mt. Sinai, religion and sex were forever linked as well as separated! ‘Thou shall not commit adultery’. The seventh commandment addresses the married, so is the ninth commandment. ‘Thou shall not covet your neighbour’s wife’. Nowhere it’s written that sex between us the chosen few is wrong. We are ordained, to partake in the holy of holies, so did God ordain sex as a procreation means. See, it is holy union after Holy Communion, right?
So, welcome to divine sex. Off went my habit. Thanks to him, a man of slow hands. Too slow I felt like he was not that into me. But he was. Being the much sought-after ka-yellow yellow I did not have reservations that I’d be embarrassed of my body. I was just a hue darker than what he was used to.
Then it happened. We intertwined, fondle, and got oral as one. And then I let him get into me. Holy union. Vicar of Christ and nun one. Baptism in semen. The virgin me took the fun, merry actually, of all time.
Where did I get this idea to seduce and have sex with Blessed Irene Stefani’s cousin? From terrorists. They are wreaking terror in Kenya from Lamu and Mombasa through Nairobi to Garissa and the whole of the North Eastern province so they could have sex with their voluptuous, big breasted virgins in heaven. I fit the Koranic description of their houri, only that I don’t know whether they would accept to have Christian houris. But when I am in doubt, I don’t take chances. So, I am not the Great Prostitute of Babylon.
However, there is a problem. The baptism in semen transformed me to something else. As I drenched in the holy liquids and as they seeped into my body, I felt life beginning, taking form in me. First, leaving the hospices of the church is a no-no. And biting the hand that feeds me is a crime. So, I can’t disgrace the church. That’s why I have decided to abort.
I can’t take people for a fool by giving birth and claim that I did not know that I was pregnant like that Italian nun who still thinks that we fell for her gambit that Immaculate Conception could happen, if not at all, to her. We can pretend to believe the story of the Mary of the Bible; we were not there and no one seems ready to think like a woman, but somebody who’s denied sex by her career in the church and happened to have a one nightstand and conceived from the tryst is a disgusting liar.
So, I will abort. Not because it is common practice amongst us women who men fantasize throughout but can’t get, only the ordained chosen few enjoy our goodies, but because I have my reservations. I could give birth to a terrorist he go around wearing suicide vests carrying Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG) launchers killing and bombing people. He could be a street urchin who’d forever forage and scavenge for food with vultures, blowflies, dogs, and crows. He could be a drug baron he sell his drugs to youths and turn them to vegetables forever. He could be a serial rapist, killer, or both; or he could be another ‘Vampire of Naivasha’. Or I could give birth to the Great Prostitute of Babylon who’d display her loose body and booty and kill many able men who could be soldiers in defence of our country. She could be a jihad bride she start seraglios of seventy-two times seventy-two virgins in Eastleigh and California, Nairobi for her terrorist friends. Or she could be the reincarnation of Samantha Lewthwaite.
And above all, my pregnancy my choice, right?
© Elove Poetry, 2015. All rights reserved.