Sexorcised: Not Erotica, but a Story of Failure, Pain and Stupidity.

Reading Time: 4 minutes

When was the last time you went to the village, walked around the tea farm, the banana fields or just sat with your grandma to eat Githeri and story?

Let’s try again. In 2014 you got a good job, maybe proved a perfect capitalist slave for Deloitte or PwC and received a perk hike that sees you walk into a showroom and pick the latest V6 machine. Your job is rich, you live with a packed bag, your passport at hand, because you may be enjoying a rib at 1.7 in Kamakis on Sunday, and on Monday you are checking out for Kinshasa. Your socials look good because one day you are walking around the Eiffel Tower and the next you are eating crabs and clams in Seoul.

Family check: good.

Kids: Riara or Montessori.

Wife:  Well, she has a gazebo to while the loneliness while waiting for you.

Bank account: Ms. Fatty Booty, Mos Def, anyone?

Countryside: They want you to run for a political seat.

And your life might as well be so interesting that it starts with endings. Y’know, like that of Polycarp Igathe who sews his career like a rope, stitching the threads without a pause.

But are you present? Are you happy? Do you ever slow down?

Or your story might even look better. You are not top-tier middle class and your job is that of an editor with Business Daily. Meaning your life is one long deadline. You are well off to have a house that fits an 8-seat dining table and a whisky cabinet in your study room. Not like you ever get time to study. Because Obama’s “Dreams from My Father” sat on that table for so long, unopened, that his wife’s “Becoming” came to keep give it company. But you need the mini bar, because every night you need to knock yourself out and catch the proverbial 5 hours of slave sleep.

Whatever you are, you are Bruce Momanyi, the protagonist and villain in Silas Nyanchwani’s “Sexorcised”. You are the type of a man who likes to say, “But I gave her everything” because in your world “paying rent, educating kids and humping your hustle until you become CMO” is your idea of everything. You forget that those are things you can do even when unmarried.

You have forgotten that it wasn’t the money, the success and the hustle that got you started with Lucy twelve years ago when you spotted her reading Philip Roth in the Ruiru bound train. You liked her for her raw peace, her sense of calm, headphones, and a book, in a train thronged with bodies smelling of sweat and tar. She was clean and humble.

Whatever the point of life is, it is winning some, losing some, then losing some more. Forgetting to slow down, forgetting to be present, forgetting to breathe, then forgetting to live. Because you are a man, and you are middle class, and you can lie to your wife that you are in Meru for business while holed up in some bedsitter in Roysambu; because your wife will believe you because she sees the results of your labor – business class, random dinner at Radisson Blu and impromptu chopper rides to the Mara for a Sunday afternoon.

For a long time, you benefit from your success. You are fine. The interns know hanging out with you for one weekend will get their rents covered for six months. Your wife starts feeling lonely.

She joins a church group, no success. Her friends introduce her to Maurice Matheka where she learns self-pleasure, nothing. Her rosary gets discolored by the 3AM tears where she prays for your safety, your success, and your coming home.

Home, for her, was your heart. Home was when you read her lines from Bukowski as she whipped eggs for breakfast. Home was when it was just the two of you: pancakes and sex. Now, she has to do with the big shelves and acres of empty bed. She started becoming homeless the moment you started becoming a “man”.

Well, until she met Kituku. A man who looks distasteful to you. Bald, much. A pot a belly. Light skin. Short.

Because your friends call you “Bazu”, “Master” or “Kiongos”, you flex your muscles, get some guy in NIS to dig up Lucy. You are basically a prick, a holier than thou dimwit who thinks that he can buy a ticket to heaven. You pay people to do your homework, get your favorite lastborn going through a DNA test, assemble all evidence and confront Lucy.

But Lucy moved on, man.

She isn’t remorseful. She exhausted the fruits of the Holy Spirit long time ago. She waited for you, for years. She listened to her mom, your mom, the pastor’s wife and even binge-watched relationship videos on the Tube.

She accepts all evidence with a passerby glance. Somehow, she prayed for things to turn out this way. For you to get out of her way.

So when you finally get divorced, you break into a childish streak of misery. You search for yourself in beer bottles, hopeless. Whiskey bottles, you stop time. You try Marijuana, it doesn’t hit the places it should. Until you decide to look for love in thighs of innocent women. You fuck, and fuck, and fuck.

Life gives you its lessons. It invites you into its rodent-ridden chambers. It shows you that love lives for itself, for its own fulfillment, not to the pleasure of others. You are Sexorcised. You are sick. You are heavy with sorrow. You are a disappointment. You are fucked up. You are human.

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