Kamau's Transgressions

Kamau was the church’s translator. He was a lanky man, with a pair of eyes that spoke of somnolence, and when he translated for the pastor, they dilated into big bulbs, and that somehow emphasized the pastor’s message, maybe that’s why the pastor chose him. He held the microphone in a tight grip, his body tightening and loosening as he shouted the pastor’s preaching. He was used to it and could now do it with so much ease.

After church, he had to go with Nafula to her home. Pastor Gachanja had told him to go with her, offer her a shoulder to lean on, and pray for her. She had shared her ordeals with the pastor, whose face had dulled with consternation. He prayed for her fervently before telling her to be strong and to hold on. Nafulas husband was a swaggering man, with thick hands outlined by bulging veins that branched like rivlets. Seeing him push the plough into the compact soil so easily awed everyone in his village. This was what he did for a living, plough people’s fields for money. It was thus very horrific to imagine how mighty his blows would be, blows that he dealt on Nafula. He was tired of her because God did not bless her womb. He had hoped for many children to take his name.

The closing prayer ended, and after he had given everyone a goodbye salutation, Kamau approached Nafula, his bible clutched close to his armpits. He slowly led her out of the church, asking her how the service had been.

“It was wonderful”, she replied with a heavy accent. The corner of her lips had reddened and her cheeks looked sort of dark. Her dark skin helped camouflage her bruises. She tried to smile as she led the way; her muscles ached from the other night’s beating. His cool voice was somehow pacifying to her. He spoke, his words laden with messages of hope and a “new sun” in her marriage. They walked chatting calmly and in a friendly manner till they reached her home.

He sat on the sofa and avoided looking at her fat behind as she headed to the kitchen, he was afraid his fleshly desires would stir and Satan would take over. He had avoided secret confinements with his girlfriend, a committed attendant of pastor Gachanja’s church. She was careful too, not to find herself in confined places with him too. She had learned to smother the warmth that flooded between her legs when he hugged her at the end of every attendance. He on the other hand, had dreams of her welcoming him into the softness of her thighs and other times it was curvy women caressing him and offering their bodies to him. Strangely, he could not stop his hands from groping onto their curves nor his crazy gyrations as he “sinned”. He woke up and strongly rebuked succubus.

Nafula came back, with a steaming kettle in her hand and two cups in the other. They sipped tea and shared bible verses and discussed scriptures. Night was approaching and he put his empty cup on the table the stood up

 “I have to intercede for you, before I leave”he said, feeling balmy from drinking the tea. She knelt on the floor and he walked to her, putting his right hand on her head. He started praying, his lips moving quickly as pleas to God left his mouth. He wanted God to soften the heart of Nafula’s husband, to make him gentler, to be compassionate about Nafula’s barrenness. Suddenly, she broke into soft wails and stood up shakily. Her bosom heaved against him as she sobbed uncontrollably. He was transfixed, not knowing what to do.

She held his slim waist, and it felt awkward and pleasant at the same time as her soft body merged with his own. He breathed fast, disgusted at the mirk his mind was leading him to. He was staring at the round mounds that formed her buttocks, then he felt his hands touch them slightly, frightfully. Alarmed, she looked up at him, and for some reason, felt safe in his arms. It was all unreal as she pressed herself onto him. She was shocked at how well hung he was and hesitated as she felt him pulsate.  Neither of them could believe it when they peeled their clothes off in the silence of the room.  Sweat trickled down his skin as he thrust back and forth. She had discarded all her shame and was gasping with pleasure, she could no longer feel her body ache and noises that were so unlike her were coming from her throat.

It was like thunder, the whip that cracked on Kamau’s buttocks. The bulls that were grazing outside lifted their heads in bafflement as the scream reached their ears. It was Nafula’s husband, holding the whip like his life depended on it. Kamau looked helplessly as his face contorted into fits of rage. He lashed at him countlessly, he whimpered and cried, not able to hide his nakedness.Nafula held her dress over her body and looked on in shock.

The next Sunday, he could not translate for the pastor. He sat at the back and blamed himself for thinking with his penis. Pastor Gachanja had patted his back pitifully when he told him what happened”Satan won” he said regretfully. Congregants whispered and stole glances at him, and he couldnt turn his painful neck to avoid their prying eyes. In the middle of the sermon, he went outside to stretch his sore muscles.

“He stole other people’s honey” one of the children who was playing outside, said in a loud whisper “That’s what my mum said” he added. They seemed discomfited to notice him standing there, and he regretted coming outside.