In my final year in campus I shared a room with a
nigga called Marto. I once told you that apart from
pursuing a degree in biomedical sciences, the guy
pursued girls and alcohol with impunity. Whenever
he was drunk, he would run around the tuition
block singing circumcision songs and declaring to
all that he was more learned than the Vice
Chancellor.
The male hostel we used to stay held the world
record for the most coitus per square meter. Being
a born again brother, I diligently applied anointing
oil on the entrance of the hostel every morning to
bind the spirits of fornication; but it seemed the
devil always won. I was actually convicted by the
spirit one day to throw away the condom dispenser
which I considered the sole motivation behind the
romps. I was caught by one sexually starved idiot
as I was empting the contents into a dustbin, he
raised alarm and I was almost lynched.
At each given time, somebody was being laid in our
hostel. You could always be sure that every girl
who entered into the hostel was going for a dosage
of conjugal installation.
There were unwritten codes of communication. If
you saw a socks hanging on the door knob of a
room, it was a signal that a daughter of someone
was undergoing ‘*Semenal baptism’. You were to
pass there tiptoeing and fast to avoid hearing the
sound effects.
Despite Marto’s efforts to seduce, he was always
unlucky with girls. He didn’t take that lightly. He
was a bitter and frustrated nigga. Every Friday
night he would drink and come to the hostel
infuriated. He would run across the corridors of the
hostel shouting loudly, actually screaming aiming
to insult the girls he was sure were under ‘seminal
baptism’.
“Hatutaki malaya kwa hii hostel!”
“Kama unajua kimwanaumme kinabounce juu yako,
shame on you! Vaa suruali yako na uende ukalale!
Ulikuja Kusoma ama kulimwa!”
Whenever he saw socks hanging on a door, he
would camp their and start insulting and
threatening the lovers. He would threaten to report
to the janitor their presence. Given it was illegal for
ladies to be in the hostel past 12 midnight,
Marto’s threats were always dreaded. At times the
notorious guys would find a girl for him to silence
his nasty mouth.
Life moved on.
This particular evening, around 6 PM, Marto had
taken too much for the night. He came to the
room, switched his iron box on and left it on the
bed as he proceeded to the urinal to eject some of
alcohol. By the time he was through, he had
forgotten about the iron box.
He made one lap across the corridor yelling and
telling imaginary girls “shame on them” and calling
them sex addicts. Instead of going to his room, he
walked out of the hostel towards the canteen to
buy Blueband ya 5/=.
His sheets caught fire. Slowly the lazy flames were
spreading. Given that his room was always full of
Keg and stacked bottles of spirits, it soon burst
into full flames. Smoke spread first through the
windows but seemingly nobody was noticing.
A bunch of us who were experiencing a drought of
girls were just outside the hostel playing pool. We
were the first to hear the blasting sounds as
flames gushed through the windows and smoke
spread across the corridors. The hostel had four
floors, and most sex addicts stayed on the third
floor.
Most of the idiots were too absorbed in their
chakacha’s to notice that the hostel was on fire.
We raised alarm shouting Fire! Fire!
Those who were anointed like me entered into
intercessions binding the fire and condemning
Satan for it.
No sooner had we raised alarm than those inside
realized hell had gone loose. Unsatisfied manhoods
were pulled out, ejaculations stopped mid-way and
orgasms terminated. Moans were soon replaced
with screams of Help! Help!
In few seconds a scene only attainable in a
Hollywood Blockbuster was unraveling in broad
daylight. Tens of ladies ran out of the hostels
naked carrying pants in their hands. Majority were
carrying their trousers high as the fled like Rudisha
for the dear lives. Boobs heaved up and down
naked chests of poor girls as they ran out and
away from the looming death. One of them almost
knocked me off as she dashed out totally naked
and screaming the name of her mother as I hugged
her and consoled her to remain calm. I felt warm.
Niggas too rushed out nude, most with condoms
still on.
We were laughing our lungs off almost forgetting
we needed to act fast and put out the fire.
Marto’s room was on second floor and therefore
the corridor was in few minutes engulfed in smoke
and unpassable. As we struggled to direct the
horse-pipe into the room and the corridor, we were
fearful some guys were stuck in. True to our word,
when the smoke fizzled out, we found many ladies
suffocated on the corridor totally naked and
majority still smelling of sexual fragrances.
We carried them off, for first aid. We laid them on
the grass to recover, and because of shortage of
clothes most of them were naked. It is then when
Marto appeared still drunk and shouted, “Naona
leo mmeamua mtakuliana hapa kwa nyasi?”
“Wacha mimi niende room nika-iron manguo!” as
he staggered towards the scorched room.
