The Drying Sprinklers

I loved my red dress. In it, I could twirl freely and it would sway in the wind giving me that princess feel. I was beautiful as well as confident whenever it was on my body. We complemented each other.

On the fateful day our symbiotic relationship came to an end, we were together on the streets of the CBD. A short grizzled man, evidenced by the mesh of white on his head and chin did the unspeakable.

As he passed me, to wherever he was headed, he cocked his head to the left, cleared his throat and the produce of that ‘cleansing’ landed on my dress. It sat there, heavy and coloured threatening to trickle on.

We are taught to respect the elderly, I restrained myself from conking him. I lost a lover that day. She managed to get washed somehow, please don’t question how. There are things that are beyond our comprehension.

She now sits among other legends waiting to be dispatched.

Moral of the story? There is worse than a severed relationship…

It was the second time I was seeing him. He had helped me alight at the correct stage and I blushed a thank you. His eyes were extremely dreamy from whichever dosage of drugs he had prescribed for himself before our encounter.

When he noticed me, he pointed me to his friends and whispered something to them. At that point, they all turned to look, I adjusted the glasses I was wearing and kept their gaze. I would not give them the pleasure of thinking I was the shy type.

I was scheming how to get my number in his phone when the matatu came to a stop. He ran out and to my horror, he stood adjacent a fence, removed his hose from his pants and watered the structure to completion.

I almost tripped and fell because I couldn’t stop looking. Not that I was looking for anything more than the stream he was eliminating in day broadlight. I hoped he would see me and become ASHAMED. He didn’t.

The bright future I had envisioned with the conductor was over before it even started. A man with no sense of privacy for himself…

On my way to the National Museum the other day, a fairly young man is walking ahead of me. I’m minding my business until he takes to a shallow corner. The curiosity bug bites and I wonder if I have been taking the longer road.

Just when I’m about to follow the ‘newly created’ path, he emerges zipping up his pants. There’s a strong smell of urine emanating from the section of the wall that fences the museum.

Peering down below, the river is flowing. This chap felt there wasn’t enough liquid down there and added his own share of 200 ml. If you are complaining of drier water bodies then you clearly haven’t met the association curbing it.

Darkness sets over the land. This old man, I’m sorry to those who call him father or guka, stops in the middle of the path.

It would have been okay if he was stabling himself to cover the distance left to his house.
It would have been okay if he needed help to figure out the path as it was very muddy.
It would have been okay if he was considering changing routes to avoid bumping into people in that night darkness.

He assumed a laid back standing position instead, opened his trousers and watered the land. What I couldn’t understand was why he was looking from left to right. Was he afraid he might get caught?

There was a wall nearby. And several corners at that. For a man to make the rest of us on no-calls with nature to go round him to our various destinations is sickening. Where is your dignity men folk?

That conductor will stretch out his hand to his boss later in the day. The young man will be meeting his friends where physical rubbing of the hands and fingertips are worshipped.

As for the old man, I don’t want to imagine.

His grandchildren might be visiting and he will put his hand in the mouth of one to remove a foreign object. Before reaching his homestead, he might meet several of his kinsmen who will shake hands and pat backs.

Men ridicule women of being unable to write their names as we pee while squatting. I have got news for you, body excretions are to be rid off, not used as ink. Want to write on the ground, use a stick (not that stick)!

The position one uses in the washrooms does not elevate their status out here. Thinking in that sense clearly shows you are living in the wrong era. Is this why you are parading out here to exhibit power?

Stop acting heroic at Usikojoe Hapa warning signs. Please dispose your piped water at the rightful place, lavatories. Every other ‘hidden’ opening is not for you to open your tap.

Unbuckle, unbuttoning followed by a brief unzipping. A long release, shakes off remains of the stubborn ‘sitaki kutoka‘ liquid in the straw, zip back up, button and belt in place. Quickly walks off crime scene.

That’s a man for you. Urinating here, there, everywhere.

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19 thoughts on “The Drying Sprinklers

  1. I am a man who clearly understands the message. It is truly disgusting to see grass/vegetation and walls along the roads have been burned by urine.
    I feel ashamed

    Liked by 1 person

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