It excites me to be the heartbeat of someone’s creation. Forget the handiwork of God, He has already proven Himself a Master Creator. Look at you!
Except I would make a pretty bad video vixen (I have tried and tested it) as my mind cannot fathom the expectation of my entertaining the camera showing all my good sides when I possibly do not enjoy the words of the song. Or the singer…
The first day I moved into the house I am currently in, my friend Wairimu exclaimed I needed to forget everything else and prioritize getting curtains. The windows are the transparent kind leaving nothing to imagination; when you look, you see. Knowing my nature of strutting naked, her fear was I would be giving the neighbours a free tour of my body. That evening, I plastered shades of green and white acquired at a choking amount of money destabilizing my account to shocking zeros.
Wairimu was right but also very wrong. While there’s a show each day when I happen to be around, it is not my immediate neighbours who enjoy it but hopefully, those living in the next building and the one after that. Besides, Islam says your neighbour is 40 houses in each direction meaning we are covered on that front.
The girl power in me that fixed bulbs was unable to figure out how to place the curtains meant for the kitchen which has left them bare all along. The kitchen is the first place the sun makes its stop in the morning. It is also the first place I visit when I wake.
It is my hope and prayer that in one
or all of those houses facing mine, there is a creative with a knack of occasionally looking out of their windows when they wake. I hope when they see my upper part of my body glazed by the sun each morning, they find a reason to smile and develop a spring to their step for their days. My being their source of inspiration needs not come now. It would do me a whole lot of good if it came after I have moved out of here.
Many hours and days after I learn to install curtains in the hooks of different kitchens. I want their description of the area, the angle of their viewing to bring me back to these moments.
The days they caught my sides to see how my nipples were behaving.
The days they saw my right hand carrying my mug of water away.
The days I throw open the balcony door for a minute to dispose trash.
The times they managed to only glimpse the parting of my ass as it approached the door, leaving.
The times they had the pleasure of seeing my hands washing dishes because the rest of me was blocked by a strip of a wall.
The times the kitchen was my stage and I was performing for a multitude of crazy fans singing and dancing with every bone in my body so that they can go home and love me some more.
The nights only a silhouette was moving about illuminated by the blueness of the balcony lighting.
I want to experience all these times and days when these watchers decide to reveal they actually enjoy looking at naked beings that are not on their screens. I want to stumble on all these at a later time and go, “Uh oh!” but in delight.
I hope a person who considers themselves a non-artist becomes one because they saw a part of my body which I decided to let breathe for my own pleasure.
I hope no mlokole happens to be kneeling in prayer dawn and dusk pleading with thee good Lord above to sustain me with clothing. That if my intent was to ever tempt human beings like themselves to commit atrocious crimes of masturbation and falling into sins of pornography, nishindwe na nishindwe tena. May my ways be shifted and heart sheltered to receive the healing blood of the most famous man on the planet. These prayers can be the one reason I at times feel conscious enough to drape over my flowing lace kimono; to show and to hide all in one.
I pray and hope to be painted, drawn, written or/and sang about because I was simply living. A canvas.
Yesterday, as I was making my evening meal commonly dubbed dinner if it is had in fancy places like several-star restaurants or in the courses many people are willing to go through the trouble of making in their own homes instead of the traditional supper like the good man Jesus, I had the doubts of whether it was an accepted social norm. Not the cooking, the doing it naked.
Were I cooking for someone else, would they have a problem eating the meal because I had not bothered to cover any of my body parts using even the recommended apron? Only my feet were secured under the comfort of house slippers (they have those fluffy feathers we condemn ladies for taking on the streets of Nairobi).
But again, what is the issue with cooking naked? There is no chance my vaginal fluids will spill over the sufuria to magically constitute stew. My breasts have not been powered to release milk to hurt the lactose intolerant folks. If I happen to be frying anything threatening to splash the content around, I create a meter of distance to allow stirring. With all the precautions well handled, I am not free to cook naked?
The big dream for me is to be able to appreciate natural nudity. Nudity coming with no expectations of thereafters: “You are naked so…” Comfortable nakedness. The kind you don’t scramble for clothes when you sense someone approaching. The nudity without shame in it. Like children setting themselves free from the captivity of the towel after a bath to run around. Just nakedness being naked.
You are complaining of all this heat because you won’t let go of those clothes. Let’s get naked, shall we?