Sweet Nothings

I take your hand. You look away, I’m almost sure, you don’t want to be here. But I want to be here and I know I’ll maybe pay for this later on. You turn to me and kiss my cheek, and whisper how you love me. I try to not to smile, but I can’t help it. Damn you and your charm.
My friends look on, I can see how jealous they are and for a moment I enjoy their envy. The song “mbakubye equalizer”  plays in my head. And indeed, I have, I’m so gleeful. I remember everything they said about me.

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This week, I wasn’t feeling well and I decided to go seek help at a local clinic. I found the nurse occupied with a young girl of about fourteen. Unfortunately or fortunately, whichever way you look at it, this particular clinic doesn’t have a ‘doctor’s room’.
I swear i did not mean to eavesdrop but my ears are big and they picked up what the young girl was saying. This is was what she said;

It hurts when I pee. And it really itches down there. I don’t know when it all started. I cannot, in all honesty, pinpoint the day it started.
I do remember though how it started.
The discharge changed. It was smelly all of a sudden.
The color changed too, it was now white and it was clumpy. It did not look normal. Not like it was before.

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She was from a poor family. They lived in a two-roomed house in Bwaise that would flood whenever the rains came.
Her mother could barely afford rent, let alone fees. But she was determined that her children would go to school. She was determined that her children would not end up like her.
So she worked two jobs. At a fish factory during the day and at night, she sold tomatoes in the kalerwe market. She was often too tired to do any mothering by the time she came back home, late in the night.

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On days that seem to go on and on, I cannot imagine sweating over a charcoal stove trying to cook supper, when I finally get back home.
I usually just go to my rolex* guy at the roadside and supper is set.
Yesterday was such a day. So in the evening I just trudged to the roadside to look for supper.
As I stood aside watching the rolex guy work his magic, I noticed that the next stall was occupied by a young boy, about twelve, thirteen years old. I realized he was helping the stall owner. My curiosity pickled, I decided to have a conversation with the boy.
It went something like this:

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First Term: March
This is not it. This cannot be it. It’s not what is written in all those novels. The Mills and boon and all those other novels with the half-naked couples on them.  Am I not supposed to be tingling all over?  Or as the books say, ‘….in places that she didn’t even know existed…’
The books’ heroines spoke of a release like none they had never felt before, yet all i feel is pain and shame
And I’m sure it’s supposed to last more than just one minute.
This is very disappointing and embarrassing. I should probably get dressed before anyone walks in…..

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The Statistic

Day Two
I started to write fiction when I was a teenager. At the time I thought I could write a the next best greatest teen romance novel. A better version of sweet valley high as it were…..my first attempt wasn’t that good but I guess I got better with time.
My post today is a story I wrote for the first edition of the Dennis Assimwe’s Notes* short story writing competition and I am proud to say I came 7th!!!
How? I’m still not sure…but this is my story, titled, The Statistic.

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