Part II: Blending in

Ironically, the last 4 digits of Teresa’s number make my year of birth. That is not only coincidental but also intriguing. I feign a smile and shrug off  my shoulders in bewilderment, trying hard to convince myself that this is as real as it is. Mentally, I draw a plan with an aim of isolating Teresa from the park and having her for myself…. even if it is just for a mere 5 minutes. Every so often, I rehearse the romantic lines in my mind – the lines that I am so convinced will dissolve her heart to consider me as a viable lover. Plus, if she is kind enough, she would not hesitate to give me her love, her heart and her time, as a birthday gift, and as a welcome gratitude after being away for so long and still came back single but more mature.

I can feel all these butterflies flowing though my blood; nudging me, trying to infuse me with their insincere urges to hold her hands. Her soft lips – the lips which have been shaping some words and eliciting some captivating sounds into my ears – are really driving me crazy. I really need to taste them – tonight. At the back of my mind, I momentarily play the scenes from a romantic movie “Ghost” acted by Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore and Whoopi Goldberg, and promise myself that if she decides to test her smile against mine, her kiss against my tenderness, and her warmth against my patience, then this night, tonight, this time, I will transform myself into Patrick Swayze and she will be my Demi Moore. Just for tonight. I will softly run my palm across her soft cheeks, stroke her lips with my fingers, squeeze my face against hers, and just let the moment flow.

To get her full attention, I pull out a copy of my air-ticket and engage her in conversation of how it is like to fly. Ken, with his big mouth, joins in. I hate that. I pass my fingers through my hair trying to get another story that could alienate him from our conversations. I feel angry that Ken hasn’t realized how hard I am trying to become relevant both to Teresa and stay in line with the Christmas mood. “Please, can’t you leave us alone,” I whisper to myself. “There are so many noisemakers around here, can’t you join them.” I am getting frustrated now.

We stop outside the Spree Club, which is adjacent to the newly opened club called The Signature, where Teresa meets some of her friends waiting to go inside and rove the night away. A few yards away, some youths who were just with us in church a few hours ago are drinking some blessed beer. A few girls surround them, dressed in some tight “spaghetti” tops and the new fashion “pencil” pants. I stand by Teresa, like a bodyguard, hoping against fate that she will tell me to do ‘something’ with her. Like for example, “let’s go and sit somewhere,” or “let’s go and dance,” or even, “let’s go to Nakumatt together and just look around.” “Say it, Teresa!” I shouted within my soul.

Ken, who has been following me like a dog hasn’t given up hope. That is the time I wished he evaporated. He tells me something, but I pretend not to hear. I have resorted in frustrating him to make him realize that I no longer need him now. We can meet tomorrow and continue with his stories, if he so wishes. 

I look around, and I can see that some of the youth shouting obscenities at each other, the drunken little lizards sprawling on the tarmac and the half-naked girls at the end of the corridor were the same that had innocently lined up at the gate of the AIC church with all the saintly appearance that could convince Jesus to come back the next day. I drag my mind painfully back to Houston, Texas, and remember all the beautiful girls I had seen lining up at the airport waiting to travel. I find myself wondering if they too are hypocrites, have double lives, and if they too are as gullible as my friend Ken. There is a high likelihood that they are.

Teresa turns to me and says, “I have to go now. We will meet later.” Then, my mind jumps into the future, and switches from the usual slow Pentium IV it is known to be to Windows Vista. So, I had to do something.

In the US, we don’t let time and opportunities pass us in vain. No. I had to do something very fast, even if it meant being in bad books with my friends. “I want to buy you some coffee at the Blackball Pool over there, and then I will pay for you a taxi to take you home.” I threw that offer at her and watched her reaction. She dithered, as her face twitched and coiled. Again, in the US, we don’t offer options, so I quickly added, “Let’s go!”

From the edges of my eyes, I can see Ken starting to follow us. I make a half turn and tell him, “I will find you here. Just wait for me.” Again, in the US, directives are not up for a referendum, we simply say what we wish should be done for us, and it has to be respected. Ken did just that – he respected my wish. For that, I will take him for nyamachoma at the Choma Zone tomorrow, I promise myself.

Now, here we are, Teresa and Leo, facing a lifetime wall against a lifetime chance. We walk past the hordes of drunken youths forming small pools on the verandah for back-biting their peers. Blackball Pool is directly opposite the Spree Club. The marvelous trip from the club to the coffee café is reverent and could just be just that – a once-in-a-lifetime’s trip. My mind is frozen with Teresa’s image such that I feel the cars and taxis that adorned both sides of Oloo Street are non-existent – I can only see objects giving respect to two teenagers trying hard to sweep each other’s heart. And like two tennis players bouncing the ball at each other across the tennis-court, we keep bouncing soft glances at each other trying desperately to understand the moment and the reason.

Teresa gets into Blackball Pool first, wades through the tables and sits at the far end. Overhead, the TV is still pounding some late night Christmas carols. When the neon lights hit her face, the angels of love shower my heart with lust. Gosh! That beauty is angelic; that smile is a killer; and that shape is magnetic. I have been following her like an idiot, in fact, like a robot, without knowing why. It is like I am hooked to her. All her being rushes into my heart with the urgency-of-today. This is a girl I feel I want to own, to be with, and to share my life – at least the first part of my life.

The rickety chairs in Blackball Pool are no doubt the best in Eldoret, and the large mirrors on either side of the walls give us a chance to remotely look at each other. With my left eye on her face and my right eye on the mirror, I can see she isn’t just a gift, but a piece of art. I am overwhelmed with the stupid thought that the fineness of her eyelids, the clarity of her eyeballs, and the softness of her lips are all up for grabs …… by all the men who qualify – and on this jovial night, all men qualified. Tonight. Something convinces me that somewhere, another guy is planning to meet with her and try to win all this beauty. You know, as well as I do, that that is very true. But I already have one foot ahead of everyone right now, so I thought. I try to marshal up all my seduction credentials to put up my case why I am a better dude than whoever has ever come before me. I really try to convince her that after me, there will be none. Gosh! The lies men say. I wish you could see me – the way my lips are drying up as I try to sell my desires, my inability to stay composed and just show my true manliness, and the way I become more of an interrogator than a story teller.

I quickly realize I stand a higher chance of asking her out if I can hold her mind to this moment, if I can offer her some uniqueness, and if I am able to bring her excitement by being the spontaneous guy she appears to have in her dreams. As many men would do, I keep switching between my truthful being and my proud personality, and still be able to control the conversation. And at some times, I inject some truthful lies to capture her fascination, and give her mind some news to chew and ask for more. I tell her that Tiger Woods is my neighbour, and that I learnt most of my dance moves from him. But because the ‘Tiger Woods’ I am talking about is a Christian, we only dance to gospel music, whose lyrics I know are soft and easy to follow with any kind of dance style. That portion had to be church-focused in order to remain in contention. I also inform her that Tyra Banks gave me an iPod during her show, which still has the marks of her lipsticks. I would give it to her as a New Year’s present. Again, to be relevant, I have to let her know that the lipstick were hand-delivered to Tyra Banks by her pastor as a gift for her charity work in the Church.

Somehow, with my inner eyes, I can see her melting and twitching her soul with pride. Like the synergistic taste of sugar blended with salt, I had to add that when Oprah Winfrey gave a speech about how to love and care for family and friends, she mentioned my name as an example of someone who has shown utmost love for everyone around me. A blend of Tyra Bank’s and Oprah Winfrey’s stories fumed her with the desire to associate with these wonderful women. At the moment, I was that only bridge for more of these women. 

We stay for more than 1 hour yakking about our fears and ambitions in life. Most of these stories are not relevant, but are absolutely necessary. It is from these yakkings that I also learn that she studies at Moi University, Chepkoilel Campus, Eldoret. I think that is where she learnt how to dress very well. But because she stays off-campus when the college is in session, she  has two places she could spend the night – either in Kimumu Estate where she has a rented house or in Kapsoya Estate with her parents. I try to convince her to spend at Kimumu to avoid waking up her parents to open the gate for her, and she reluctantly agrees.

So many things have gone according to plan. Now, here comes the time she has to go to Kimumu. As a good gesture, I will go with her by taxi, and then I will come back to town to meet with Ken and the group. That not only happens in any civilized nation, but also in a third world town like Eldoret. But, some minor plans can be introduced in the process. Being a spontaneous guy, I think I can get away with it, and squeeze the remainder of the night away at her place. Wild ideas assail my mind now. I’m really tempted to call Ken to bring me condoms. No. That may be my misfortune if I do. This is a sacred lady who has a flesh just like all the other girls in church and would want to enjoy the flavors of the flesh without anyone raising an eyebrow. I present that kind of opportunity to her. However, I still have to convince her that I am for real – that I will not begin jumping like popcorns on a hot pan to my friends and her mates about our night together. Plus, I will be leaving in a few weeks time, so she will have the rest of the year free of other embarrassing scandals, if this turns to be a scandal anyway.

So, mentioning Ken’s name will be a complete turn-off at this stage. Getting into the nearby Marketview Chemist to buy a condom will warn her that other plans are in the offing. I also don’t want to leave her alone and give her a chance to come back to her usual senses. Right now, she has been infused with my presence and I have filled her ventricles with prospects of a fun holiday. I must keep that motor chiming. I scratch my head and think some more.

Quickly, I realize I can use the taxi driver. Well, he is chubby but presentable in physique. His Arsenal sweatshirt is reason enough for us to be friends. It doesn’t matter to me now… I only need a conduit.  I inform him that I never negotiate prices, and so he simply tells me what he wants me to pay – Kshs 200.00. I ask him for his number, which he gladly gives me. I give him KShs 210.00, and send him a quick text message to use the extra KShs 10.00 I have given him to buy a pack of condoms at the nearby Chemist. He looks at me quizzically, and after exchanging some few eye glances, he does so. While at the Chemist, I send him another text: “Give me that thing secretively when we reach. I will give you Kshs 50.00.” Then he replies, “Ni sawa (It’s okay).”

 At the back of the taxi, I get a chance to sit closer to Teresa for the first time. The thought that I am moving away from Ken and the like is reason enough to give me an erection.

The time now is few minutes after 3 am – the wee hours of Boxing Day (Dec 26^th).

**** To be continued*****

Surrogate mothers are women who agree, usually by contract and for a fee, to bear children for a couple who are childless due to infertility or physical incapability of the wife to carry a fetus to full term.

Surrogacy is a complex arrangement. Neena from Kasese, Uganda understands this better. “I actually thought of acting as my friend’s surrogate before I changed my mind,” she tells me.

“Why did you change your mind?” I asked.

She scans my face with a primitive look of innocence and says, “See, I have never had a baby before, and definitely my first baby cannot go to someone else.”

Neena’s argument reminded me of a conversation I had had with Linda earlier in Missouri. “Leo, be careful when talking to a woman about her body and rights,” she warns. “One, you have no clue what it is to be pregnant. Two, you don’t know the gravity of being pregnant with someone else’s child. Three, you don’t know what it is to be childless, destitute and lonely.”

“You are right. I don’t know,” I admitted.

“If I am a surrogate, I won’t tolerate a man telling me that it is morally wrong,” she went on rapping into my ears, “because it’s stressful and intense. Think about it: my womb is on ‘loan’ for 9 months!”

Before I could say anything, she added, “My work is to care for the elderly and sick. Some of them never had children. Would it be wrong for them to use surrogacy and have a baby to take after them?”

Linda does not see surrogacy as “handing over” the baby, but as “handing back” the baby. “Because, the baby is not yours from the beginning,” she asserts.

But do Africans have the patience, perseverance, willingness and the tolerance to allow or at best use it, without causing some degree of dissension?

Commercial surrogacy is legal in several countries. The industry is estimated to be worth millions of US dollars, and the number of surrogacy cases is increasing every year.

When Vaidehi gives birth in December in Anand, Gujarat, India, the baby will immediately be “handed over” to its biological parents, Mehta and Das, non-resident Indians who live in Texas, and who have been unable to have children on their own. The couple begun shopping for a surrogate 3 years ago and settled on Vaidehi because the cost of surrogacy services in Anand where she lived are low and the legal environment is relaxed. Having “rented her womb” to the couple, she will be paid $3,000.

Kagiso, from Polokwane, Limpopo, South Africa, has an interesting dream too. On her 29th birthday this year, she promised her barren aunt Rachel that her first two children will be hers to keep.

“Really?” I asked her.

“Leo, traditional surrogacy happens a lot in my village,” she tells me. “I will basically have 7 children. The first 2 will be my aunt’s and the rest will be mine. We also have fertility clinics just like here in America.”

I ha-had. “Are you saying that US surrogacy is appropriate?”

“Every culture can do it but in different ways. No one is ever wrong in morals. Just take the sex out of it; and it is perfect,” she replied tersely.

Some of these things can be hard to achieve in Africa, I thought to myself, due to complex ethical and legal issues. For instance, two decades ago, a grandmother, Pat Anthony from Tzaneen, Limpopo, South Africa, acted as a surrogate to her infertile daughter Karen Ferreira-Jorge.

Anthony became the first surrogate in the world to deliver triplets. This case grabbed international headlines, and as was the law at that time, all the children were Anthony’s until Ferreira-Jorge’s formally adopted them.

Infertility is every woman’s nightmare. When Marion immigrated to the US from Trinidad, a decade ago, she never knew the pomp of her marriage would quickly turn into one miscarriage after the other. After 3 consecutive miscarriages, she tried in-vitro fertilization and intrauterine insemination in Baltimore, Maryland, but both failed; so she had no option except surrogacy.

“Leo, I have tried it all,” she admits. “My husband and I have searched far and wide for surrogates. There is no difference in surrogacy across these continents. Controversy comes when money is involved.”

“Yeah,” I said pitifully.

How easy will it be to sell such ideas in Africa, especially in cultures where traditions are as good as law, I wondered.
Paul agrees with me. “I don’t think my rural folks in Igoji, Kenya, will understand that such pregnancies are neither acts of promiscuity nor adultery,” he tells me. “Leo, you may try. It’s possible to win a few people,” he encourages me.

“I pray you win nobody,” Terry from Siaya, Kenya, reacts strongly to it. “How can I loan my body for a year? she asks. “Even if it’s not my child, but I carried it in my womb. Okay. Are you aware women have strong emotional attachment to their children? The emotional guilt for relinquishing your baby after delivery can be overwhelming.”

“Wow. That’s strong!” I said.

Before I continued, she interjected, “The umbilical cord scars a mother’s mind with birth memories of her child forever. That’s how strong the bond is. What if the surrogate changes her mind and decides to keep the baby after the whole surrogacy process?”
“Actually, it happened in America in 1988, in the case of ‘Baby M’ involving surrogate mother Mary Beth Whitehead who agreed to carry a child for a couple, William and Elizabeth Stern,” I had to give her the story to cool her down. “After Whitehead had delivered the baby, she changed her mind and decided to keep it; and an intense court suit ensued. If you ever looked for evidence that ‘blood is thicker than water,’ then this is it!”

It’s a story that easily resonated with Terry.

“Exactly,” she agreed. “Again, what if the baby is disabled? Who takes the baby?” she kept prodding, an indication of her rejection of the whole idea.

I had to look for a straight answer. “To avoid such disputes, it must be a legal matter as to whose names must appear on the birth certificate,” I said, feigning confidence.

“I am just thinking aloud,” Paul interjects. “What if the surrogate lied about her family health history or lineage?”
“It’s possible,” I agreed, partly because Terry was on the other line. Before I knew it, she quipped, “It means you can have a baby with someone you could be calling your ‘mother!’”

I frowned.

“Leo, I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she said. “It’s unfair for someone to live knowing that he/she was conceived from some prearranged conception. Okay. It’s an intensely emotional burden to bear for a lifetime.”

“I know,” I had to say something to cool her down.

Terry’s reaction shows how our “traditional” understanding about morals and ethics could be at odds with a woman’s decision to become a surrogate.

Earlier, Paul had told me “African men would rather marry a second wife, instead of using a surrogate.” It reminded me of Terry’s insistence that “in her culture, usually a barren woman recommends her husband to marry her own sister to help in bearing children.”

However, Neyin from Kaduna, Nigeria, believes “surrogacy should be illegal everywhere; and at best, immoral.”
“What’s your take?” I inquire.

“For the most part, it’s a personal choice. Whoever wants to be called a ‘reproductive prostitute’ can just go for it,” she quips.

The more I asked, the more I discovered problems than possibilities in the African context. For example, could relinquishing a child after delivery for a fee be “baby-selling”? How can we legitimize surrogacy in Africa? How many African women will rather charge exorbitantly or refuse to surrender parental rights, unless the men involved married them? Is it wrong for a surrogate to abort, when the adopting couples fail to pay the monthly fee agreed upon?

We tried tackling these issues with Linda but to no avail. “I wish you luck, Leo,” I recall Linda telling me. “Go for it,” she mocked me, “you may win a Nobel price.”

It was a chuckling statement.

Legalizing surrogacy in Africa is long overdue, if we must face out polygamy practices resulting from infertility on the part of the women in the current face of HIV virus. But we still need proper awareness on the pros and cons of surrogate motherhood through schools’ curricula, media, NGOs, public forums and medical institutions. There must also be comprehensive legislative clauses on surrogate motherhood in the Children’s Bill. However, policing and legitimization boils down to ethics and passing the Bill into law. Until then, a Nobel price is just but a tag.

As luck would have it, his long time friend and neighbor, Mathew, came home to visit his family. They bumped into each other one evening at a local pub. From the outside look, Mathew’s appearance spelled a man whose job seemingly ranked him to a Senator; his jacket had a raw metallic tinge – which gave him the class, his blue jeans had an aura of dynamite, his shirt had a mellow orange magic – like the ones that magnetize girls, and his cheeks had the shape of moneybags – like a smiling cheetah’s! Phew! Did I say he smelled of Yu perfume?

It was the perfume that sent Jack’s mind into overdrive. “One day,” he muttered to himself, “I hope to carry such a class with me wherever I go.”

Mathew ordered drinks as he engaged Jack on childhood memories and fables. So many things had changed since the last time they were together. As if they were celebrating an anniversary, he offered to give Jack a treat of his choosing, and Jack simply decided to drink just to enjoy anything that’s brewed to go with the good times.

But as the booze was making him tipsy, he began to rant like a mad parrot. He confides to Mathew that as a family man, he felt webbed between a hard rock and an anvil. “I can’t even provide for my wife and 3 month old son,” he whined.

Mathew, usually an empathetic guy, offered to go with him to the city, where he could look for a kibarua (job).

Jack discusses the issue with his wife, Sally. And as humble women do, Sally submitted to her husband’s request to accompany Mathew to Nairobi, from where he will be able to send money back for her and their son’s upkeep.

Nairobi, here we come!

In Jack’s own submission, Mathew’s legendary three-bedroomed house in Kilimani estate is a collection of heaven’s gifts. On the wall – white and chalky – are large pictures of mountains, bridges, lakes, animals and people he is aware will never be a reality on his side of life. The carpet, patterned to mimic a seductive environment, communicates a family in joy. The furniture had a 21st century workmanship – made with glossy Formica and hard timber. His wife, Rosa, is a glass full of beauty – from her eyes, the warm radiance of hospitality is overwhelming. His 4-year-old daughter, Roma, is a happy little cutie. How else can you characterize a general manager of a prestigious five-star hotel?

For a long agonizing minute, Jack’s eyes are glued to the swirling fan above him. Clearly, he was at a place he has never been to before. He remembered the only threadbare rag in his house upcountry, compared it with the carpet-mat he was resting his feet on, and realized why he couldn’t afford a perfume yet. While still in that whirlwind mental state, Rosa welcomes him with tea – the kind reserved for those called ‘Sirs.’

Usually, such hospitality comes to her as a hobby. Soon, Jack is at home.

Nairobi’s lifestyle is unforgiving, as Jack would find out. He has to wake up each morning and go all the way to Industrial Area, sniffing at every snippet of information about where jobs are probable. Occasionally, he was lucky to land on something, however menial it was.

On a ‘good’ day, he would earn Ksh. 250, from which he managed to save some and send Sally every Saturday. Because he did not have to worry about paying rent and buying food, that helped him in saving more for his family.

A couple of months later, Jack missed his wife so much that he requested Mathew to allow him invite Sally for a visit.

“There are several women in Nairobi bwana,” was Mathew’s response. But Jack was not wavered by that statement. He still fantasized a visit from Sarah. “A reunion with the love of my life is worth the price of my skin,” he assured his soul.

Later, Mathew agrees with Jack’s proposal and allowed his family to come.

On Sarah’s visit, the gravity of their sexual intimacy characterized a couple who have missed each other for so long. Like habitual drunkards, sex became their daily hobby – just like two excellent tennis players who loved bouncing the ball at each other with such determination for a trophy.

If your guess was right, Sally’s visit takes longer than she anticipated. A week turned into two; like the proverbial giraffe who requested only to put his head into the tent to hide from the sandstorm, only to end up squeezing the whole of its body and push the owner out.

However, Mathew and his wife did not mind. “You can stay as long as you want. It is not an inconvenience at all,” Mathew told Sally. Really?

Hospitality is a dice; you just have to cast it right.

Sally’s hunches detected something in Mathew’s voice as he extended his hospitality but it was too amoebic to be grasped. Therefore, she did not bother. At the back of her mind, ethics and morals dotted her freedom to stay with Mathew’s family.

On various occasions, he had noted that Mathew was ogling at her. Seductive looks that begun from the breasts and lingered on her lips was commonplace at the dinner table. As faithful as she was, Sally discussed this with Jack. Unable to control her fury, and unaware of how to protect herself, they agreed to let her go home for some time.

While Sarah was away, Jack used the opportunity to look for a stable job. Having made few connections, he was sure he would be lucky some day, and then he will bring his family back again. But until then, he will persevere under Mathew’s roof.

One Friday evening, Jack returns and finds Mathew hadn’t come back from work. Rosa was seated pensively in the living room, confused about her hubby’s latest drinking behavior, coupled with the uncertainty of whatever could happen to him.

Jack eyed Rosa for a long minute and redesigned the situation to suit his lustful needs. As if nudged by an angel, he realizes that the joy that has been a photo-show between Rosa and Mathew could be lacking in the bedroom. An experienced man knows that such women miss the warmth and affection from their men; and the smell from a man is enough to water every resistance a woman may have in her reserves under such emotional moments.

That is what Jack offered her; an embrace. He sat down very close to her, offering a smooth enveloping embrace. The soft whispers from Jack, “It’s okay. Don’t worry, my dear. You are so beautiful and Mathew should know how lucky he is,” numbed all her senses.

A few tears linger on her cheeks. She returns his gesture by embracing him, feeling his manly smell transfuse her hormones into her romantic vesicles with such urgency that she even forgot her daughter hadn’t been put to bed.

For reasons best saved on a diary, she begun looking for his lips – the lips that had shaped those soothing words that had torn into her heart. It satisfied her when Jack responded by playing with her hair – a clear sign that this was a new story, adding another episode on an already lengthy chapter on the big rivalry between Mathew and Jack.

When Jack’s kiss sank into her warm lips, the die was cast. She bundled all her senses and let them concentrate on only one part of her body. The movement from the living room to Jack’s room took a record time. The thrust of her lust partly catapulted from the fact that Jack was so simple and ‘natural’ and partly because she was ovulating.

As if they had rehearsed, Jack removed his shoes with the art of an actor, one leg stepping on the other; his grey socks showing. Rosa was confused beyond all else; she just allowed Jack to do whatever he cared to do. Barely 10 mins passed before the intensity of their lovemaking reach the same proportion of their level of anger at Mathew.

When the fire finally stopped, Jack told Rosa, “Thanks. You have been so kind. I will miss you.”

She was so shocked that Jack was leaving. “I got a better paying job. I have a new house, and I can afford to pay rent and feed my family. Sally is coming next week,” he explains.

As he left the next day, Jack left Mathew a note saying, “I came, I saw and I conquered!”