THE FIRST KISS...

THE FIRST KISS...

PART ONE

A true story by Njonjo Mue

The year was 1983. I was a 14-year-old Form 3 student at Alliance High School. It was the year President Moi had called a snap election to rid his government of the sympathizers of my namesake, Charles Njonjo, following the unsuccessful 1982 coup attempt. The subsequent 'Msaliti' saga had dominated national politics and Michael Jackson's 'Thriller' had stormed the airwaves with the hurricane force of Katrina.

It was late November and school was out. My cousins and I had gone to Hospital Hill Primary School one Thursday evening to attend one of the year's highlights - the annual barbecue.

As the sun went down, I took a quiet stroll to enjoy the early evening breeze and get away from other boys who had found their opposites and were busy exchanging sweet nothings. From the sound system just outside the school hall, 'Kool and the Gang' were urging us in song to 'Get down on it' and to 'Celebrate Good Times'. That was when I spotted her. And the very sight of her just took my breath away.

Her dark smooth skin seemed to radiate warmth against the soft glow of the lone street lamp beneath which she stood speaking quietly to a friend. Her distinct features remain etched in my memory to this day. She had short hair, bushy but well-trimmed eyebrows, and eyes that seemed to sparkle with mystery as she spoke as if inviting her audience to guess what she really meant, which was far deeper than the words that actually escaped from her delicate lips.

She wore a simple grey chiffon blouse that gave the upper part of her body an exquisite floating appearance, and a pleated navy-blue mini-skirt that stopped just above her knees, exposing the finest pair of legs I had ever seen.

I needed to speak to her. No, make that I had to speak to her. My very life seemed to depend on it.

You can therefore imagine my consternation when, upon saying hello and telling her my name, she replied nonchalantly, "I know you."

"But... but... you couldn't possibly..." I stammered, my heart beating like an African drum. I did not know whether it was a good or bad sign that she claimed to know me, or even whether she was mistaking me for someone else.

"You are an acrossian in Sellwood House," she said with the regal authority of Wangu wa Makeri. The fact that she had used the word 'acrossian' in reference to my school confirmed that she was also an acrossian from Alliance Girls, which was across the valley from our school. And the fact that she knew my House, made it clear that she had the right person in mind.

As if on cue, her friend melted into the night leaving just the two of us standing alone silhouetted against the soft glow of the lone street lamp inside Hospital Hill Primary School.

[To be continued...]