This Zikathankalima believes that only willing blokes surrender to the freeway femme fatales.
Some men refuse free rides from women, says Susan Dhliwayo, 19. Poor Dhliwayo was waved off by male hitchhikers she offered to pick.
If only she had met the potbellied Chimimba of ours, she would have gone home smiling. The big man, who touches no booze, does not see a sweet 19 and go to bed without laying his fingers on her skirt.
In fact, he is moving with gondolosi (a sexpetiser) just in case they bump into one of the Zim hunters.
It’s ‘sextinguisshing’ to me—Zikathankalima, the drunken husband of Caroline, the mother of Ulunji—that the sperm collectors compel my kind to have unprotected sex at gunpoint or ‘snake-point’.
Recently, Chimutu and I opted for a minibus when some babes offered to pick us in their bubble-shaped beetle. The ladies were embalmed in saturated perfumes and the make-ups that make the Minister of Lipstick and Lip Service a model of what to avoid.
In the bus, we were sandwiched between a lumpy tummy and bursting behinds in front of two girls.
“Don’t overload us like Noah’s Ark?” shouted a passenger who had built his stomach when others were investing in houses.
“If you hate congestion, start slimming. How do you travel business class when crowds are stranded in bus stops due to fuel crisis?” interjected Chimutu.
I told him to calm down and he apologised generously to the ‘congested party’, only to be interrupted by a greasy conductor.
“Asafuna akagule yake olo apeze taxi (If you value comfort, get a personal car or a taxi),” he said.
The ‘public affairs committee’ criticised him ceaselessly that he was still under fire when Chimutu’s vibrated to the unsettling Wadya Iwe ringtone.
“It’s Chimimba’s new wife,” he said.
“No…no…no…your husband did not sleep at my place,” he responded. “Actually, he left us at the pub around midnight…he beeped me soon after excusing himself but his phone could not be reached when I called back. Zikatha is my witness….”
Chimutu eyes told me not to disclose that Chimimba left with a partner.
He continued: “Is he still at large? This morning, he said he was on a fuel queue…I am not teaching him to drink or cheat…actually, it’s him who taught me to booze…he stopped…..not cheating…
“Sad he claims to be caught up in business talks when he is hanging out….”
I laughed loudly, for the only business Chimimba talks is dating youngsters. I wished Chimutu had the decency to cut the call because he was broadcasting the private side of Chimimba’s misadventures. He didn’t.
“Ahhhh! Divorce is unreligious,” he continued. “He infected you with sexually transmitted what? Please, give contact and dialogue a chance…even failed leaders do. Be loving, open, truthful and faithful with each other. Please, don’t kill yourself. Think about the kid. Do not sacrifice his life because of his father’s….”
Chimutu went on and on. Taking calls in public can be disorderly, but the chattering pair that interrupted him was not amusing.
“Last night, I met a biggie with bucks.â€
“Ha!”
“He went on his knees, begging to drive me to town. We would have avoided this minibus had we waited for him.”
“The same man who paid me K100 two weeks ago?”
All eyes were on the mouthful girls.
“He’s so nice. He will pay rent for me so that Johnny and Bunny share water and electricity bills.â€
Murmurs erupted.
“Lucky you -except the big man is positive. His first wife died last year and his child has incurable lesions.”
“That’s their funeral. My baby is fit.”
I stared at the loudmouth and she was the same bird Chimimba disappeared with. The baby on her lap resembled him starkly.
My neighbour had just been exposed to sexually transmitted infections and stigma for dating loud characters! But is it fair to talk about people’s HIV status in public?
Surely, public transport is no HIV-friendlier than the free rides of Zim lasses.
