‘I’m three weeks pregnant. And keeping it.’

Collins Osanya

That accident that newly married couples think a blessing and fervently pray for, nearly happened to me. 
I choose to while away my hard earned campus moment, perched in my lust scented room, smoking like a chimney, revising my notes on seduction in the company of a curvaceous freshman from Taita, Her toothy smile cooling my broke person as we try not to do those things mother dearest warned me about. 

And while at it, I’ll sleep my bony fingers past her cashew nut coloured thigh hoping it streams not to the point of I singing that Nerea song. This is why.    

I was midway on my third beer when a text sent my phone into a jerking irritating vibration. My coastal pal was lazily slumped in a seat beside me, unsuccessfully fighting intoxication while nodding to the booming beats of Salome. ‘Brathee? Nani huyu hana adabu anakutumia text saa nane za usiku?’ 

I snubbed. Reached for the offensive gadget and tapped the message icon. It wasn’t the usual, ‘night darling’ or ‘please answer me dearie’ from my jar of love struck girlfriends. The text was precise. ‘I have done the tests. I’m three weeks pregnant and am keeping it.’ A bout of nausea and anxiety hit me. For a moment, I suffered from mild Ebola symptoms. The waves of intoxication that were leisurely cruising in my system bolted. I sat up and wondered whose number, among the many girls I’ve been sampling, it was.

By now, being a third year print journalism student, I should have mastered the art of composure; that Josef Stalin moment when you just smile and sip neat vodka while Germany and its clowns wage imminent war against you, hurling bombs at Austria, and skinning Jews alive . 

Boy! I hadn’t it. This text was unlike a couple of the same I’d received. It didn’t threaten. Didn’t plead in a subtle way. It just stared at you the way used utensils do when piled up on the sink: confident, truthful, dirty and depressing. A slight whistle sneaked out my parted lips. A selfish wind was blowing my side. Defunct words from my old man woke with a raging sarcastic touch: ‘don’t make a mistake of getting a girl pregnant.  You’ll mess hers and your life.’ 

I took two swigs of my beer and switched off my phone. I had to think. Like Kipchumba Murkomen, I was cornered. I had looted from her NYS and now the evidence was a semester away from being apparent. Open for all. 

My pal was too intoxicated to notice the shouting predicament in my calm demeanour. Images of the pleasant things I’ll have to cede because of this chid slid across the eyes of my mind as videos of news in brief do on TV at nine. My addiction to a rich cigarette brand, my Friday night outs, and my love for triple distilled Scotch whisky (senator keg) not mentioning my costly but pleasing attachment to numerous pretty and demanding ladies in campus would fade or cease as the child curves its path in its daddy’s world. Hell! My life was changing.
I was still deep in thought when a sharp beep from Taurus’s phone kicked me to reality. Slowly, I craned my neck sneaking a peek of its screen. The fellow was softly snoring, a line of saliva streaming down his side of the lip. I tapped the read icon, it read: ‘I have done the tests. Am twelve weeks pregnant and am keeping it.’ Sender; Martha. 

Eureka! No moment had ever been joyful. It all made sense. Taurus’s insistence on buying us a dozen pack of beer, his distorted mental state from morning and the shortage of Martha’s presence in our room. I switched on my phone. Intending to send hell fire in burning words to her. Two new texts of hers thawed me. The last red: ‘ball sio yako. I’m sorry for that text. I hope you are good though.’

Martha and I shared a onetime thingy. A stolen moment in her room – rich and delightful minutes of lust filled lovemaking. I wasn’t the father. My pal, her boyfriend was. I downed my beer in two thirsty motions toasting to the good news. I was an uncle and Godfather!  

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