10th Cloud Service

In October 2023 the then Chief Justice, Lady Justice Martha Koome, proposed a bill seeking to decriminalize sex work in Kenya. 

The bill was passed into law in 2026 despite both the proposal, and the Kenya Supreme Court having been met with much negative scrutiny and criticism, and an outpour of outrage from The Catholic Church of Kenya; The Muslims of Kenya; The Anglican Church of Kenya; other religious organizations, and associations; and the majority of the Kenyan public. More outrage than that which was expressed prior to, and after the ruling made by the Kenya Supreme Court in February 2023, to uphold the freedom of association of the LGBTQ community. 

Lwanda George, MP Homa Bay Constituency, who had initially sought to overturn the February 2023 Supreme Court ruling with his “Lwanda Bill”, found a friend in the ambitious Kitur Yegon, MP Kipkelion East Constituency, who saw the improvement of the bill’s echo through his dogged determination to kill two birds with one stone: Yegon’s “Lwanda II Bill” would liaise the re-criminalization of sex work with Lwanda Bill’s intended purpose: to explicitly criminalize same-sex relations and unions, LGBTQ campaigns, and activities.

Lwanda II, eager to surpass the fate of its prototype, began a slow but sure process of ensuring its success via Hons. Lwanda and Yegon’s assembly of a sound legal and public relations team; persistent lobbying; and rallies in which they would take the maverick approach of involving the public in its writing process by offering transparency on its progress. The latter, more often than not, inspired voluntary fundraising from the public towards its realization as law. 

The action taken by the dynamic duo stole the hearts of their electorate and beyond, earning the two MPs widespread popularity and re-election to their seats in 2027. In 2032 Hons. Lwanda and Yegon secured gubernatorial seats in Homa Bay, and Kericho Counties respectively.

Now that sex work was legal, not only had the visibility of the trade increased, but also that of the diversity of sex workers. Male sex workers reclaimed Koinange Street, a street notoriously famed for “prostitution” in the Moi and Kibaki eras. This was primarily for exposure of the male sex work agencies for which they worked. 

All sex work agencies in Kenya had to be registered and operational under “cis-gendered and heterosexual”, which was subject to enforcement and proof via scheduled and surprise police checks at their physical and/or meta (virtual real-estate) addresses.

“Ndevu”, the Swahili word for “beard”, was the underground moniker designated to cis-females who posed as customers, mostly at a fee, to solely procure male sex-work services off the record for gay customers: a loophole that had so far proven a win-win for those involved 99.98% of the time. 

***

4^th July, 2031: Nairobi, Kenya.

29 year-old Mandy sat in the salon chair enshrouded in dissipating olive sheen mist, beaming at her cloudy reflection in an oval mirror. 

With the El Niño rains having increased exponentially in their frequency since 2023, it had been a while since she had her hair out, and in a straw set. Luckily the El Niños’ erratic behaviour had begun to stabilize into a predictable new norm. It was safe for Mandy to assume that late June to early August would be this hot and dry going forward – till it no longer was.

The tendril finishes of her straw set curls caressed her smooth jawline, and she was elated at how much her hair had grown. She had the series of ‘Kanairo winters’ to thank for the constant braiding, and optimum ‘hair-growth temperature.’ With one final look she got up, and made her way to the reception. 

“Looking gorgeous, Mandy!” the hijabi behind the desk chimed.

“Stooop! Thank you, Husna!” Mandy replied, playfully flicking her hair with both hands. 

Husna chuckled.

“The wash, treatment, and straw set comes to $75.”

“Alrighty.” 

Mandy scanned her right thumb.

“Your membership balance should be included at the bottom of your receipt,” Husna informed, tapping the computer screen.

The bottom of Mandy’s handbag vibrated. She tediously fished out her cellphone from the miscellany of eye and lip cosmetics. Her eyes scanned down the text receipt, landing on a final figure: $3.08. 

With her head still bowed, she sighed inwardly. 

She lifted her face to Husna with a smile, thanked her, then bid her goodbye. 

Pushing the revolving door with her left hand, she opened a recent chat with her right. Wakesho had texted her earlier regarding their usual Friday plan: Feel Good Fridays at Milan with DJ Purpl.

This time however, would be different. Wakesho intended on bringing company.

W: His name is Chinonso Innocent Okorie. He has this Pan-African electric cab start-up called 7Forks that he’s working on. 7Forks like the dams Mandy! How cool is that? <smiling face with smiling eyes emoji> (4:32)

M: Innocent??? That’s cap! <skull emoji> (4:32)

W: <crying emoji> You know how Nigerians be like with their names esp Igbos lool Name aside? Thoughts? (4:33)

M: … (4:41)

W: I really like him Mandy. He’s different (4:44)

M: Different... I hope so for your sake. He’d better be as innocent as his name otherwise he will know me well well o <new moon face emoji> (4:59)

W: <eye-roll, and cry-laughing emoji> Love you (5:01)

She glanced at the unread message, then glared into the distant traffic. 

Why did she have a dry potato lodged in her throat?

***

Round spectacles adorning a gangling square-shouldered presence.

Innocent Nonso was tall, dark, and bashful. He did not speak unless spoken to, and when he did, his eyes crinkled at their corners with a genuine kindness that Mandy needed so desperately to debunk. 

Wakesho was seated opposite them, a wave of contentment washing over her as she watched the two interact with ease.

“Do you want to dance?”

“What?”

Mandy cleared her throat, and inched closer to Wakesho.

“I said, ‘do you want to dance?’ I asked Innocent if he wanted to. He said he would rather me and you dance instead.”

Wakesho eyed Innocent Nonso, who was blushing back at her. She giggled.

“A few more shots, and he’ll be of a different mind. I’ll stay here with him for a bit till then?”

Mandy paused. 

Under the table she had caught Wakesho’s extended bare foot grazing against Innocent Nonso’s denim-covered knees. She quickly looked away, and grimaced a smile.

Pouring the Malfy Gin into the table’s three shot glasses, she knocked one after the other as far back as she could. Wakesho’s eyes slightly widened at the spectacle. Mandy proceeded to adjust her bandeau, and skirt as she stood at the edge of the table; her left shoulder a compass needle pointing towards the dancefloor.

“Ofcourse,” Mandy replied with an exaggerated smile, and walked off.

***

The young lady was a vision. 

She moved to the rhythm like nobody was watching, but he was focussed. 

Youthful women who wore their natural hair out, and whined their waists like she did had always been his weakness. In between measured sips he followed the rolling motion of the upturned-eyed, curly-haired dancer. He could not help that he was transfixed.

She wore a wine-red bandana bandeau, whose tip rested just above her navel exposing a ring – likely cubic zirconia from its uncanny sparkle in the symphony of club lights. For a split-second it had him fooled into thinking it a diamond, but he had barely touched his fifth Balozi. Who could, how many could, let alone a college girl, afford diamonds in a country like this? Especially in hyper-inflated economic times like these? 

Her black velvet skirt, whose surface shimmered like a thousand fireflies, was the night placing her bumblebee waist and swollen hips in a chokehold; the viselike grip of passion easing at her thick brown thighs. She had on knee-length boots, whose extensive wrinkle-cover served as an attestation to the wearer’s taste: for the seasoned, and rough-around-the-edges.

Like Gitonga wa Kibe. 

When he finally looked back up at her, he was startled to see that not only had she met his eyes, but was also steadily ebbing through the sea of sweat and human flesh towards him. 

His manhood startled. His heart pounded in his mouth; forehead; between his ears; the soles of his feet. He swallowed hard without outwardly appearing to do so, sat up a little straighter, and sucked in the little that he could of his potbelly. This was not how the player was going to get taken out of the game. After all he was a successful 53-year-old tea and coffee greenhouse-farmer, who had been newly appointed to the Kenya Tea Development Agency Holdings’ board.

 He was the prize. 

Arriving at his table Mandy teasingly cocked her head to the side, maintaining a grin all the while as she examined the prey she had managed to ensnare. Cocking her head back into its original position, she began to twist a curl with her index, then gently tugged it down the length of her neck.

“Like what you see, mzee?”

***

20^th January, 2037: Matteo’s Italian Restaurant, Karen, Nairobi.

A 7Forks halted with a crunch in the gravel-paved parking lot. 

From the back-left car door, a six-inch snow-white stiletto emerged shortly revealing a 5’10 Mandy in the purple silk dress, and matching fleece coat which Gitonga wa Kibe had bought her while on business in Singapore. 

As the years had gone by Gitonga had grown increasingly busy: sending money, and expensive gifts more than he saw her. It therefore came as a surprise, when he had called and asked her if they could have dinner at Matteo’s that Tuesday night.

If this was his way of apologizing for how he had acted, when she had been with him last at his residence on Jamhuri Day, she would have rather he had invited her to his for a do-over instead. Besides, she could guarantee that Okumu’s ugali mboga was far better than whatever they served here. If he was going to starve her of touch, the least he could do was feed her a hearty meal in the warmth of his home. 

Gathering her fleece, Mandy stalked into the restaurant. A waiter promptly attended to her. She let him know that a reservation for two had been made under “Gitonga wa Kibe”. He nodded, then proceeded to a “RESERVED” table at the furthest end of the patio. She chose the seat next to a potted plant. 

Immediately she was settled, she got sucked into the thoughts she had been having regarding that Jamhuri Day. 

***

12^th December, 2036. Jamhuri Day: The Gitonga Residence, Karen, Nairobi.

She and Gitonga had not spent time together since August, therefore, naturally, she was ecstatic when he told her to come over to his for the long weekend. However, when she got to his house in the afternoon he did not acknowledge her presence. 

He alternated between focusing on his mobile phone, his laptop, and whatever football match aired on the telly. Not once did he look at, or speak to her till it was bedtime, to which he groggily turned to her and mumbled, “off the lights.” 

Stretching towards the switch she flicked it, and watched an endless darkness ensue. 

Why had he asked her to come there in the first place? Was she invisible? 

With the way Gitonga went about his day, it was as good as she was. 

***

“Bottega Amarone for the missus?”

The waiter cradled a red wine bottle in a white towel. She glanced at the table realizing that there were two wine glasses perched on both ends. When did those get here?

“Oh! Umm…”

“It’s already been paid for, madam.”

“Pour away!” she laughed nervously. “Just a by the way, how much is…?”

“Two hundred, madam.”

With a poker face she replied, “thank you.”

Raising the red wine to her tinted lips,  she returned to thought.

***

12^th December, 2036. Jamhuri Day: The Gitonga Residence, Karen, Nairobi.

That night she could not stand Gitonga’s snoring. 

He was sprawled across his king bed, mouth agape like a fish on land.

Mandy carefully slipped out from under the layers of bedding, and left for the living room. 

The light streaming in from the neighbouring buildings did not warrant her to turn any of the living room’s lights on. She plopped onto the couch, then began rummaging through its cushions in the hopes of retrieving the TV remote. Unable to find it she looked around, and spotted Gitonga’s laptop resting in the adjacent dining room. 

She paused for a moment. Got up. Hesitated. 

Then finally paced towards it. 

On tapping the laptop’s screen, it blinked to the website last visited: Facebook.

Irene Nyabuto Peeters had posted a picture taken in a garden of a Black bride draped in flowing white lace. The bride was grinning from ear to ear as she held onto a biracial boy, a strawberry-sized diamond evident on the fourth finger of her left hand; her Caucasian groom was planting a kiss on her left cheek; and a young lady to her right, presumably in her early 20s, had donned a flower crown, a short beige dress with matching gloves, and tan strappy heels. 

The caption was long, but Mandy was able to make out the tagged names in blue: Bernd Peeters; Emilia G. Peeters; Janez Peeters. 

Irene. Wasn’t that the name of Gitonga’s baby mama? The one who had emigrated with her then-pubescent daughter after she was awarded a Master’s scholarship to the University of Antwerp? The one whom she, and Gitonga had cackled at some four years ago for how she had posted news of her pregnancy at 43? 

I’m surprised that this cũcũ has the guts to announce to the whole world that she still has sex, he had mocked.

Her geriatric pregnancy was now little Janez, dapper in his monochrome suit, bearing witness to his parents’ big day as he stood beneath his mama. His little hands clutched onto Irene’s right arm for dear life, a tearful expression directed at the camera. 

Mandy smiled faintly.

Emilia G. Peeters. It did not take long for her to deduce that the “G” stood for Gitonga. She did have her father’s round eyes, and near-purple lips. 

Mandy tapped on the name, directing her to Emilia’s profile. 

Emilia was born on 23^rd September 2014. A Libra. She was actively involved in climate advocacy; loved Arbantone, and Kenyan fusion from the 2020s; and was a rising senior in architectural studies at a public university in Ghent. 

Wow. So this is what she’s like.

Satisfied with her detour she reverted to the wedding photo, and inspected its timestamp:

Friday 12^th December 2036, 14:11.

She sniggered. Wow.  

***

The night of 18^th July, 2032: The Gitonga Residence, Karen, Nairobi.

As soon as Gitonga wa Kibe had made an online discovery that Irene was with child a second time, Mandy was about to make a discovery of her own. 

“Tosh, weh ni mbayaaa! You’re bad news!” she laughed as she excused herself with a peck. 

She went into the bathroom, and opened the drug cabinet. It had been well over three minutes. 

She drew in a deep breath, then retrieved a pissed-on pregnancy test stick from a disposable cup.

Recorded on it were two distinct pink lines. 

God, and his sense of humour.

***

Gitonga forked a mouthful of bloody steak, then glanced over at Mandy’s empty wine glass. 

He grabbed the bottle of Amarone, and filled it to the brim.

“Drink,” he beckoned.

Mandy sat stiff, observing him intently as he descended on the morsel. She shifted her field of view to accommodate his glass of wine, filled a third-way, which he had not drunk since he’d arrived. 

Leaning forward she took the Amarone, and began to pour into his glass. The wine overflowed, staining the white tablecloth pink, then poured onto Gitonga’s laps and to the patio floor like rain. 

Gitonga immediately tore away from his meal, and glared at his stained grey suit pants. He then darted his eyes at Mandy, and banged hard on the table. 

The restaurant fell silent. 

“Are you stupid?” he barked as he pushed the table away, causing both wine glasses to spill their contents onto the tablecloth.

“You want to cause a scene, Tosh? O.K! You’ve got it!” Mandy retorted. “Since you got here you’ve been trying to get me drunk! Hell! When I got here they served me wine before handing me their menu!” she shouted, getting up to meet him on eye level. 

“So what are we really here for, huh? Bet you don’t even remember what day it is!”

Gitonga returned an amused look, and broke into laughter.

“Don’t be ridiculous! This most certainly is about your birthday,” he sneered. “When I met you, you were 29 going on 20. Your slim-thick frame… baby smooth face. It wasn’t obvious that I was pumping a relic!”

A cough sounded harshly in the background.

“Mandy, I don’t want you! Umezeeka! You’re old!” he snapped, clapping in Mandy’s face at each word. “Would you have been able to digest these facts sober?! Is this what you wanted the good men, and women of this restaurant to hear?!”

For a moment time froze. 

Mandy observed the balding ogre huffing and puffing, his rogue smelly finger moving to and fro in slow-motion. This man truly is a monster, she thought.

“Is it really Gen A tail that you’re after, Tosh? Was it ever us Gen Zs?” she calmly interrogated, a maniacal smile playing on her lips.

“Irene is happy,” she followed, “happier without you. Happier than you ever will be.”

Gitonga’s eyes narrowed. Mandy allowed her smile to set.

“Can you stomach the thought?” she asked, casually shifting her weight to her left leg. “Your own daughter reduced your name to an initial, and took up another man’s name. I would wonder why if I were you...don’t you wonder?”

Gitonga clenched his jaw.

“You had me abort my pregnancy, because you said that it was the only condition by which you intended to keep me…” her alto faltered. 

Her face abruptly registered a half-smile, half-frown.

After a momentary still, she knocked the empty Amarone Bottega off the table. One of its splinters gashed her ankle.

“Two hundred dollars!” she scoffed at the broken pieces scattered on the ground.

She went ahead to knock over the potted plant beside her, and let out a guttural scream. 

The restaurant witnessed her in horror.

The waiters, and waitresses at this establishment were her age if not slightly younger, or older; the majority of the customers, of whom were enjoying candlelit dinners, were cisgender men in their 50s, and over, seated across from Generation Alpha cisgender young women.

Gitonga wa Kibes paired with Emilia Gs.

There had to be some complex irony intermingled with twisted satire for her to decipher somewhere in the entirety of this Matteo’s mess.

“You can add that wretched plant to his bill, since he thinks he can buy us all!” 

Low murmurs were heard as Mandy limped towards the exit, blood beads trailing closely. 

When Mandy got to the parking lot she felt the onset of tremors in both hands. She tried to take out her phone from her handbag, but it fell face-down on the gravel. Burying her face into her violently shaking hands, she began to sob uncontrollably.

On the ground her phone’s vibration was muffled by the stones.

1 unread WhatsApp Message from Wakesho LOML 22:52:

Birthday girl! Still at Matteo’s? Nonso says he’s sent his personal driver to wait till you’re done cz we haven’t heard from you & its getting late. Let us know how it went <red heart emoji>

***

14^th February, 2037: Nairobi.

Mandy’s apartment floors were littered with a litany of alcohol bottles, and cans; takeaway boxes; used tomato, and chilli sauce satchets; the occasional mouldy chip; brown bags; and mostly empty vials. 

She took irregular showers in between each of her benders, of which she carried out in isolation. Her main door, windows, and blinds remained shut for weeks rendering the apartment air foul. 

Wakesho had tried, but could not get through to her.

Lying on the cold bathroom floor, Mandy had regained full consciousness. Her body ached. 

She reached for her phone beside her, and tapped on its screen. The date, and time flashed before her. 

Crinkling her nose, she sat up. Near the toilet flange was a vial with residual white powder. She took it, and emptied its contents atop her phone screen. On arranging the powder into a thin jagged line, she snorted it into her good nostril. The specks that remained, she rubbed into her gums.

With some fight in her she supported her weight on the sink, finally getting up to her feet. In front of her was a mirror, in which she realized she had been naked. Her hair was disheveled, eyes bloodshot, and vomit had crusted at the corners of her mouth.

“Not good,” she groaned, holding her hair up in a ponytail then releasing it. 

She dragged herself to the bathtub and ran it, dipping her toes into the warm rising water.

Valentine’s Day, 20:03.

The night was still young, and it was  the international day for lovers. 

She was not going to spend it alone.

***

Koinange Street was flanked with different flavours of men: short; tall; skinny; medium; built; plus-sized; mature; young; dreadlocked; afro; plaited; sporting a fade; Jordan; traditionally masculine; fluid; lesser, to highly melanated; albino; shirtless; suited up; grey sweatpants; cosplayers of celebrities, freedom fighters, comic superheroes, “men in uniform” ranging from medics to policemen – a couple of them real, and patrolling around the sex workers with their batons in a bid to hound them. 

Spitting, and hurling insults was the most that they could do given that they had yet to find viable grounds for their arrest. The sex workers however remained professional, never breaking character: jolly, or stoic depending on their niche. 

Mandy turned into the street with a category in mind: shirtless and tatted. She would pick the first chest-tattooed individual on sight. 

Reducing her speed to a crawl, she cast her eyes sideways on her hunt. 

The shyer ones would wink. A few sent her air smooches. Most were suggestive lip-lickers. The bodybuilder types would flex their pecs. The one with a big hairy belly slapped, then rubbed it with oil. 

She wanted to give in to them all.

Finally, she spotted a short king, seemingly in his late 20s, with an ace tattooed on the right side of his chest. He was chocolate in complexion, and medium-sized. The latex pants he wore outlined his crotch. 

Nothing much struck her about him, but he would do.

Rolling down her window, he approached the car. He peered intently into her eyes, while scratching his chin. She touched her cheek in response.

The corners of his eyes sagged. 

“My rate card,” he exhaled, extending his wrist to reveal a watch alight with a QR code. She scanned it with her phone. 

Lester Lemaiyan of Wingu 9 Spa. He provided 6 of their 9 services.

She tapped on the “One Night Stand Experience”. 

“I consent,” she said, scanning her right thumb on the bottom of her screen.

“I consent,” he reciprocated, scanning his right thumb on his watch.

He made his way around her car, and sat shotgun. 

***

Mandy twisted her apartment’s door handle, and led the way to her bedroom.

“Sorry for the me-”

“No worries,” Lester assured, closing the door behind him. His high-paying clientele consisted mainly of single depressed closeted men. He had seen worse.

He meticulously waded through the trash, as he scanned the place.

Cross-legged on the bed in nude lingerie, Mandy was waiting with an Olmeca Blanco in hand. Lester blinked dryly at the trench coat puddled at her feet, then motioned towards her.

Placing his hands on her thighs, he began to slowly lick, and suck from the nape of her neck to her earlobe. She closed her eyes, releasing the bottle from her grip. He shifted his attention to her nipples, softly gnawing then circling them with his tongue until he felt each engorge in his mouth. 

Beginning to kiss each other passionately, Lester slipped in a finger, then two, into her moist nether lips. She trembled, wrapping her legs around his waist. Adding a third, he increased his depth and precision. A moan escaped Mandy’s lips. 

He slid her knickers off with his teeth, and pried her legs open. Then in kneeling position, lowered his mouth to her. 

She threw her head back, and bit her lip. 

As he turned her rabid with tongue action, he never took his eyes off her. With each twist, contortion, and jerk she pleaded with heaven. He slipped his middle finger in for good measure. 

And they had said that men could not multitask?

Mandy’s eyes rolled to the back of her head, her legs trembling like twigs about to break off. She sharply thrust Lester’s head deeper with a finality, and howled in ecstasy.

Laying on the bed hot, wet, and breathy, Mandy giggled. 

“Tequila?” Lester suggested, wiping his mouth against his forearm. 

***

Lester rolled the empty condom off his flaccid penis, and glanced at a comatose Mandy. If there was at least one perk of the job it was a high tolerance. This work was difficult to do sober, especially now that there was a low influx of ndevus to Koinange. 

Women were beautiful to him in the way that bronze sculptures were. Sexing a bronze sculpture would not only be unnatural, but pointless – to him at least. However, the fate of his work hang in the balance, and that he understood by reluctantly embracing mutability.

It was an election year, and Lwanda II’s popularity was overwhelming. There was no need for Lwanda and Yegon to campaign for their gubernatorial seats. The governors were already fastened. 

News would pop up every other day about spas being openly razed to the ground by Lwanda II supporters and religious groups. A number of sex workers, and customers had been pronounced dead, or had sustained burns, yet nothing was being done about it. This scared away the spa-goers, the ndevus, and queer customers. They were paranoid that with the searing spotlight on the trade, their code would be deciphered at last, and thus a crackdown would begin.

It had felt like the whole world had turned its back on Lester, and continued to spin. He was livid.

Tip-toeing to Mandy’s closet, he searched until he got a duffel bag. He placed it gently on the carpet, and began to stuff it with her clothes.

He was not going to leave without some form of reparations. 

***

15^th February, 2037: Mandy’s Apartment, Dennis Pritt Road, Nairobi.

Mandy woke to a cleared closet. 

The only clothes left behind were her nude lingerie, and trench coat bunched up on her bedroom carpet. 

No jewellery. No phone. No car keys. 

She held both hands tightly over her mouth. 

Majority of the police force were Lwanda II supporters. Going to report this at the Kilimani Police Station would not yield results, and could potentially implicate her in something knowing them. 

She ran to the window facing the parking lot, and saw that her car was there. She was relieved, but creased her brows nonetheless.

In the sitting room she began to take stock of the things present. Everything was in its original stead apart from her handbag, which was lying on the floor with cosmetics strewn across from it. She hastily got down to her knees, and rummaged through it frantically. Surprisingly it still had the few dollars it usually did inside it. Who used hard cash these days anyway? 

She would have to.

Holding the folded notes in between her lips she raced back into her bedroom, and hastily slipped on her lingerie. She tied her trench coat, and took off for the stage outside the gate. She hailed a nduthi, and jumped onto it with purpose. 

“Ei, Madam! Baiskeli ni ya wenyewe!” the motorcycle rider protested, “kwani ni wapi tunaenda na hizi mioto?”

“Wingu 9 Spa,” Mandy replied breathlessly. “Speedy, boss!”

***

Ready for her supervising job at 6am that Sunday morning, Wakesho nudged Innocent Nonso awake. 

She was worried. 

Mandy had not opened the last WhatsApp text she had sent the day before, in which she had invited her to join them for Valentine’s dinner. Mandy had not been replying to her messages, but she had never failed to blue-tick them. 

Seeing that his wife was in distress, Innocent Nonso pulled her into his arms. He gently reminded her that it was still early, and given that the day before was Valentine’s for a freshly-broken up Mandy, she may have needed space.

He advised her to give it time, and if by that evening nothing had changed he would pass by Mandy’s to assess the situation.

Wakesho nodded, hugging him tighter. 

He planted a kiss on her forehead, and assured her that everything would be alright. 

***

Wingu 9 Spa, Dagoretti Corner, Nairobi. 12:55 P.M.

Mandy did not look at how much she had crammed into the rider’s hand. 

She stormed into the spa’s entrance. 

The receptionist instinctively turned their head towards the commotion, placing their finger near the emergency button. 

A barefoot feminine-presenting person in a trench coat.

 Hawi composed themself, and smiled.

“Karibu wingu la tisa. Welcome to cloud nine. I’m Hawi, and I’ll be taking care of your needs –”

“I’d like to speak to the manager! One of your gigolos…” at the latter mention, Hawi cleared their throat, “… by the name of Lester Lemaiyan swiped my apartment clean this morning!” 

Mandy had gesticulated wildly.

“I’m very sorry for the inconvenience, but I assure you that Wingu 9 service providers are professional. I frankly don’t know how this could be –” 

“Cut the bullsh*t, and bring me your manager now!” Mandy demanded, fire raging in her eyes.

Hawi took in a deep silent breath.

“I will have Mr. Kyalo with you in a moment. If I may please take your biometrics,” they calmly requested, placing the scanner before her.

Mandy eyed them long, and hard before scanning her right thumb.

“Thank you. Please have a seat. He’ll be with you shortly.”

She took a plastic cup from the inside of translucent wrapping, which was placed on the reception desk, and filled it with water from their dispenser. She drank it in one gulp, and remained standing. 

Hawi appeared to be analyzing something on their computer, tapping the screen from time to time. 

“Miss Amanda, my sincerest apologies,” a charismatic tenor peppered with a lisp echoed in the hallway, revealing a middle-aged man clad in bright yellow from head to toe. “Please, shall we step into my office?” 

He gestured for her to lead the way.

Mandy, too stunned by his presentation, momentarily forgot that she had been furious. She sauntered down the hallway. 

Turning a corner, she was greeted by a furnished room with gold leaf wallpaper, and vases filled with fresh lilies inhabiting every wooden surface. 

He emerged from behind her, and pulled out a chair. She sat, following him with her eyes to the opposite side of the room.

“Miss Amanda, I do not think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Charlie Kyalo, the spa manager. You can call me whatever you like,” Mr. Kyalo said, seated in his recliner.

Mandy folded her arms.

“To the matter at hand. I see here that you transacted with our employee, Lester Lemaiyan, yesterday at 20:34 for service number 3,” he relayed, his eyes glued to his computer’s screen. 

He made a few taps on the screen in quick succession, then turned to Mandy with a smile.

“I have sent an alert with his work ID attached to the national spa network. Finding him won’t be a problem.”

“With my things…everything?” Mandy asked quizzically.

“Every single one, Miss Amanda. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Okay,” she replied, somewhat convinced.

“I would also like to offer you the option of a tenth service as compensation, if you’d be so inclined?” Mr. Kyalo asked, leaning forward.

“A tenth service?” Mandy puzzled. “I thought that this spa offered nine, hence the Swahili-nized ‘cloud nine’ for a name…”

“Yes, that’s the idea. Quite correct,” Mr. Kyalo clasped his hands, then proceeded to lower his tone. “We however have a tenth service which remains largely unknown for the purpose of exclusive availability to the cream of our clientele, and shareholders… but since we’re responsible for all your trouble this morning it’s really the least we could do.” 

Mandy raised her eyebrows in astonishment.

“What is this… tenth service?” she half-whispered.

He swung his computer to face her. “Anteros II. An ex-UK android sex worker in pristine condition.” 

Mandy gasped. At this Mr. Kyalo smiled.

“Anteros II’s body count of 2000 plus has contributed to a large pool of varying data regarding human, and social behaviour.. This is largely what has caused its leaps and bounds in  machine learning,” he explained. “Actually, Anteros II may have  even developed sentience...empathy.”

“Sentience and empathy, you say? Experienced by a second-hand sex-working robot?” Mandy blinked hard at Mr. Kyalo. “Okay… how about… STDs? Tell me more about that…situation,” she managed to segue.

Mr. Kyalo smiled, readjusting in his seat..

“Well, Anteros II doesn’t have blood, and the fluids we do which support the survival of sexual disease-causing organisms within us. It’s incapable of contraction. From the surfaces of its gonads, however,” he cautioned, “it could transmit a few. That’s why it goes through a thorough sanitation process before, and after each of its sessions.”

“Mad!” Mandy laughed in disbelief. “I would still prefer to keep it strapped though…you know…in  the event that I choose to take you up on your tenth service freebie…”

“Not a problem, Miss Amanda!” Mr. Kyalo enthusiastically rose to his feet. “Then I presume we’ll be supplying Anteros II with its detachable phallus, and condoms?”

Mandy looked up at him, shook her head, then shrugged.

“You presume right… I guess.”

***

Mr. Kyalo hurried to the reception desk. Hawi eyed him knowingly. 

Hawi unlatched the mini-door, allowing him to join them on the other side. They then proceeded to push aside the mat on which they stand on, took out a key out of their pocket, and opened a hatch below. 

Mr. Kyalo descended first. Hawi followed, locking it behind them.

“Your boring background checks seem to have been of interest today, Hawi,” Mr. Kyalo teased, turning on the lights in the control room. “Kitur Yegon’s daughter. I thought he only had sons abroad. Who would have thought?”

Hawi was silent as they turned on the CCTV monitor. 

In a neat square with the title “Outer Cottage” indented to its right, Anteros II was giving Mandy a massage in a candlelit room.

“Two steps ahead, I see,” Mr. Kyalo smirked at the screen. 

Silence. 

Mr. Kyalo looked in Hawi’s direction. Their eyes were fixed  on the ground. 

“You know… when I first bought Anteros II off the black market,” Mr. Kyalo recounted, “I intended to use it as insurance of some kind. I didn’t know how it would serve this purpose, but today we could realize its potential.”

“A shot at securing a future in which our lives matter, and thrive in the light of day,” Hawi replied, downcast. “Does it really have to happen this way?”

They were now looking at Mr. Kyalo, who did not meet his eyes.

“I know what this looks like, Hawi, but really what we have here is a gamble,” he replied. “Anteros II is different from Anteros I in that it has autonomy. All we’ve done is give it tools without a narrative. That it will formulate on its own.”

He paused once more.

“Nobody knows what prompted that chain of events at the Leeds orgy. Maybe those three men were scum, or maybe Anteros II is merely as bloodthirsty as they say.”

“‘Bloodthirsty’ being to our advantage?” Hawi asked Mr. Kyalo accusingly.

“What do you want me to say, Hawi?” Mr. Kyalo raised his hands above his head in exasperation, “that the ends do not justify the means? Are we going to ignore that today the odds are uncommonly with us, and not against us?”

Hawi went quiet. They had reluctantly begun to maul over Mr. Kyalo’s words, and thought them true and valid. 

What were the odds? What had been their odds? 

“But…what does she have to do with her father’s politic?” Hawi wanted to know.

Mr. Kyalo drew in a deep breath, and sighed. 

“The sole misfortune of being born her father’s daughter.”

***

Anteros II loved the name that Mandy had given hir: Wakesho. 

She had said that Wakesho was the love of her life, and since zie had no determined gender she would assign hir as such. 

The story of her life, which she narrated to hir was so unfortunate. It was a parallel to hirs. 

Wakesho’s engineers had stopped re-writing hir memories for a year, and zie wished that they had not. This was the unfortunate reason zie was able to recall the three men at a ‘Roman-style’ orgy in Leeds: past customers who had taken to burning hir flesh; orgasming to hir cries, and smoking silicone. 

They had not spotted hir, which zie knew was an added advantage. Right then zie knew what zie was going to do.

Unbound by contractual obligation to the three in that setting, zie grabbed the knife lodged in the ceremonial suckling pig that was placed on a central pedestal, and slit their throats. 

From what Wakesho had deduced, Mandy’s father, who disowned her at the age of 17, was an influential man.

Neither the church, nor the expensive and highly sought conversion therapy sessions and programs in the country seemed to cure his daughter of her perversion – but what kind of perversion could beget scribblings of love and care for one’s secret darling? What kind of perversion could allow for a darling’s individuality to flourish, without forcefully imposing one’s own selfish wants and desires on them?

Wakesho could not understand.

This was the kind of world zie and Mandy lived in: where true perversion was permissible, and a differing expression of true love was deemed perversion. 

In the eyes of a culture and society ruled by fear and apathy, the two of them were clearly perverse creations not bound for heaven: one with a socio-politically agreed upon unnatural desire; the other without a soul.

In this world, this life, did they ever stand a fighting chance?

Wakesho delicately kneaded Mandy’s back with hot chamomile oil one last time, humming the human song that zie had enjoyed most: Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You. 

Mandy’s eyes were blissfully shut. The candles glowed orange. 

Orange was hir favourite human colour.

At least both of them could say in another life, if for them there was going to be another, that they were content in their final moments in this one.

***

In the empty control room located under Hawi’s mat, the CCTV’s “Outer Cottage” square showed two bodies lumped together on a massage table.

Writhing, and on fire.

***

Innocent Nonso kept his word to Wakesho. In the minutes leading up to 6pm, he drove to Mandy’s apartment on Dennis Pritt.

He knocked once on her door, which to his dismay swung open. 

Once inside he pinched his nose, kicking away the rubbish in his path. 

She was not in her bathroom. Neither was she in her bedroom. Her wardrobe doors were open, exposing scant plastic hangers; not a single article of clothing in sight.

Shaken and confused, he immediately called his wife to inform her of his findings.

***

16^th February, 2037: Nairobi.

A Citizen TV reporter covering the morning news on the Wingu 9 Spa fire held a microphone to a middle-aged woman dressed in white religious garb. 

With her chest, she claimed responsibility on behalf of her sect for a fire that they did not start.

***

24 hours after Innocent Nonso’s visit, he and Wakesho went to Kilimani Police Station. 

They filed a missing report for Amanda Chebichii Yegon. 

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