Mkare
JF-Expert Member
- Dec 21, 2010
- 504
- 78
Hello ladies,
I hope some of you watakuwa wameshaiona hii but naomba nishee nanyi tena. Mie Imenigusa sana kwa kweli.... God forbid but kama itatokea nitaiapply... puuuu...metema mate chini.
Have you ever thought of what you would do if you found your husband/fiancé/boyfriend red-handed cheating on you. Worse still, in your own bedroom? Answer this question to yourself sincerely.
Would you go for that kitchen knife, park your stuff, or hire those thugs that do justice to other men.
You might be surprised at how you react to this......... Read on gals
A weapon called silence By Mildred Ngesa
I felt it the moment I turned the knob. The door was unlocked, but that was not unusual especially because his car was in the parking bay, where it usually sat when he was home. What I felt was a knot forming in the pit of my stomach - the kind of feeling you get when you hear movements in the house when you know you are alone in the small hours of the night.
Every second Friday of the month, I travel to Kampala to collect Fabric for my vitenge business in the city. On this particular Friday, I left home at dusk as usual, heading for the city centre to catch the 8 pm Akamba bus bound for Kampala . We waited for three hours and then it was Announced that the buses had been cancelled due to a technical hitch.
With nothing else to do in town, I went back home. The lights downstairs were on and so was the music. The English Premier League was showing on TV, so why wasn't my husband, a die-hard Arsenal fan, watching the game? Sometimes a woman's instincts can be so sharp that she can smell Last year's perfume on the shirt of her philandering man. My instincts were on edge. Even though there was no actual perfume in the air. In fact, there was nothing really that I could put my finger on. Just this odour of violation that raped my senses like nothing I had ever felt before. Perhaps This feeling is what kept me from calling out to my husband. And it Stayed with me even as I tip-toed upstairs, heading for the master bedroom. Nothing prepares you for anything like this. They had not even bothered To shut the door.
I simply walked in and there they were, my husband and this woman, naked save for my purple flowered bed-sheets partly covering their entwined bodies. It took me a moment to realize the high-pitched cry that cut through the night was coming from me.
The bewildered pair scrambled to cover their nakedness and stared at me blankly. They said nothing. My heart was beating so loud I could almost hear its echo in the Next room. Trust is a fragile emotion. Like glass breaking, it can be Shattered in an instant, never to be wholly recovered again. In that instant, my trust for this man was lost. "Why don't I go downstairs and make you some tea?" Did I just say that? I had just walked in on my husband and another woman, and all I could do was offer them some tea! I slowly made my way back downstairs. In the kitchen, I switched to auto-pilot, fetching a packet of milk from the fridge, lighting the cooker, placing a pan of water on to boil, bending to remove mugs and the flask.. All the while, my mind was abuzz, humming a tune I did not recognize.
This must be how zombies feel. It went on and on, the tune seemed to imply that I ought to be in control, that I ought to keep breathing so that I may Stay sane. The tea was ready and placed on the table. Three bright blue mugs sat neatly on light blue place mats. I waited for the "guests" to come down as I sat motionless, staring sightlessly at the television. They came down - my husband first, dragging his feet like a prisoner counting his final steps to the gallows. He sat on the love seat the two-seater on which he had cuddled and kissed me passionately just the night before. She followed, hesitating for a moment near the same seat before moving to the furthest corner of the room, near the door, a safe distance from me. I began talking as I poured tea into the cups. I rattled on and on about the transport crisis and the difficulties of traveling at a time like this. "Karibuni chai." But instead of reaching for a cup, the woman stood up abruptly and headed for the door.
For a brief moment, our eyes met. She was not young. In fact, she appeared quite mature, maybe even married. I heard the gate open. My husband was still rooted to the spot. "Why don't you see your visitor off?" I prodded gently. He didn't move. I sighed and started talking about the African Cup of Nations Championship and how sad it was that Kenya had lost to Burkina Faso . When he Did not respond, I yawned loudly, said goodnight and went to bed. Sleep evaded me like the mosquitoes that buzz through out the night. My husband did not come to bed with me - he opted for the couch.
By the break of dawn I had painted my mind red with all sorts of possible revenge, thinking of the ultimate pain to inflict on him for the anguish he has caused me. But my heart grew haggard on the prospect of a physical confrontation. I was going to fight this war my own way and at my own pace. Last night marked the beginning of a cold war, not confrontation. I have heard of, and even seen, women go after "the other woman" with a panga. But my reasoning was, this woman was not the only player here. My husband probably seduced her. Other women go so far as to attack their husbands, but then again, I thought: If a man is fed up with me, he will let me know. If he wants to have an affair, that is his business. Strange, I know, but silence was my weapon - and a very vicious weapon it was. As far as I was concerned, that was the end of it. I went about my business as usual and did not say or do anything that would suggest it had actually happened.
Two weeks later, I was waking up and was surprised to find my husband sitting at the foot of the bed, sobbing deeply. "I am sorry... so sorry. Please forgive me, please, just say something, don't shut me out, just say something..." I looked at him calmly, my heart frozen. My face showed feigned surprise and innocence. "What are you talking about? Sorry for what?" He sobbed even louder, sinking to his knees, his head buried in His hands. "Say something... shout, scream, anything, but please don't be silent. It's killing me, please, I'll tell you everything..." I smiled. It was the smile of a woman who has just tricked the devil into getting down on his knees and praying. It was the smile of a woman who had won.
I hope some of you watakuwa wameshaiona hii but naomba nishee nanyi tena. Mie Imenigusa sana kwa kweli.... God forbid but kama itatokea nitaiapply... puuuu...metema mate chini.
Have you ever thought of what you would do if you found your husband/fiancé/boyfriend red-handed cheating on you. Worse still, in your own bedroom? Answer this question to yourself sincerely.
Would you go for that kitchen knife, park your stuff, or hire those thugs that do justice to other men.
You might be surprised at how you react to this......... Read on gals
A weapon called silence By Mildred Ngesa
I felt it the moment I turned the knob. The door was unlocked, but that was not unusual especially because his car was in the parking bay, where it usually sat when he was home. What I felt was a knot forming in the pit of my stomach - the kind of feeling you get when you hear movements in the house when you know you are alone in the small hours of the night.
Every second Friday of the month, I travel to Kampala to collect Fabric for my vitenge business in the city. On this particular Friday, I left home at dusk as usual, heading for the city centre to catch the 8 pm Akamba bus bound for Kampala . We waited for three hours and then it was Announced that the buses had been cancelled due to a technical hitch.
With nothing else to do in town, I went back home. The lights downstairs were on and so was the music. The English Premier League was showing on TV, so why wasn't my husband, a die-hard Arsenal fan, watching the game? Sometimes a woman's instincts can be so sharp that she can smell Last year's perfume on the shirt of her philandering man. My instincts were on edge. Even though there was no actual perfume in the air. In fact, there was nothing really that I could put my finger on. Just this odour of violation that raped my senses like nothing I had ever felt before. Perhaps This feeling is what kept me from calling out to my husband. And it Stayed with me even as I tip-toed upstairs, heading for the master bedroom. Nothing prepares you for anything like this. They had not even bothered To shut the door.
I simply walked in and there they were, my husband and this woman, naked save for my purple flowered bed-sheets partly covering their entwined bodies. It took me a moment to realize the high-pitched cry that cut through the night was coming from me.
The bewildered pair scrambled to cover their nakedness and stared at me blankly. They said nothing. My heart was beating so loud I could almost hear its echo in the Next room. Trust is a fragile emotion. Like glass breaking, it can be Shattered in an instant, never to be wholly recovered again. In that instant, my trust for this man was lost. "Why don't I go downstairs and make you some tea?" Did I just say that? I had just walked in on my husband and another woman, and all I could do was offer them some tea! I slowly made my way back downstairs. In the kitchen, I switched to auto-pilot, fetching a packet of milk from the fridge, lighting the cooker, placing a pan of water on to boil, bending to remove mugs and the flask.. All the while, my mind was abuzz, humming a tune I did not recognize.
This must be how zombies feel. It went on and on, the tune seemed to imply that I ought to be in control, that I ought to keep breathing so that I may Stay sane. The tea was ready and placed on the table. Three bright blue mugs sat neatly on light blue place mats. I waited for the "guests" to come down as I sat motionless, staring sightlessly at the television. They came down - my husband first, dragging his feet like a prisoner counting his final steps to the gallows. He sat on the love seat the two-seater on which he had cuddled and kissed me passionately just the night before. She followed, hesitating for a moment near the same seat before moving to the furthest corner of the room, near the door, a safe distance from me. I began talking as I poured tea into the cups. I rattled on and on about the transport crisis and the difficulties of traveling at a time like this. "Karibuni chai." But instead of reaching for a cup, the woman stood up abruptly and headed for the door.
For a brief moment, our eyes met. She was not young. In fact, she appeared quite mature, maybe even married. I heard the gate open. My husband was still rooted to the spot. "Why don't you see your visitor off?" I prodded gently. He didn't move. I sighed and started talking about the African Cup of Nations Championship and how sad it was that Kenya had lost to Burkina Faso . When he Did not respond, I yawned loudly, said goodnight and went to bed. Sleep evaded me like the mosquitoes that buzz through out the night. My husband did not come to bed with me - he opted for the couch.
By the break of dawn I had painted my mind red with all sorts of possible revenge, thinking of the ultimate pain to inflict on him for the anguish he has caused me. But my heart grew haggard on the prospect of a physical confrontation. I was going to fight this war my own way and at my own pace. Last night marked the beginning of a cold war, not confrontation. I have heard of, and even seen, women go after "the other woman" with a panga. But my reasoning was, this woman was not the only player here. My husband probably seduced her. Other women go so far as to attack their husbands, but then again, I thought: If a man is fed up with me, he will let me know. If he wants to have an affair, that is his business. Strange, I know, but silence was my weapon - and a very vicious weapon it was. As far as I was concerned, that was the end of it. I went about my business as usual and did not say or do anything that would suggest it had actually happened.
Two weeks later, I was waking up and was surprised to find my husband sitting at the foot of the bed, sobbing deeply. "I am sorry... so sorry. Please forgive me, please, just say something, don't shut me out, just say something..." I looked at him calmly, my heart frozen. My face showed feigned surprise and innocence. "What are you talking about? Sorry for what?" He sobbed even louder, sinking to his knees, his head buried in His hands. "Say something... shout, scream, anything, but please don't be silent. It's killing me, please, I'll tell you everything..." I smiled. It was the smile of a woman who has just tricked the devil into getting down on his knees and praying. It was the smile of a woman who had won.
