Tomorrow, I turn a year older. In the days, weeks and months leading up to this, I’ve gone through a whole lot of pain. From time to time, I suffer crippling anxiety when I’m triggered by things that have hurt me in the course of my life. So today, I decided to write my pain. Use my blog, share my story. I neither want nor need your sympathy; I want the world to understand that there are far too many stories of violence against women. And this is mine.

I’m strong. I’ve always been the strong one of my parents’ children. Always holding everyone up and everything together, at the expense of my own growth and healing. Then when I thought I could finally heal, I had a baby. So I had to keep being strong for him too – no one was going to do that for him. For us. So I trudged on. Be strong, they said. And strong I was.

Today, I’m not strong. I’m broken. I’m tired. I hurt. All the women in me are crying tears of blood from their eyes and between their legs. Because it seems the two most valued possessions of women are their tears and their vaginas. A sacred symbol of femininity. When I was a child, my mother taught me to protect my femininity; to hide it. Sit properly. Not to walk alone at night. Cover up. Smile. Be docile.

I did that. Diligently. Until I turned 9, and none of it mattered anymore. It happened at home, on the day Princess Diana’s funeral was televised globally. He found me crying. He offered me comfort. Then he touched me… there. Removed my panties and placed his penis on my young vagina, and rubbed himself on me until he ejaculated. On me. The first time a man ever ejaculated on me, I was a fucking 9 year old. He asked me if I liked it. What the fuck? He told me not to tell, it would be our little secret game. Then he told me to go get cleaned up and wash off my soiled panties. This continued for a year, until my father sent him back to the village.

Ten. Finally free, I thought. But it was just a break. My father replaced the first nephew with another one. This one preferred that secret game while lying on top of me and jabbing fruitlessly at my vagina. It hurt. He smelled awful. And he made me touch his penis. But he would jab and jab and jab until that sticky white stuff came out of him. And on many nights, I would cry. I didn’t understand. Why can’t I tell Mom about this game? Why does it have to be so painful and shameful? No answers were forthcoming. He left for the village a year later, and we left with him.

Eleven. Is this my break at last? No, child. There’s one more predator waiting for you. Waiting to abuse your young body. No longer innocent, because at 11 I had already seen two erect penises and had them violate my body. This third one used his fingers. He tried to push his huge, calloused fingers inside me, while I slept in my grandmother’s house. It hurt. I cried. He gagged me, and said he would kill me. So I wept silently. My grandmother’s return literally saved me; he took his hand from between my legs and ran out. I got violently sick. Malaria, my grandmother declared. Oh, dear grandmother. If only you knew how wrong you were.

I decided I would never be alone with them. I withdrew into myself. The ebullient little girl I was became moody and got lost in books where men loved women and seemed to never make them hurt the way I did, worlds where children were safe and loved. Then my mother left my father, and I thought that was truly the end. It wasn’t.

Photo courtesy.


He had her naked – save for her black stockings – and kneeling on the carpet, her wrists bound to her thighs in black leather cuffs. He stood over her for a moment, admiring her, admiring his muse, his baby, his goddess. He watched her breath rise and fall with her chest, her nipples standing dark and erect in sharp contrast with her caramel skin in the cool night air as it whispered over her. He watched her lick her lips in anticipation, and wondered what might have been going through her mind. He started to twitch and bulge with anticipation at how he planned to ravish her, heralding a new reign.

“Are you ready?” he asked, in a low, seductive baritone, meant only for her ears.

“Yes I am,” she breathed in response.

Do you remember the safe word, baby?”

Yes I do. Polo.”


He picked the red candle and lit it up. Watching the flame, he slowly circled her and came to a halt in front of her, then slowly knelt till he was eye to eye with her. He ran his fingers over her face, leaned in and kissed her, while carefully tilting the candle over her thigh and letting the hot wax drip on her. She moaned into his mouth, he savored the taste of her pleasure. Another drop of wax made it to her thigh and she moaned again, then he gripped her neck and squeezed gently. Slowly, he let go of her lips and looked right into her eyes, hooded with lust, her lips blushed and warm from his own.

“Lean back a little for me baby. Let me see you,” he said.

She obeyed and leaned back, pushing her chest and breasts towards him. Still kneeling, he hoisted his hand over her shoulder and tilted the candle over her. Hot wax made contact with her caramel skin and at the same time she moaned, threw her head back and bit her lower lip, embracing the sting of hot wax on her skin and his gaze firmly fixed on her face. He let the wax keep dropping on her, from her shoulders, to her chest, to her breasts and finally her nipples, where she yelped as soon as the wax made contact with her distended nipples. Satisfied, he let the wax dry up before putting his mouth on her nipples in turn, nibbling and sucking on them, until they were harder than pebbles.

Alright baby. Show me your back,” he said, and moved over to her back. Bending forward, she felt his hand brush from her neck down her spine to her crack, then felt his palm make contact with her cheek. She gasped with pleasure at the unexpected pain. Before she could even ride the wave of his spank, he dropped more wax on her back and heard her moan while her back muscles flexed and she grabbed onto her own thighs. Oh, that was a beautiful sight; the red wax on her skin while she squirmed. He wanted more. So he blew the candle out and picked the whip up. He stood over her again, caressing her with the tips of the leather whip, then landed the first lash.

Ah!” she moaned and flinched, the pain searing through her skin and into her nervous system, then coursed all the way down to her clitoris. He lashed her again and again, on her back, her buttocks, her thighs and soft belly, pinking her skin and raising her temperature. He did this while circling her and came to a halt in front of her. He pulled his sweatpants, his only item of clothing down, and discarded it. Instinctively, she looked up at him and dropped her eyes to his throbbing dick. Without prompting, she kissed the tip, flicked her tongue over his glans then wrapped her lips around him and took him into her mouth. She started sucking slow, eyes fixed on his face, taking him deeper and deeper as she watched his face change ever so slightly and felt his erection grow bigger in her mouth as she sucked and gagged on him. Fuck, her lips and tongue were bewitching. He held the sides of her face and started fucking her mouth in earnest, and she took him stroke for stroke, until he nearly lost it and flooded her hot, tight throat. That wasn’t how it was going to end for him. No. He wasn’t done.

Suddenly pulling out of her mouth, he looked down at her face then bent over and helped her up. He placed her on the cushion and bent her forward, face down ass up, so he could look at her exposed butt cheeks, asshole and wet, pink pussy. He knelt behind her and tasted her, tasted the pineapples she’d been eating, plunging his tongue deep into her pussy while his fingers rubbed on her clitoris and heard her moan. He then stood up and spanked her some more, and without warning, he plunged balls deep into her and stood still for a moment. She shrieked and folded her fists besides her thighs, letting the sweet sensation of his invasion course through her nerves to her brain. Without pulling out of her, he picked the collar, leaned over her and fastened it to her neck.

Twisting the leash over his fist, he pulled her back until she was perfectly arched.

“Are you okay baby?” he asked, before proceeding.

Uh huh,” she responded, her voice strained.

With his free hand on her butt cheek and his other on the leash, he started moving inside her, feeling her wetness and hearing her raspy breathlessness as he plunged deeper and deeper into her. Comfortable that she was ready, he started smashing relentlessly into her, pounding, choking and fucking her, marking his territory. Her moans were throaty, she felt him stroking her pussy right into her brain, her breath thin. Tears rolled down her face. She was overwhelmed. Her senses were overloaded. Her orgasm came, without warning, and with it her near annihilation while he fucked her into oblivion.

With her last coherent breath, she screamed “POLO!” and her body shattered, shaking violently. He let go of the leash and moved in close, holding her hips, plunging his dick deep into her recesses even as she squirted all over his dick, her pussy vibrating and clenching, with the back of her head on his chest. He moved his hands to her breasts and cupped them, bore down and fucked her even harder, watched her face, watched her eyes roll back and felt her body convulse against his, mouth agape, yet no sound came from it. He knew what she was experiencing. He felt her body constrict against his, then relax, as she collapsed onto him, eyes shut, breathing fast, completely spent. He pulled his still erect dick out of her, covered in her cream and juices, and held her while gently kissing her forehead until her breathing returned to normal. He then uncuffed her gently, took the leash off her neck and carried her limp body to his bed, where he kissed her ever so tenderly yet passionately and made love to her until she quivered, yet again, with her own orgasm and his.


She was fresh from the shower, skin supple and freshly lotioned, in his favorite T-shirt and ready for bed or more Netflix. She looked at the BDSM kit she jokingly carried with her and wondered which one of the toys to use first. He’d been tickling her neck before she went to take a shower, so the feather tickler seemed like the right choice. So, she picked it and took it with her to join him on the sofa.

“If you want to tickle me, this might better serve your purposes,” she teased, and handed him the tickler as she settled in next to his 6″1 frame. He took it and started tickling her neck, going up to her ears and drawing giggles from her. He moved from her neck down her arm, all the way to her exposed thigh from where the hem of his T-shirt caressed her skin. He tickled the side of her thigh, round back to her butt and onto her thigh again. He then turned her over and tickled her thighs up to her FUPA, and over her right thigh and right back and up to her belly button. He wanted to tickle more of her, so he raised her shirt and exposed her breasts, circling the tickler over her nipples and all the way down to her navel and over her FUPA again.

She felt herself getting wet from simply being tickled, her skin coming alive under the gentle caress of the feathers over her skin. Her nipples hardened under the soft glow of the TV light, Netflix long forgotten, her heart rate rising. She craned her neck to kiss him, but he stopped her. Parting her thighs, he tickled her very wet mound, the feathers sticking to her wetness and leaving a trail over her FUPA to her navel. He turned her over to spoon her, chest to chest, then started caressing her bottom. Without warning, he spanked her, the sound of her soft flesh meeting his open palm ringing through his living room as her bottom stung from the sweet assault. She moaned into his neck as he rubbed her cheek, preparing her for more spanking. With each sting on her ass cheek, the wetter her mound got. Picking up the TV remote that was right next to her, he spanked her and she cried out in pain this time, not pleasure.

“No, no, no, not the remote!” she moaned.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Yes! Yes it hurts.”

“Okay. No remote.” he said, and set it down.

“We’re gonna need a safe word at this rate. Red?”


“Polo,” she echoed, loving how it rolled off her tongue and mingled into her ever shortening breath. Before she could finish her thought, he spanked her one last time and had her nearly scream from the sensation. He turned her over once again and picked the tickler up, spread her thighs again and caressed her wetness, then turned it over and slid the thin handle into her very squishy mound. He pulled it out and with his other hand he felt her wetness on the handle, rubbing its texture between his thumb and middle finger. He looked at her while he did this, seemingly pleased, watched her face and said,

“Seems about right.”

He put the tickler down again and reached for her left nipple, rolling it gently between his thumb and index finger, following it up with a gentle squeeze that increased in intensity to a point of near-painful arousal, just at the precipice. She loved it, she got wetter, and arched her back to grant him more access to her body for her pleasure. She moaned “polo” when she felt she was teetering too close to the edge. He eased the torture on her nipple and soothed her with the tickler, and after ascertaining she was ready for more, he repeated the same with her right nipple until she’d had enough. With the same hand he reached down to her now dripping wetness and pushed first one then two fingers inside her, worked them in and out then finally focused on rubbing her engorged clitoris. He felt the pressure building up, her breath coming faster, taking her closer to orgasm, then just before she came, he stopped.

“That’s enough for now,” he whispered, knowing she silently hated and loved him with equal intensity for edging her so unceremoniously. It was time for the grand finale.

“Would you like to squirt?” he asked.

“Yes, please!” she breathed in response.

“Come with me,” he said, getting up off the sofa and holding out his hand to her. He led her to the bathroom, turned the lights on and took his T-shirt and sweatpants off, leaving them in a pile on the bathroom doormat. She took her own T-shirt off, and gently, he turned her over and softly commanded her to bend over. She obeyed, and felt him place a hand over her still ringing ass cheek as he rubbed his glans over her before burying himself deep inside her, making her moan in delight. She was tight, she was warm, she was wet, she was threatening to explode. She knew she wouldn’t last and with each thrust of his hips, she drew closer to her orgasm. He felt it too, and kept pushing until the walls of her dam broke. She came, screaming, so hard, and he stood back to watch her. Like a waterfall, she dripped, making river marks all over her golden thighs as a pool of her squirt grew between her shaking legs. She was brown sugar, melting like gold, and he had the very rare and exclusive privilege of watching her come undone the way she was. What a sight to behold, what an incredible experience, what a wonder.


Emily was freshly massaged, skin glowing from head to toe, right under her white towel. Laying next to her, Anne-Marie drew her close, their lips almost touching, while her hand traveled down south to her pot of gold. Her movements were deliberate; nimble fingers lingering on Emily’s clitoris while their lips drew closer together. Just when she thought her clitoris was about to be given some good good loving, she felt Anne-Marie’s middle finger plunge into her depths just as her lips captured hers. Bliss. Emily dug her fingers through Anne-Marie’s hair, pulling her head closer to her, while Anne-Marie drew Emily even closer to her chest while she inserted two of her fingers into her and thrust. She was moist and warm, inviting, just like her mouth was. She kissed her back with wanton abandon and lustful fervor, her clitoris throbbing mildly in invitation for what could come next. Anne-Marie broke the kiss, briefly. 

“Can we use your vibrator?”

“Yes. What else do you want?”

“Blindfold. Handcuffs.”


Emily got off the bed and presented Anne-Marie with the tools of her oncoming punishment, suspecting she would enjoy it much more than she anticipated, if previous experience was anything to go by. She sat while Anne-Marie blindfolded and cuffed her, then lay her down on her back. Kneeling between Emily’s thighs, she hooked them in her arms and pulled her closer, then leaned in to drop a benign kiss on her parted, anticipating lips, down to her neck, and finally her already erect nipples. Emily wondered what kind of voo doo Anne-Marie had over her; her entire skin felt electrified by her breath and presence, and her touch was something else. There she lay, blindfolded and cuffed, at her mercy, with only anticipated pleasure coursing her consciousness. Anne-Marie took her left nipple in her mouth and sucked, twirling her lips around it before clamping her teeth down on her. Emily moaned and arched her back as if to beckon Anne-Marie to take more, to bite more. She bit harder, then soothed by suction when Em started writhing. Moving to her right while her fingers pinched her heft nipple, Anne-Marie went hard, biting and eliciting a rather loud moan from Em. Hands above her head, Em arched towards and writhed away, cursing repeatedly, sweet pain coursing from her right nipple throughout her nervous system, right down to her clitoris. 

“Red! Red!” 

Em couldn’t contain an over load of pleasure on her freshly massaged body. Anne-Marie let go of her nipple and went down to her clitoris, kissing her way down her belly and finally settling for her meal. She ran her tongue up and down, tasting her clitoris, her wetness and back to her clitoris. She then latched on, taking her clitoris between her lips, sucking gently, while her tongue went to work flicking up and down, left and right, in circles, teasing the soft, sensitive flesh of Em’s clitoris to the point of arousal. And just as she started twitching and quivering, an orgasm beckoning, Anne-Marie ceased pleasuring her, edging her, then kissing her as she moaned and writhed while her clitoris was left hanging over the orgasmic cliff. Fuck. Why though? Why not let her just cum anyway? Why edge her thus?

In that same breath, Anne-Marie powered the vibrator and placed it over Em’s clitoris. And moved it gently, in circles, alternating the vibrator’s intensity. That sudden switch of sensation from tongue to vibrations confused the fuck out of Emily, yet still in an infinitely pleasurable way. Same way Anne-Marie’s tongue moved in Em’s mouth, is the same way she moved the vibrator on her sensitive clitoris. Em moaned into Anne-Marie’s mouth, winding her pelvis to counter her movements. Until her climax hit. She arched her back and moaned, releasing whatever energy she could through her lips as the rest coursed her body like the volcano once swept through the streets of Pompeii. Anne-Marie took advantage and latched her lips onto Em’s clitoris again, tasting her orgasm and preparing her for another, stronger one. Em moaned, and rode Anne-Marie’s face, feeling the vibrator dance dangerously close to her vulva where it had been abandoned, still vibrating, on her sheets. She reached her hands up to cup Em’s breasts and pinch her nipples, while her lips and tongue wreaked havoc on her womanhood. 


Skin covered in arousal, orgasm and tantric sexual energy, Em let herself go wherever Anne-Marie led. Whether it was off the edge of a cliff or out of a plane, 30,000 feet above sea level, she went. That tongue – Lorde, that tongue! She felt her orgasm coming again, this one more intense than the first one of the afternoon, her blood rushing so fast down to her clitoris along with all her nerve endings. Anne-Marie tasted her orgasm on her tongue, the pulse, strength and intensity of it, while Em struggled to find her voice to scream. It seems her voice had traveled down to her clitoris with the rest of her cognitive abilities, because, in the midst of that decadent orgasmic sensation, Anne-Marie kept pleasuring her and groaning on her arousal, her flower dripping the sweet-smelling nectar of female arousal. She let her clitoris go and ran her tongue along the rest of her womanhood, tasting the nectar and the spot right below her clitoris. Em’s body quivered and shook, her breath coming in staccato, her fingers clasped into fists above her head, and head as far back into the pillows as her neck could possibly crane. Anne-Marie kissed her way back to Em’s lips from her belly, removed the blindfold, took the cuffs off her wrists and cradled her in the crook of her arm, holding her until the post orgasmic tremors racking Em’s body subsided and her breathing went back to normal.  



He thought of her, often, her smile and voice creeping into his thoughts every now and then, pleasantly interrupting his daily work routine. Sometimes, he smiled to himself, whenever he thought of something she may have said or done at some point or other that was uniquely her. She intrigued him; her hunger for life, her rare naked moments of vulnerability, her insatiable craving for him and her lust for love. That, as well as her hard exoskeleton in stark contrast to her soft insides; a truth not many were able to see beneath her beautiful. The taste of her lips was still fresh – always fresh – on his own. In a perfect world, he would have done anything and everything he could for her, but theirs was imperfect. So he did what he could for her; from, being a sounding board, a confidant, a friend, the lover and the one who saw her, when everyone else didn’t. And he said what he could say, without freaking her out and without sending her into a tailspin of wild conjecture. But words were her thing, and he knew, so whatever he said to her, he knew she would find meaning in it and either respond by asking questions or by sending her own song to him. 


On one such cold, rainy morning, he thought of her skin. What she might have been doing that very moment; if she was already awake reading, writing, meditating or doing yoga, or if she was getting ready for an early work day. He wondered what color her socks were, what color her bed sheets were. He wondered what shower gel her skin faintly smelled of from her routine scrub-down before bed; was it flowery, fruity or milky? He wondered which moisturizer she used the night before, and what color water bottle she had beside her bed. He wondered what chemise she slept in the night before, and if she fell asleep with her laptop, notebook, spectacles and pink vibrator occupying the empty half of her bed. He wondered if she would wake up to his soft kisses on her skin; on the back of her ear, the side of her neck and her shoulder. If she would stir awake as he caressed her skin, from her shoulder to her elbow, down her silky chemise to her soft thigh. And if, as she woke, she would push her chest forward as his hand made its way up her belly to cup her breast and tweak her nipple under her chemise. If she would moan “Bonjour, Papi” as he bit her neck. She would sigh, undoubtedly, and either place her hand over his as he molded her breast, or reach for the back of his head to keep him in place, as she wriggled her bottom on his groin and felt his morning wood try to bore through the fabric of his boxers and her chemise, to feel the warmth of the diamond nestled at the meeting of her thighs. 

He would trace his fingers back down to her thighs and over her rounded, perky bottom, down to where her thighs met from the back, and dip into her to test how  ready she was for him. Thing is, she was always ready for him; his touch was magic to her. She would be soaking, and he would dip the tip of his middle finger inside her then work up to her clitoris and rub it in circles, alternating the pressure between hard and soft, until he could feel her own orgasmic pressure begin to rise to dangerous levels. He would then turn her over to face him; he wanted to see her first climax of the day on her face and feel it on his fingers. He would then slide his index and middle fingers into her honey pot, deep, and place his thumb on her clitoris, and do what her vibrator did every morning in his absence. He would watch her come undone, through narrowed eyes, voice caught in her throat, head thrown back, eyeballs rolled into her skull, and as she exploded for him, he would slide his fingers out and replace them with his throbbing manhood, sliding deep and kissing her, sending her moans into his own mouth. He wasn’t worried about morning breath; her dental hygiene routine was rigorous and effective. 


Feeling her tremors on his manhood buried deep, he would thrust slow and deep, her thighs wrapped around him, her hands on his face, her lips and tongue submitting to his own. Her thighs would start to quiver, her walls vibrating around him, her already labored breath coming in shorter staccatos, her heart, against his chest, thundering like a racehorse beneath her rib cage. Her legs would clench his waist, to imprison him, and he would oblige her for that one, and he would break the kiss to choke her as she came again, so quickly after the first one. He would watch her again, and feel her flesh give in to him as she crumbled, mind, body and soul, mouthing his name, involuntary tears rolling down the sides of her face. He would let go of her throat, and hold her right thigh up as he thrust hard and deep, still slow, however, until her head hit the headboard and in turn, the headboard hit the wall behind them. He would thrust long and deep, hitting her cervix and making her gasp and moan with each thrust, as he started to groan and will his own climax to come ashore. His rhythm would be relentless, unforgiving yet loving, rubber-stamping his dick print on her walls and leaving no room for doubt. Her third successive climax would be what he was aiming for, feeling her walls clench hard around him and her ejaculate squirting out in jets each time he pulled out. But he would not be pushed out, no. He would keep thrusting as she came all over his belly, thighs, her own thighs, and just as she peaked, he, too, would gush inside her, and as she quivered like a leaf in the wind and moaned beneath him, he would share his essence with her. He would then kiss her gently, softly, as her quivers started to subside with the morning rain, and against her lips, he would whisper. 

“Bonjour, mon petit chat.”



I’ve been on a journey to rediscovering myself, reclaiming myself and consciously choosing myself, my peace of mind and my happiness on a daily basis. Part of this journey included forgiving myself and forgiving others, and also learning to love my body eight years into being a mother, and twenty four years after being involved in a freak accident that left the right side of my belly, my right elbow and right hip scarred for life. In terms of forgiveness, I could write a list of people that would be hundreds of miles long but let’s not get into that. Let’s talk about my body positivity journey. One would look at me and ask themselves; why on earth would anyone as stunning as her not be confident about her body? For the simplest of reasons – I never felt enough. Until, I was reassured, reaffirmed and reminded that I am enough. And my body is enough. Unique in frame, adorned by scars and tattoos, draped in the most glorious skin. Even though I got all this reassurance from many others, I had to reassure myself for it to mean anything. 


This morning, my dear, darling friend Liz sent me a YouTube link to Luvvie’s TED Talk. She opens by saying that she is a professional troublemaker, and this is something I strongly resonate with. By speaking my truth, being unashamed by my past or my choices, most of which make so many people uncomfortable. Like taking tastefully artistic photos and posting them on my social media platforms, for instance. The internet, and specifically the infamous KOT (Kenyans On Twitter), can be a vicious machine. On Monday night, I posted one such photo (see below) and the backlash I got was tremendous. Name-calling (whore, slut, prostitute and the predictable lot), ridiculed and shamed by men and women alike went on for a little over 38 hours. They even dragged my ex-husband into this mess and decided I created a fake account just to prove I was once married! I was even called a “burnt offering” and the clincher is one such idle mind went ahead and posted my pictures on PornHub. As if that wasn’t enough, some nefarious people have been using my photos to further their own dark agendas on Telegram and Craigslist, and sometimes using my e-mail address.


It is usually at this point that a normal human being would break. Delete all social media, sink into depression, contemplate suicide and become a shadow of themselves. Unsurprisingly, I’m still here, and still whole. And I can bet my bottom dollar that that simple act of defiance – not breaking – makes the very same people that are pressed by my unapologetic existence very uncomfortable. Well, get comfortable being uncomfortable, because as far as my legacy is concerned, no human being who interacts with my work will ever be ashamed of their bodies or their appearance. And by sharing some of my photos, this is me making a bold statement and saying to every  man or woman everywhere, that they don’t owe anyone a flat stomach, flawless skin or whatever else society (read cyber trolls) thinks is their standard of acceptable appearance. They don’t hold the monotony on that. Matter of fact, they don’t own the monotony to anything at all! They do, however, need to fix their lives and their attitudes – their self loathing is showing. 


I am definitely not the first woman to be shamed for her self love, body positivity and lack of shame with regards to her sexuality. And I may not be the last. But I choose to yell in a world that demands I speak in whispers. I choose to make trouble and make everyone uncomfortable to a point where they simply can’t remain neutral. I choose to effect change by speaking up, saying it with my chest both online and offline,  and being a domino. By showing the world that the more they spill their negativity my way, the more convinced I am that I am most certainly doing something right. By staying defiant and unburnt (I am, after all, the Khaleesi!) by their acidic words and online actions which they fail miserably and spectacularly to defend in person. By showing them that I have bigger balls than they will ever have, and an even bigger dick. Yes, they’ve called me a man too but so what? I am more than they will ever be, and I will be more for the millions of people who feel afraid and voiceless in the face of keyboard warriors. I will be the first domino to fall, so that the effect we cause will ripple much further than the digital space and go well beyond their comfort zones and right in their faces. They may have called me a burnt offering, but I am one heck of a burnt offering and I’m coming to burn everything they hide behind. I am not unafraid of the consequences of speaking truth to power, but someone has to do it; right? The table must not only be shaken; it must be broken and burned for kindling, and replaced with a newer, sturdier one. One where those who speak truth to power have a much bigger impact than the naysayers. Nolite te bastardes carborundorum!



She sipped her wine from the bottle. She knew he didn’t like it, but she did anyway. And she loved it especially when he was there, watching her in that heated way of his, disapproving, and mentally punishing her before he translated his thoughts into action. Her defiance was a turn on to him. She had made them dinner, a rare occurrence. He had this belief that cooking was a chore to her and she kept telling him she loved it because it was therapeutic. So she asked him to come to dinner, and she cooked. Nothing fancy; just roast potatoes with salt, black pepper and rosemary, sauteed vegetables, garlic and lemon prawns and grilled chicken. Paired with sweet white wine, to open up the flavors. Admittedly, he was impressed by her skills, and she was glad he felt the way he did. He kept looking at her, sitting there, next to him, in that simple black dress, barefoot, make-up free, subtle wisps of her scent wafting towards him. He watched her put a bite of her prawns in her mouth, watched her swirl the wine around her tongue, watched her close her eyes and truly savor the taste of her own food. He watched her. 


When they were finished with dinner, she cleared the table, soaked the dishes and sat on the carpet with the rest of the wine. He joined her, glass in hand, on the sofa, and they talked. About anything, everything, and nothing in particular. They just talked. Then the conversation became loaded with innuendo, and she struggled to maintain her composure. He had a way of making her come undone in the simplest of ways; a simple word, a gesture. A slight tug at her thread and she came undone. She emptied her wine glass, topped his off and sipped from the bottle. Reckless, petulant and defiant. She dangled her defiance in his face like a shiny object, and he pulled. Much as he had the uncanny ability to unravel her so very simply, she, too, knew what triggers to pull for him to come undone. Her petulance, for instance. Punishment (and gratitude) would surely follow suit. She got up on the sofa and sat next to him; close enough but not too close. He took her hand and placed it on his thigh, where his manhood was nestled, throbbing and aching for her. She inhaled through her slightly parted lips, eyes never leaving his, and pulled her hand away. 

“I’m trying my best to keep it together. You’re not helping.”

“I’m not?” he asked, in that devilishly low tone. 

“No, you’re not. And you know it.” 

She got up, walked to the balcony and slid the doors open, letting the cold air cool her flushed face. She turned around and finished the last of the wine from the bottle, watching him, knowing what would take place next. He finished his wine too, and they momentarily watched each other in the silence; empty wine glasses and an empty bottle.

“Should we get more wine?” he asked.

“Do you want to get more wine?” she countered. 

“Yeah, for later, maybe.” 

“You know I’ll drink it by myself as soon as you walk out of my door.” 

“It’s meant to be shared, and I know you’ll drink it straight from the bottle, you petulant child.” She smiled and walked towards him, picking her empty wine glass on the way. 

“Let me get that for you,” she said, reaching for his empty wine glass. She took them all to the kitchen, soaked them in the sink, and walked slowly back towards him. He stretched out his hand to her, she placed her palm in his, and he guided her to straddle him. He was still fully dressed, but in the short time it took her between him, the sink and back, he had already unzipped his pants and freed his throbbing manhood. He was ready for her; he wanted – nay – craved her. To no surprise, she wore no panties beneath her dress. He ran his palms up her thighs and cupped her ass cheeks, while she rubbed her already ridiculously wet mound on his glans. Fuck, she thought, and sighed. He wasn’t even inside her yet but her body was on fire. His face was nestled between her small breasts, his breath searing her skin as he inhaled her scent and exhaled desire. He moved his hands from her ass, up her waist, round to her rib cage and finally to her breasts, and cupped them. They fit so perfectly in his hands, she thought, and while he kneaded and molded them, she slowly lowered herself onto him. It was time for his inches to inspect her walls. Time for her to devour him, as he had her cooking. It was time. 

She started moving, up and down, front and back, round and round, in slow motion, sighing with every other breath, her hands gripping the back of the seat on either side of his face, as if to keep him in place. He slid his hands back to her ass, slid lower into the sofa so she took more of him, and moved with her. In her. Meeting her halfway, thrusting at her tempo, going deeper each time. Fuck. She was wet, so very. He held her in place, then she held his face upturned to kiss him. She needed his tongue doing those things it did to her multiple times before. She needed to taste him, swirl him in her mouth as she did the wine at dinner. She kept moving him inside her, tongue and manhood, moaning softly, needing freedom from both their clothes. She unbuttoned his shirt, and some pesky buttons proved stubborn. She was desperate to rip it off him, but willed her fingers to keep unbuttoning and not rip, and they cooperated. Shirt finally off, she pushed it off his shoulders and was slightly disappointed to find a vest underneath. That meant more clothes to get rid of. She got on with it quickly, pulling the vest from his back, up over his head, breaking the kiss just long enough for him to get rid of it. His hands came down with such strength and clamped on her waist and ass, moving with her while she pulled her own dress over her head and discarded her bra. Then she felt it. She was losing herself to him. Climax. Fuck. She gripped the back of the sofa while the waves washed over her, as if to keep a firm grasp of reality and not get lost in pleasure. Her thighs and ass quivered wildly around him, her heart racing, and he took the opportunity to turn one climax into a double. He clasped her ass cheeks and counter stroked, then felt her come undone again until she collapsed on his shoulder.


She slid off him and onto the carpet, breathing hard, her heart beating out of her chest. He took his pants, boxers and socks off all in one motion, while she caught her breath. He joined her on the carpet, crawled till his dick was right above her face, and she took him in her mouth. She watched him get lost in her. She watched him as she took him into her mouth, his eyes closed, lips parted, soft groans coming from his chest through his lips in ohs. He pulled out of her mouth, helped her up and perched her on the sofa’s armrest. It was time for her to feel his wrath and gratitude in full equal measure. She lay back, thighs parted, knees up, legs on his shoulders, and felt him slide into her and thrust. He was deep. It didn’t take long for her to unravel once again, and this time a flood was coming too. In between moaning, breathing and trying not to die from pleasure, she tried to warn him but the words just couldn’t formulate themselves into coherence. Her floodgates opened and she started to squirt, then he suddenly pulled out and led her to the dining table, bending her over it and going hard on her. Her legs shook, breath caught, her orgasm shooting out in one, endless stream, on him, on her thighs, spilling onto the floor in a pool between her legs. His hands never left her hips, he never stopped thrusting, she couldn’t stop quivering or calling out his name and desperately looking for something to hold on to, to keep her in the present. Eventually her legs gave way, and he supported her as she fumbled back onto the carpet, breathing heavily while he seemed not to have even broken a sweat. How unfair! 


He perched her up on the cushions and opened her legs again, her legs on his shoulders and he on his knees. She took him in, once again, and felt him further up than before. This man kept unlocking levels of her vagina she didn’t think existed, but there he was, exploring new corners of pussy town. Fuck. Could any single human be this sexually effective? And could she be hungry for anyone else as she was for him? She felt him start to throb inside her, his own climax looming over them, and knew where she wanted to be. Right there, in the present, his seed spilling inside her while she flexed her walls to drain all of it into her waiting receptacle. He exploded into her, then collapsed on her chest, holding her close and listening to their breaths and wild heartbeats, kneeling between her thighs and worshiping her even in post coital bliss. 


I remember in my birthday post v3.0 I talked about opening myself up to love in its purest form. I believe September was my love month in some way or other. It started by me accepting myself and loving myself deeply, unapologetically and unconditionally. Confessions, declarations, actions and affirmations seemed to flow my way throughout the month. Literature spoke to my soul, Rafiki the movie broke my emotional walls and music led my heart to places that were long abandoned. And finally, a tweet from my dear friend Emma made me realize that what I had been feeling through September meant I had started believing in love again. Genuinely.

Getting to this point meant I had to cut out a lot of bullshit. I made the intentional decision to choose myself and my own happiness first, always. I reclaimed my body, mind and soul. I have and continue to deliberately reclaim my time (I’m not responding to “hi” messages: state your business and if it’s worth my time I may respond) from being wasted by people who don’t value me. I am purposefully interacting and spending time with people who build me as a human, a woman, a mother and a friend. I am reading books that open my mind up more, and having conversations that add to my existing knowledge. I have created a self audit system where before I engage in anything, I assess its value and my stance in the issue; and if my stance is privileged then I seek more knowledge before engaging. I forgave those who wronged me, especially my son’s father, and mended fences. Most importantly, I forgave myself.

As September wore on, being intentional about my decisions from June made me realize that I was in the path I have always meant to walk. The chips are falling in place and I couldn’t be happier about it. I think, in many ways, experiencing Kenny Lattimore this weekend was the final nudge that sent me down the love path. I have been an ardent fan of his since I was a child; my most distinct memory of his music is of me fantasizing about a boy I liked in my neighborhood with Never Too Busy as the soundtrack. And a few years ago, someone I hold very near and dear to me reminded me that he was never too busy for me and to date, that has not changed. So, Kenny Lattimore may have had a singular mission in Nairobi – to speak to the hearts of women and the minds of men. Well; mission accomplished. He spoke to my heart that night. Also, I danced with him.

I guess this blog post is not the usual stuff I churn out, but in all honesty, if I’m to champion honesty and vulnerability in sex, love and relationships, I might as well be vulnerable with you and true to myself. That doesn’t make me any less of who I am; it gives me strength and courage to write this. I am empowered. Maybe love is the wind I need beneath my wings to make me soar.


I’m borrowing the title heavily from Ariana Grande’s hit single from the album Sweetener. That’s mainly because, over the past seven days, and most of my adult life really, I have witnessed time and again that God indeed is a woman. Why the title, you may ask? It all started with a Twitter thread I did last Monday on the various male sexual partners I’ve experienced from across Africa. You can follow my escapades here; just in case you missed that train. And right on cue, the patriarchy was frothing and foaming at the lips, incited by my brazen sexuality. Even some women came at me with insults to insinuate the size of my vagina may be unnaturally wide. Last night, I followed it up with my female sexual escapades across Africa here and as usual, there was backlash. This time less than the first thread. I suspect it’s because most of the men were silently holding me in awe and the women were genuinely happy someone came out with their pansexual experiences without fear or shame. Liberating!

Referring to God as a woman is because of one thing – as evidenced in the thread, I had some lackluster and unremarkable experiences with men. But with the women, there was a sacredness to it, and all my experiences were remarkable. And that is simply because women are love. Doesn’t matter how you look at it; God created women to be nurturers, and to nurture, one requires love. A woman’s ability to be polyamorous comes from the magic deep inside her frame, tattooed on her DNA. The women I was involved with showed me such love and acceptance; there were a few awkward moments but never an uncomfortable one. Whereas unlike with most men, the sexualization and objectification of my person and body as well as their assumed entitlement to it made for very many uncomfortable experiences that I really would rather not recount. And on very rare occasions did I feel unconditional love from men; it was lust for lust. Always transactional. Functional and uncomplicated, but cold, sometimes callous and mechanical. But with women? Love radiated from their pores into the atmosphere. So if God is Love and Women are Love, God Is A Woman. You feel me?

As mentioned earlier, women were created to nurture. Women, even the most powerful ones, are genetically predisposed to love more wholly, flawlessly and unconditionally – your fave could never. We have seen instances where men are unable to access and show their deepest vulnerabilities because “it’s not manly” thereby making themselves susceptible to emotional unawareness and stagnation, as well as possible mental health issues. Their inability to be vulnerable and the way the patriarchy is set up, a woman is not allowed to be herself with whomever she chooses or to be sexually liberated. Women are just supposed to give men sex, and that’s that. A woman is not allowed to share her body with whomever she chooses. A woman is not allowed to be unapologetic about her sexuality, and if she has a more impressive body count than men, or if she tells the truth of their lackluster sexual behavior, she’s branded a whore, a liar, a slut and every other colorful name in the book. Fuck that, and fuck them.

Women are magic. Women, especially black women, are made of earth, wind, fire, melanin and gun powder. Women are love on legs. Women are love in human form. Women are God’s living, breathing, manifestation of love, and insurmountable, unfathomable power. Women are life, and without women life would not exist. Whether Eve was created second, or from Adam’s rib, without Eve there would be no continuation of life. Therefore, women are sacred, and any act of love from women, by women, to the universe, is a sacred act. They shouldn’t be boxed into small, diminutive corners so men feel a semblance of control and importance. Get this clear; women and men are both important and need each other and I for one can attest to that. If my sexual experiences are anything to go by. I love women, and I love men. I love whoever the fuck I choose to love because I am a woman, and God is A Woman.

Thotimus Prime.


It had been several weeks since he made love to her. And he wanted to – so bad. So when he heard she was taking a trip to Hotel EnglishPoint in Mombasa for work, he took the opportunity to surprise her. He booked the first flight to Mombasa and didn’t mention a thing until he got to EnglishPoint Marina. He knew she needed a bikini so besides himself, he picked out a gorgeous blue two piece bikini for her to put her at ease. Then he called her.



“What are you doing?”

“I’m done with breakfast so we’re setting up by the pool.”

“Did you get that bikini you were looking for?”

“Not yet!”

“Sorry… anyway you said you’re by the pool?” He started walking towards the pool.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Turn around.”

She was standing by the poolside bar, then she turned. There he was, backpack over his shoulder, black bag in his left hand, phone pressed to his right ear. Her jaw dropped to the floor and she couldn’t move her limbs momentarily. Then it hit her – he was in Mombasa. He surprised her in Mombasa! She ran to him and jumped on him, hugging him so tight the force of her jump almost toppled both of them into the infinity pool.

They went up to his room, his hand barely touching her ass but touching it in the elevator. He pinned her by the door when they got in, dropping his backpack and the bag with her bikini to the floor as he kissed her. He captured her lower lip in his own and sucked on it, then her upper lip, while her hands held on for dear life on his neck. She wanted him naked, right there and then, so she reached down to the hem of his T-shirt and tugged upward. He pulled away long enough to take it off while her hands frantically worked on his pants, unfastening the button and zipper and pulling them down with his boxers to free his pulsating erection. His clothes pooled at his feet, he unzipped her little pink number to discover something he had never before seen – she wore lacy lingerie! He already knew what was underneath that black lacy number but he simply had to admire her.

“Wow!” He breathed it out. “You’re in lingerie.”

“I bought it so I figured I had to wear it sometime.” She responded.

“Were you expecting someone?”

“Hah hah. I wore it for me. You’re the bonus.”

She took him by his erect penis and led him to the bed, where she lay on her back and he, between her legs, on top of her. She wrapped him up in her legs and kissed him, their tongues performing the fiery human mating dance as his hands roved all over her skin and his erection throbbed on her. Gingerly, and expertly, he reached his right hand behind her and unhooked her bra. He then slipped both straps off her shoulders and through her hands, then broke the kiss to slide her black thong off. He held it in his hand and looked at the center; it was drenched with the white fluid of her arousal. She was ready for him.

Hooking his arms under her thighs, he slid her to the edge of the bed, spread her thighs open and looked at the feast before him. Deliberately, he slid just his glans and teased her, feeling her moistness envelop him. Then without warning, he buried himself balls deep into her and elicited a moan from her that made him stay still. He then started moving, stroking her walls left, right and center, going deeper each time to graze her cervix. He put her legs on his shoulders and went buck wild. He thrust, going slow and high tempo. Hard and mellow. Giving her what she (and he too) had been missing, taking what was his. She lay there, at his complete mercy, receiving the strokes as they came, legs shaking on his shoulders.

“Did you miss that?” he whispered

“Yes.” She moaned in response.

“Cum for me.”

Mustering all her composure, she responded “Then fuck me harder.”

He needed no further instructions. Pulling her closer to him, he impaled her hard, crushing her cervix, and in no time she was shuddering beneath him. First climax in. He went in for the kill, holding her neck tight with his right hand and squeezing, while his left held her waist to steady her. Then he thrust. Short, deep, intense strokes, burying himself deep inside her, her warmth and moistness enveloping him, and he felt the tremors start to build up again. She started bucking, her hands flailing, her breath short, then it washed over her. She came so hard; the force pushed him out of her alongside a hot jet of squirt that had been kept far too long inside her. Still convulsing and squirting, he pulled her towards him again.

“Come here!” he whispered, as he pushed himself deep inside her again. He wasn’t giving her a moment’s rest; he was intent on making sure she climaxed repeatedly till she lost breath or count or both. It had been long overdue. Still moaning and still quivering, he stroked her hard, then turned her over and buried her face in the crisp white sheets. His hands on her hips, he thrust hard into her, hitting her g-spot and cervix at the same time in that maddening way of his. She knew she wouldn’t last like that. She chanted his name, feeling her climax overwhelm her from deep within, and somehow managed to get her feet on the floor with him still thrusting into her relentlessly. She felt it overwhelm her again. She came, screaming, quivering and squirting, gripping of the bed and making an oceanic mess on the floor that threatened their stability. He let go of her, went to the bathroom and came back with a towel to clean the mess that was her climax on the floor, lest either of them slipped and hurt themselves.

Taking that opportunity, she took him in her mouth and went deep. She sucked him and choked on him, like he was Vitamin D and she was deficient. He groaned, grabbed her ass then slipped a finger inside her vagina, feeling her moistness and tapping her g-spot with his middle finger. She moaned and throated him more, tasting her climax off him.

“Do you like the way you taste?” he whispered.

“Mm hmm,” said she, looking up at him with her mouth full of his bulge. Damn her, he thought. He groaned and she flipped him over, with him on his back, and went to town on him. Spitting on him, choking on him, taking him down her throat till he became harder than he was, twirling her tongue on his glans, running its tip along his veins like a map, grazing him with her teeth and tea bagging him, while maintaining eye contact the whole time, as if to tell him he should never stay away from her that long again. Then she lowered herself on his erection and rode him like a BMX, working her waist forward and backward, up and down, round and round, like a Coastal woman dancing “chekecha paka chini” on him. He groaned deep and guttural, held her ass, waist and breasts in turns, counter stroking to meet her waist’s rhythm, going nuts as she intended. She watched him, quietly and intentionally, feeling him get bigger inside her and missing all the signs of her own climax. In her mind, this ride was his, but her body betrayed her. She bucked and screamed, quivering on top of him, and he toppled her over and took control.

Lying on his side, he scissored her, and thrust wildly. It’s like each time she came, he was reenergized to punish her more than he already was. So he stroked deep and hard, taking her to places she had been and back, again and again. Moaning and groaning, dancing the intimate dance of intense lovemaking to the music of their basest souls, naked desire and lust. And finally, his own climax loomed closer.

“I’m about to cum,” said he, while she semi-recovered from her own climax.

“Do it!” She responded between moans, feeling his penis twitch inside her and his grip tighten on her thigh.

“You want me to?”


He thrust twice, then he came. Pulling himself halfway out of her and holding his deluxe penis, he came inside her, then thrust one more time and emptied himself inside her, groaning with the last of his ejaculation. They lay there, scissored, in the wetness of both their climaxes, hearts pounding through their chests and the sound of the Indian Ocean soothing their burning souls alongside the coastal breeze.