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“No.” She bows her head shyly.
“You’re blushing, Mrs. Mac!”
I order my favorite Kenyan beer while Mrs. Mac decides to try a Dawa mocktail.
“Clayton, stop looking at me like that, or we’ll never finish the first course.”
“Come on, when was the last time you had a date? At least give me points for trying.”
The grandmother of six laughs heartily. “I have a date every weekend, Clayton.”
“Gee, you’re doing way better than me.”
We enjoy our entrée over a conversation about the next stage of the Elimu school expansion. After I order more drinks, I find myself under Mrs. Mac’s scrutiny.
“Now, don’t look at me like that.”
“You could have any woman you want, Clayton. Are you not looking?”
“To be honest, no,” I admit, watching the waiter serving our mains. That is a delicious-looking fish.
“Why?” she asks, taking a piece of the dish the waiter called ‘Sukuma’—which she explains is a traditional Kenyan fish spiced with cardamom, nutmeg, and cinnamon.
“A man is no good alone,” she adds after the waiter leaves.
Is that her version of saying ‘a man without love is a man made of ice’?
“That’s why I have you,” I helplessly answer.
“I’m taken, and there’s nothing you can do to change my mind.”
I lean back, admiring her. Stuart Makena, her husband of fifty years, is one lucky man.
Outside, through the open door of our private space, I see a group passes by the courtyard. Among the laughter, I can hear a foreign accent. From here, just looking at their backs, I think the group consists of three Asian men with their wives or partners and a Caucasian man with—
A tall woman wearing a backless yellow dress.
Her olive skin outglows her bright outfit. Her taut shoulders and traps show she takes care of her body. The skirt hugs her curves. If only that man’s hand wasn’t clutching her waist so tight. Excessively tight, I must say, or maybe because her waist is tiny. As she walks, her dress slit reveals her pins—so sexy especially with those red stilettos grazing the lacy hem of her skirt.
“You wish you were him?” Mrs. Mac’s eyes zone in on the stick-thin figure of the Caucasian man, who seems to be leading the group.
I straighten myself, switching my focus to the meal in front of me. “No. I’ve had enough of being cheated on.”
“What makes you think she’ll cheat on him?”
“She will. Take my word for it.”
“You’re such a grim man.” Mrs. Mac keeps observing the couple. “You know what, Clayton? I hope you never wish to be him. That man thinks he owns her.”
Her remark sounds like a consolation, but she’s not the type who says something just for the sake of it. “How do you know?”
“He’s holding her, but her hips sway the other way,” she describes. “And he keeps pulling her in.”
I stretch my neck to see for myself what Mrs. Mac is talking about, but the pair have already disappeared into the main dining room.
We enjoy our desserts and tea while chatting about random subjects, from wildlife conservation to the lingering draught in the country.
A burst of laughter from the other side of the restaurant sends us cringing.
