(Previously, after stopping Dacie's advancements in its tracks, memories of Obi's past come flooding back)
A gust of cold wind blew, tagging at my coat and threatening to pull my topper away. With one hand, I held it down, and the other pulled the coat tighter around me.
The sonorous voice of the singer did little to calm my disquiet.
“Where in the world am I going to go? What in the world am I going to do?” She sang.
Even as the wind carried her voice away, I could feel her sadness riding the strings to hug me in a shiver.
I had long made peace with the reality that I’m not a good person; however, I pride myself on trying to be a ‘better associate,’ to put it that way.
My first encounter with Dacie was at an underground club in Malindi. My friend, Kot, had organized an exclusive masquerade to celebrate a few deals that had gone his way.
A creative organizer, Kot put his usual crazy ideas and a touch of class in play. The furniture was black leather sofas, arranged in booths around wooden tables polished to a high sheen. Along the walls, hung tapestries of heavy, maroon velvet cloths with intricate black embroidery, depicting scenes of debauchery.
All the waiters and waitresses wore Victorian suits, while the dress code for the guests was silk dresses for ladies and well-fitted tuxedos for men.
Beneath the red lights, the air shimmered with excess. Suspended in chrome rings that swayed like halos of sin, dancers floated midair, goddesses of temptation cloaked in silk so sheer it clung like a second skin. Gold chains draped their arms and ankles, catching the eye as they spun slowly, languidly, above a crowd intoxicated by rhythm and revelry.
The room reeked of perfume, smoke, sweat, and champagne.
Kot blew a ring of smoke in the air and let out a chuckle.
“I confess I'm not afraid of what any of you might think, because every single one of you is even worse than I. That's why I'm a buffoon; I'm a buffoon born of shame. It's anxiety, pure and simple, that makes me so unruly,” he said, pulling a naked muse into his lap, kissing her long and hungrily.
“Today, we indulge in the pits of debauchery, drinking from the forbidden fountains of pleasure; tomorrow, we worry,” he said, staring into her eyes.
Glass in hand, I got up from the sofa and signaled to a waiter to fill it as I made my way out of the booth, the muse whimpering behind me.
That’s when I saw her.
In a silver Giglio Lux mask, lined with pearls, and a mother-of-pearl pendant suspended from a thin silver chain on a lovely neck, she was standing on top of the stairs in an ashy Lily Dress flowing to her feet.
‘One time
One a mi real bad gyal dem pop up and link mi
Seh she waa gimme king treatment, guess she feel kinky……’
Dexta’s ‘No underwear’ played softly in the background as our eyes locked.
