Confessions of a lonely woman

She couldn't stop thinking about it. It was in her mind. It was her new found obsession. She kept looking at the black khaki trouser that I had worn. It darkened her brain, it gave her a brain lock and she never knew the medicine. She couldn't stop second-guessing what was under it, its colour, how many days I had worn it, where I bought it, who had touched it and what kind of laces it had.
She couldn't stand imagining me pulling it down. Washing it. Rinsing it. Hanging it out to dry. Folding it and tossing it a drawer. It was erotic torture in her mind, she thought she was mad and mulled getting help. She even thought of visiting a mental hospital, but she brushed off the idea.

She was a beautiful woman in her late 20s, approaching 30s. She thought of Ken Chick -- that Bullshit chicken eatery -- and its rejection of "Old Poultry". She knew if she got old, nobody would marry her.
All she saw in Nairobi was underwears. It rapidly became a city of underwears. She imagined even police dogs wear underwears. She even thought Harvard Universitity teaches how to make underwears.

Whenever she went to the supermarket, for some reason that remain unexplained, she ended up at the underwear zone. She touched them, fondled them and compared their design. They had a magnetic effect on her.
She even thought of opening a boutique to sell male underwears. She consulted me if I could do marketing for her. She even asked me if I could invite my friends to buy the underwear. She imagined being George Soros or Donald Trump of underwear-making.
She spent hours imagining where such great underwears could be found.

Each morning, she drove down to work thinking about underwears. She nearly caused an accident because she was obsessed by the underwear. She looked at every man -- including the watchmen -- to see if he wore an underwear.

She just wanted to see it again, maybe touch it, feel it, breath it, lick it and put it under the pillow. All the luric details couldn't escape her mind. She started to cry. She cried and thought she had an underear to wipe her tears.
It had wildly fired up her imagination. She feared she could die young, moreso without an husband, who wore an underwear. Her friends were worried about her. They even called to edvice her. They had told her about the advantages of being a career woman. They told her about Margrate Thatcher, Condi Rice and Elmelda Marcos. She imagined whether they wore male underwears. She was getting mad.
But she always suspected her friends had misadvised her. But she imagined she was a strong woman, brushed it off as a feminine feeling. After all Jackline Kennedy and Maddona had the same feeling, she thought they wore male underwears.
But as the feeling was overwhelming her, she opted for overtime writing reports. Her bosses thought she was working hard, but she was trying to bury her depression. People thought atrocities by the Ugandan rebels, the Somali warlords and southern Sudanese militia were the cause of her depression.

She even started thinking about Mungiki and Taliban. She suspected even policemen wore underwears.
She was bright, but her obsession was affecting her, it was ruining her looks, it was ruining her career and she couldn't accept that she would not live a normal life within me my underwear. All the days she sat on her lounge, eating dates, she shed tears of the lost opportunity.
She spoke of her mother, her sisters, her brothers. She tried to be a normal woman, but the thought of my underwear could not be arased from her mind.
Everytime she went to the bathroom, she couldn't stop comparing her thong with my underwear.

All the towels hanged nearby looked like underwears. The tissue paper looked like linen used to make underwears. Bathroom curtains looked like materials to make underwears. She imagined of visiting Tom, Mboya Street to look for a tailor who could make her such an underwear from cotton curtains. She imagined the world was coming to an end.
At one time, she feared she was betraying her God. Her parents. Her friends. But she knew God gives a second chance, but she could'nt figure out how.
At the graveyard, the parlour for broken herts, she held a wine glass with amazing delicacy, her tongue forcefully escaped through her carefully-chiselled lips. She tried to smile, but instead she ended up grinning. She tried to remain composed. She licked the edge of the glass, panning her eyes if anybody saw her desperation.

She spoke about her dreams, her hopes and her failures.
She spoke with caution, fearing not to annoy me. But her eyes momentarily looked at my waistline, hoping to see the underwear, no. My underwear. She drunk a few glasses of red wine, but the underwear made her drunk. Very drunk indeed. But struggled to look sober, but her drunkardness could not stop her eyes from looking at my underwear.
We went dancing. She shook her hips with amazing agility. Everybody looked at her. She was excited, but had not forgotten about the underwear.
She taught she was losing her job because of the thinking too much about the underwear. She thought she was ruining her character because of thinking about the underwear. She thought of calling police because of the underwear. She even taught of organising a feminine conference to discuss the underwear. All her life was about my underwear.
One day, she called and threatened to report me to police because I refused to show her my underwear. I could not show her, it was Maradona No. 10 and yet she was a single woman.