By Mundia Ngumi

It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon in the outskirts of the city. I’m slowly sipping my favourite drink, at my favourite joint, with my mind disengaged, wondering about life’s diversity. Benga and zilizopendwa music oozes from tuned speakers.

I slowly sway my head, and gyrate my bust right on my seat….
…and the sweet music plays on and on.

Beats zoom from the speakers blaring “INAMA”
Some mad rush goes to the dancing floor and out of the blues, more scantily dressed girls join in…A few young men in tow….

Inama is real…Very real.
Girls start touching their toes leaving their bums exposed, the short skirts struggling to cover behinds, as all colours of exposed inner wears are exhibited.

Inama is real.

Then there comes another one, TETEMA, and everyone shakes from bottom to top.

Every shakable flesh shakes…the girls shake their baby foods without care.

And some respectable old neighbours and I and look at each other in bewilderment…
During our times, we didn’t expose as much, nor was too much exposed to us…
There were lockable private bedroom doors. But of late, those doors remain ajar.
Anyone can hop in.
I refused to board!
Back to traditional settings.

Nani ana nyimbo za zilizopendwa, anitumie?



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