Free Abyssinian Chronicles by Moses Isegawa

stubble, gritty as iron rust, cultivated by the bride, who had just been introduced to the workings of the double-edge razor blade. In the convent they used to pull out those devil hairs one by one, not so much for the less brutal stubble which resulted as for the mortification part of the exercise. Cut, angry, frustrated, the squeaking bedsprings as irritating as locust bites, Serenity boiled in his own anger. The joyless futility of it was magnified by too keen an awareness of his bride’s indifference, and the supervisor’s eye on parts of his body he never revealed to strangers.
    The situation became so pathetic, so desperately insufferable, quiet as it was in the room and in the booth outside as the drummers rested and ate their supper, that Virgin’s aunt had to intervene in more than supervisory capacity. Authorized in all ways to get the job done, she, in the politest, kindest voice Serenity had heard that day, called for a break. As Serenity left the bed, she touched him on the shoulder to direct him to the chair where a beer awaited him. That was the key he had been searching for all day: it minced the wall of mist in which hisvirility had been frozen. It closed the book on his fears, propelled him into rarefied realms of relief and engendered in him a blissful absence of anxiety. The relief swelled to such proportions that he wondered, as he sipped the beer, whether it had not gone beyond the mere healing of his past anxieties. Was it degenerating into desire for his bride’s aunt? The possibility that he could have real feelings for her crashed over him, and he felt mud sucking at his feet, pulling him to depths he dared not reach. The temptation was to see the bride and her aunt as complementary parts of one character, one person. If Virgin was the serious, determined, ambitious one, her aunt, then, had to be the playful, happy, lustful provider of fun. He had never been thrust onto the horns of such a dilemma before, and he prayed that this was pure fantasy, the hallucinations of an overwrought, overworked bridegroom.
    Virgin’s aunt had been whispering things in his ear, but Serenity heard nothing. He shook to the core as he felt the hand on his shoulder again. The charge kicked like a mule. The woman sat down, and a gleaming dark knee caught in the golden light made him dizzy with confusion and pent-up desire. A touch on his calf shot his body full of delicious sensations. If this was not where the fate of the trio was sealed, it was where their lives, like three rivers going down a steep mountain, met, joined and fought their way to the bitter sea behind the mists.
    Serenity was back on his way, rejuvenated, energetic, fiery in the thorax, ticklish in the balls, with wells of licentious power pumping from his stomach. He got cut again, but he hardly felt it or cared. The whitewashed walls, the white tablecloths and the white sheets seemed to tremble and quiver. He needed all the energy his stomach provided, for his wife had the hymen of a thousand women. His breath cut his windpipe as he breathed hard, sweating with the determination that even if his wife had a hymen tough as rawhide, he would bore through it.
    With the walls cracking and tilting, the mice squeaking and squealing and the sheets crackling and rustling, Serenity tore through the barrier, Virgin a rocking wave of muscle. Three rubies, two big ones and a very small one, were created. The bride’s aunt, a smile on her face, congratulated them, happy that the bride had not climbed trees, ridden bicycles or played with sharp objects that would have tornher hymen. The creation was whisked away for examination by a relative or two from both families. Serenity, now all smiles, awarded his bride’s family a large, juicy goat, according to custom.
    Changed into a crownless outfit, with a stiff, pained look on her face, the bride returned to the booth. The dancers were back with their pelvic thrusts and gyrations. The crowd was afire with