Cold one

                 I wasn't sure of how I was going to put this, but here goes. To be honest, I wasn't a big fan of cold showers, but there's a certain encounter that I experienced, changed my perception of it completely. I had almost forgotten about it, till a few weeks past, when someone's daughter mentioned something that made the memories come rushing like soldiers rushing out to battle. 

I had been chilling with someone's daughter some weekend, doing some activities here and there, if you know you know, if you don't, forget about it. Hehe. Moments later, as I was scrolling through my phone, I heard her padding softly across the tiled floor — barefoot, towel wrapped carelessly around her, and she had this hint of mischief on her eyes.

“Unajua,” 

she said, voice mellow, 

“showers feel better when shared.”

I faced her slowly, not startled — just absorbing the weight of her invitation. She wasn’t smiling. That made it feel less like a joke, more like a door opening into a room full of fire and fog. The silence stretched thin, vibrating between curiosity and something dangerously sincere. 

I was almost giving in to her invitation, getting up from where I was, to join her, but then I remembered the last time I showered with someone's daughter, sikufurahia. The way I emerged afterwards, with my skin as red as a beetroot. Something I would never wrap my head around to this very day, is how ladies shower with such hot water that would even scald the devil.

I told her to go ahead, and shower without me, and I caught a flicker of disappointment on her face as she went to the bathroom. The bathroom door clicked shut behind her. I exhaled slowly, the moment still hanging in the air, thick with tension and a question left unspoken.

Inside, she stood at the mirror, her fingers brushing back a few strands of hair. She reached for the shower knob, turned it — and instantly recoiled. Ice-cold water splashed against her hand. She called out, her voice rising just above the sound of the running water. 

“Souley, 

niwashie hio heater please?”

From the other side of the door, my voice came back calm, almost amused. 

“Sina heater.”

She paused, confused. 

“What do you mean? 

Si nimeona kuna switch hapo nje...”

“It’s just for show,” 

I replied with a small laugh. There was a beat of silence.

“…Na mbona huna heater?”

she asked, still inside, the echo of cold water still dripping in the background. I remained quiet for a moment, my voice softer now—stripped of the playfulness from before.

“Unajua,”

I began, 

“si ati sipendi comfort, 

but, 

nilikuwa karibu kwenda Sayun, 

ju ya hio kitu.”