Funerals are necessarily emotionally charged. Whenever I attend one, I notice that grief and sorrow bring out strong feelings in people. Especially when we are burying a husband, women tend to be very susceptible to powerful feelings, whether of grief or otherwise.
I keep a lookout for women greeting each other in these gatherings. Unfailingly I spot those who embrace others tightly, almost desperately. These turn out to feel more keenly for the woman whose husband is being buried. Even if they are unable to get close to her, they will hug others with equal fervour. If I locate one such, she is very likely to have been widowed, and is much easier to get at. I have found that grief and sex often go together.
Last week I picked one out by these methods. I felt sure she was recently widowed. The funeral was held at the home of the deceased, with mourners housed in large canopies set up in the compound. As the ceremony got under way we took our seats under these canopies. Keeping my quarry within my sights, I noticed that as it progressed she sat with her legs slightly parted. At a one point I even managed, due to my vantage point being lower than where she was, to see all the way up her thighs to her pink and black polka-dot panty. She was most probably empathising with the new widow, and it reminded her what she went through when it was her turn. It seemed to heat her body with sexual feelings, thus prompting her to open her legs both to try and cool her thighs, and to unconsciously be inviting to males present.
As soon as the service ended and people started moving towards the graveside, I made a beeline for her, held out my hand in greeting, with a smile on my face.
"Hello! I am Matt. I saw you from where I was sitting and thought you are the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen."
She looked surprised, but impressed as always happens when a woman is approached in such a brazen manner. She replied politely.
"I am Sheila," a shy smile on her face.
We walked off in the midst of the huge crowd towards the freshly-dug grave. We exchanged details of how we were related to the bereaved family. As the priest led in prayers with the coffin on rollers over the grave, we stood side by side. I made sure to commiserate with the newly-minted widow hoping that I was correct in my guess that Sheila was also one. She seemed touched by my words of sympathy as though I was offering them to her directly.
As the soil was being thrown back to cover the coffin I joined in the songs led by the choir with gusto. This, too, seemed to please Sheila. I put my hand out and held hers. She paused in her singing, surprised by my brazenness, but did not pull away and continued in the next line of the song. We sang joined together like this until it was all done and the flowers were being laid over the grave. At one point she got rather more emotional and I held her by the shoulders. She leaned companionably into me. Now I knew I had scored a bullseye. If onlookers noticed it would only be natural for a man to comfort a woman, probably closely related to the family; it was all very normal.
The family had laid out a lunch for the mourners after the burial. Sheila and I queued together at the serving tables, no different from a wedding setting. There was a time I had found this feasting at funerals improper, but my friend Frasiah had pointed out to me that these were the only occasions nowadays where people met, sometimes after many years. As they caught up with each other's news, sharing a meal served as a social lubricant. I could readily see the sense in that.
In any case I was now very glad to share a meal with Sheila. We got to know more about each other and found that that we would be going in more or less the same direction after this. She offered me a lift in her car but apologised that she would stop at The Junction to "pick up a few things", which was OK with me all round.
She had parked along the road passing in front of the residence and as we approached her metallic silver Lexus I said, "You will be seen to be driving away with your husband!"
She threw me a hot look that I was not able to decipher; whether it was hostile or merely of mild rebuke. I got in and found her taking off her walking shoes and hunting under the seat for her driving ones. The far side knee was exposed to my roving eye. She found what she was looking for and put them on, exposing knee here, thigh there. Whether she did it on purpose I was not able to decide right away.
She turned the car towards the highway with expert ease. The nearside leg was resting on the side of the dashboard, pulling the dress higher up her thighs. This had to be intentional. This woman is truly hungry for some "good, true loving", I thought.
"You drive like a maniac, my dear!"
The compliment struck home and she said, "When my husband died he left me a scared little girl. I have had to toughen myself up!" She threw me a questioning look.
"I do not like whimpering women either, always seeking sympathy. They tire one so quickly!"
She gripped the steering wheel and straightened her arms, setting her mouth in a determined line. "I would very soon tire of you if you thought I needed coddling."
I lay my hand on her thigh reassuringly. We turned down towards the Junction. As she parked she asked me cheekily, "Does the self-appointed husband want to come and push the trolley for me?" Of course I did. Of course!
I asked to drive her out of the Junction. "Where are you taking me, you naughty thing?" she asked me.
"Dinner."
She stared at me as though expecting further detail. I gave none. With a small smile on her lips, she subsided.
I drove onto Gitanga Road and into the Plaza where Fogo Gaucho was located. It was a Brazillian meat-eating joint where you paid a fixed amount but ate as much meat as you could take. I gave her a sideways glance. She made out not to have seen me at all, but I could see a faint smile playing on her lips. We walked in hand in hand.
She proved to be a veteran meat eater, hardly laying her card to show red, signifying to the waiter not to serve her any more. 'She DID tell me she was tough! Perhaps this is just another way aside from her driving, I thought.
We had a delicious Chalbis with our meal the effect of which to make us even more cheerful than before. As we left, she leaned heavily on me, pretending to be more drunk than she really was. "And where do you want to drive me now?" She looked up at me with lust-filled eyes. If I had harboured any doubts, this completely demolished them.
I drove to my place on Msanduku Lane, not too far from there. "Do you want to rest for a bit before you feel able to drive yourself home?"
"Are you saying I can't keep my alcohol down? Eh?" She eyed me in mock belligerence.
I put my arm around her and said,"I would sooner drive you home and walk back here than say such a thing!"
We staggered into the house as if we had drunk a whole barrel all by ourselves. She was laughing herself silly. "Look what you have done now!" she wailed.
"Where and to whom?" I was puzzled.
"You have made me laugh so much that I have pissed on myself!"
