Eba by Vam

I had just arrived at Matakumbe School, in northern Kenya. I was the only ex-patriot teacher and had arranged for the job through the District Education officer. Being an old “Africa hand”, when I arrived in Mombasa earlier that month, I frequented the bars where I was most likely to find bureaucrats in search of ex-patriots looking for jobs. After three days of asking around, I made a connection, and now I am at Matakumbe. As far as Kenyan school postings this is more like a resort than a high school. After escaping Idi Amin’s regime and two years roaming around Africa, Matakumbe was paradise.

I was assigned to teach upper form history and geography, given a two bedroom house, with amenities that most of my Kenyan colleagues could only dream of, hot water and a full bath, kitchen with a fridge and gas cooker, beautiful rattan furniture throughout the house. The house was built around a garden that was full of blooming flame trees and fragrant jacarandas. The school provided me with three servants, as was the custom in Africa at the time: my gardener, Moshi, a 3rd form student, who hoped to ingratiate himself to me through his gardening skills; Warikuti, my cook, a Kiyuku woman about 50 with experience cooking on the coffee plantation; and my housekeeper Eba, the subject of this story.

Eba was a coloured or mixed race girl. She had lived on the coast all her life and had been educated to “O” Levels at the nearby girls’ secondary school. Her education unfortunately had been cut short, she got pregnant and later aborted the baby. Being a coloured, she was rejected by all of her fellow students and her status as an unwed mother forced her to leave. Eba was beautiful, her father was a Portuguese sailor and her mother a Swahili of Arab descent. Her Arab ancestry was evident in her facial features, her warm brown skin and light brown eyes, her thick black hair came from her Portuguese ancestry. Eba could have been on a beach in Rio, or in a samba parade at Carnaval. Her English was almost flawless as were both her Swahili and Kikuyu. Although I was her employer, and over twenty years her senior, there was an immediate attraction when I met her.

I came home early because my 4th form boys had a cricket practice. I decided to have a long soaking bath in cool water to take the edge off the cruel Kenyan heat. Eba greeted me at the door. “Good day sir, can I get you anything?” I asked her to draw me a cool bath and make me a tall gin and tonic and went into my bedroom to take off my clothes. Eba appeared in the door holding my drink. I was standing naked beside my bed. At first I was startled, to see this girl standing there holding a drink and staring at my naked body. She said, noticing my embarrassment, “I have wanted to look at you since I came here. Does it bother you?”

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I didn’t know how to reply. I found myself staring into her eyes, and said, “No, does it bother you?”

Then without a moment of hesitation she undid her blouse and skirt dropped them to the floor. Then she ran her hands through her hair which came tumbling down her shoulders, took off her panties and bra exposing her slender cocoa brown body. Then she looked into my startled eyes and said, “I want you to make love to me, now.” I could not help myself, I put my arms around her waist and slowly lowered her to the bed, thrust my rigid dick into her smooth brown pussy. We made love all afternoon, sweaty passionate love. Eba was the best lover I had had in Africa. She was African but she wasn’t.

Trying to keep our feelings secret on the campus wasn’t easy. Every time I saw Eba I wanted to fuck her. The biggest problem was Warkuti, my cook. Warikuti was a very traditional woman, who dressed in the traditional Kikuyu wraps and always had her head covered. Eba didn’t get along with her. The headmaster’s wife was another problem. Madame Dzrambe was aware of Eba’s past and didn’t want her to corrupt the schoolboys. Madame Dzrambe was a large woman, who always wore long white dresses, her most distinguishing feature was her large shaven head. Unlike Warikuti she did not cover her head, preferring to follow strict traditions.

I had seen the local women having their heads shaved in the marketplace, a practice that was almost universal in the region. The girls and women patiently waited for women armed with razors to remove the hair from the scalps. I once ran into Madame Dzarmbe at one such street corner barbershops. Madame Dzarmbe said when she noticed me watching with fascination, “This is our custom, all women should follow her, do you like it?” as the barber scraped off the last grey shadow from her head.

I nervously replied, “It is very beautiful.”

One afternoon I came home and found Warikuti, and Madame Dzarambe in the garden. “Madame Dzarmbe, are you here to see me?” I said, hoping that she and Warikuti had not found out about my affair with Eba.

“Oh no, sir, not to see you,” she said, and returned to her conversation with Warikuti in Swahili.

Where was Eba? I thought to myself. Just then Eba came out of the bathroom, wearing a long white dress like Madame Dzarambe and her hair tied back in a long ponytail. She was very nervous as she entered the living room and saw me. “Eba, Eba, what is happening, what is going on?” I said.

She looked at me as big tears welled up in her eyes and said, “They are going to cut off my hair,” and she ran her hand through her hair as she broke down and sobbed on my shoulder. Now I knew what Madame Dzarmbe was talking about when I saw her getting her head shaven that day, only she was going to be the barber! Eba said, “I was shaved until I was 15 and I love my hair, I’m not Kikuyu,” she sobbed.

Warikuti came into the living room, grabbed Eba by the shoulders and led her into the garden. Madame Dzarmbe sat her cross-legged in the middle of the garden and removed her dress. Eba was trembling and shaking like she was having convulsions. Warikuti held her shoulders and Madame Dzrambe arranged the barber tools at her feet. Eba screamed, “Please stop,” but it was too late. Warikuti grabbed the handclippers and began clipping away at her ponytail, eventually severing it at the nape of the neck. Then Warikuti let it drop to the ground, like a two-foot-long black snake. The hair that was left framed her brown face. When Eba saw her hair on the ground she stopped resisting, clearly she could not stop the haircut now.

Click, click, click, the handclippers moved up Eba’s neck to the crown. Warakuti clipped Eba’s hair to the scalp, right side then left, the short black hair clung to her teary face like lace. As the short hair was clipped shorter and shorter, Warikuti gripped her had and pressed her chin to her breasts. Pass after pass click, click, click, reducing the black mane to a stubble. Madame Dzrambe looked at the victim and said, “Well now your mother would be proud of you, but we’re not finished yet.” She handed Eba a mirror.

Eba cried out when she saw her scalp, all of her thick black hair lay on the ground surrounded appropriately with jacaranda blossoms. “Oh no, no, no.” Then she rubbed her head with soapy water, picked up a straight razor and started shaving her head as Warikuti held her chin tight. The razor scraped the last stubble away. When the last stubble had been shaved off, she wiped away the excess soapy water. I could not believe what I had just witnessed. They had shaved Eba’s head as clean as a new born baby, she looked like a baby, bald and virgin. Then with no ceremony they packed up their barber kit and left. Warikuti said, “I will be back for diner sir,” as though nothing had just happened.

Eba pulled up her dress and ran her hand over her freshly shaven scalp, and started sobbing. I ran to her and caressed her head as she sobbed on my shoulder. As I held her head and kissed her deeply, I became more aroused than I could ever remember. My passion was overpowering, I grabbed her slender body still caressing her shaven scalp and carried her into the bedroom. I threw off my pants and shirt and fell into her waiting body.

Eba looked at me and said, “They did this because they thought you would hate me.”

I looked at her and ran my hand over her smooth shaven scalp. “They were wrong,” I said and plunged my dick into her and held her shaven scalp cupped in my hands.


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