Nimo is a beautiful girl. There is no denying that. Her light skin especially turns guys heads when she passes, their tongues sticking out like dogs on heat. And her ass. There is no way of describing her ass without completely violating her, so I will not describe it.
What you need to know is that she is beautiful. The kind of textbook beauty that people notice when she enters the room. Not the kind that you have to deeply look for.
So when a year ago Nimo decided she wanted to be a model, it was no surprise to anyone, especially me. I remember the conversation, how she casually mentioned her dream to me on a drunken night.
We had just finished a full bottle of whiskey; me, her, and two of her other friends. When her friends went to make out on the balcony; she turned to me, smiling drunkenly, and said:
“I have a secret.”
“Please do tell.”I encouraged her.
The smile on her face was so bright I am pretty sure it burned me. Then, standing up, she opened another bottle of whiskey, held it by the neck, and then downed one huge gulp of it. She did not cringe when it hit her throat.
That is another thing about Nimo. She can handle her alcohol. How many can say that of the other textbook beautiful girls?
After the shot, she came back to sit next to me on the couch, still holding the whiskey bottle.
With Nimo, there is no saying NO to her, so I took the bottle, and took another shot myself. If there was something like being sufficiently drunk, that was what I was at that time.
“Your secret?” I inquired.
She laughed her cute giggly laugh that was just another thing that added to her beauty.
“I am going to be a model.”
As I said before, her decision to be a model did not surprise me. We all knew it was just a matter of time. I mean, she had everything; from looks, the body, the natural beauty.
What surprised me was the tone of finality she declared this decision with; as if she had seen her future and had already seen herself in Vogue, or Elle.
That was the second last real conversation I ever had with her. A drunken night conversation.
The next weeks that followed, I saw more of Nimo’s pictures than I saw her.
Selfies; cute ones, sexy ones, goofy ones. Videos of her dancing, videos of her eating, videos of her cooking even though I knew how much she hated cooking,
Then, the pictures with her other textbook beautiful “friends”.So many pictures. Pictures of them on road trips, pictures of them in clubs, pictures of them in malls. There was even a picture of them once in Mombasa.
And then came the first professional shoot for her. Pictures of her taken in some fancy studio. She was beautiful in those pictures. More beautiful than I have ever seen her.
The photographer was some guy she had discovered on IG, she told me when I asked. That’s another thing about Nimo. Even though she had this seemingly amazing life, she would still find time for me.
I could see how she was trying to keep me up with her, even though I craved our old deep conversations, and she craved to tell me about her next shoots, her new friends’ gossip, and stories of her numerous flings.
After a while, naturally, we became distant. I became another one of her fans, my comments about her beauty lost in the numerous IG comments under her posts.
It was no big deal really. I had my own life to deal with, even though it did not involve amazing shoots, meeting beautiful people, and going to even more beautiful places.
I was fine with my life the way it was, with quiet nights with a book and heavy metal rock playing in the background.
But then, when I heard she was going to be a video vixen in one of your songs, that was when everything changed. And, get this, I didn't even get to hear it from her herself. I just saw a repost from one of her IG friends congratulating her.
I was shocked. Why wouldn’t she tell me that kind of Awesome news? I mean, you are fucking Mickey The Great, the greatest Kenyan Musician since time immemorial. That is, according to your IG bio.
But I mean, you are good with music. I have to admit, you are one of the few Kenyan artists I actually listen to. It’s like music just gets you, you know. And plus, the media loves you. You have been featured in several mainstream media stations, NTV’s The Trend, Citizen’s Ten Over Ten, Switch’s Switchboard.
And your two albums have had tremendous sales. More than any other Kenyan artist. I must say, you have achieved great success at quite a young age.
Isn’t that what Daily Nations’ Pulse wrote on that piece they did on you?
Mickey the Great, a great milestone for the 27-year old artist. That was the headline. Bold, next to the picture of you in a blue suit.
God, look at me; I am getting lost in your story. This was not about you. This was about Nimo.
Now, where was I? Oh, when I found out she was going to be a vixen in your latest song. Of course, I was happy for her, even though I have to admit, I felt a little disappointed that she hadn’t told me before.
Nevertheless, I called her. I was half-afraid that she was not going to answer, but she picked up on the first ring.
“Uko kwako?” she asked, even before I could start my screams of congratulations.
“Yeah,” I answered, momentarily shocked.
“Great, I am coming over with a drink.”
And with that, she hung up.
Okay, sure, come over, it’s not like I had any plans. Which I did not by the way. I am quite an introvert, you see.
Nimo was at my house in twenty minutes. She had come with an Uber, she told me when I asked how she arrived so quickly.
Instead of giving me an answer, she immediately opened the bottle of the Glenfiddich she had come with and then proceeded to look for shot glasses.
After each of us had taken two shots, I felt confident to address the elephant:
“ Are we celebrating ?”
She looked at me, a quizzical look on her face as if she had no idea what I was talking about.
“Mickey The Great?”
“Oh, yeah. That.”
That was all she said, then downed another shot.
Was it me, or was Nimo being so weird; I remember wondering. But then, who was I to question strangeness?
Silently with only my heavy metallic rock music playing in the background, we took shot after shot after shot until we were both sufficiently drunk.
“Do you think I am beautiful?” Nimo, always with the surprises, asked all of a sudden.
I would have inquired where this was coming from, but knowing Nimo, that would only clump her shut.
“Beauty’s done for darlin’. This is the age of realism; lusty, naked and stark.” I answered her instead.
“Oh God, is that from one of those books you like to read?”
“Yeah. It’s from Yonder by…”
“I don’t want to know who it’s from Brenda. I am in no mood for your deep talks honestly. You are my best friend, aren’t you?”
“Of course, always.”
“Then nijibu. A simple yes or no. Do you think I'm beautiful?”
“I think you are the most beautiful person I have ever met and will ever meet,” I said, meaning every word of it.
She was silent for a moment, then, after taking another shot;
“Would you fuck me?”
I laughed; not because that conversation was getting a bit strange but because the words YES were already on my lips, and I needed to cover it up.
“Where is this coming from?”
“My friend Ted seems to think you are a lesbian and that you are obsessed with me.”
“Ted the one who intentionally ruined your photoshoot the other day? That Ted?”
“Ted is a simpleton. He knows nothing.”
“So you don’t want to fuck me?”
“Nimo, can we not?”
It was time that conversation ended; otherwise, who knew where it might have led?
“Your music is shit btw.”
Wow, it seemed Nimo had decided to bring all her guns to the table that night.
“It’s not,” I said, in my mind defending Linkin Park, Green Day, Foo Fighters, and my personal favorite, My Chemical Romance.
“Forgive me, but I think music should be melodious, sweet; filled with poetic words that make your heart skip a beat. Your music is all angry instrumentals with no poetry at all.”
“Excuse me, have you even ever heard metallic rock? Have you ever listened to their words? There is no better poetry that exists in this world that one that's’ there.”
“Psht, we husema hivyo every day. Prove it. “
So I did. I put on Pretenders by Foo Fighters first, then next I put Dead by Chemical Romance, then Numb by Linkin Park and then, to test how far she was willing to listen, I put on Hollywood Whore by Papa Roach.
“Still stand by my decision. Shit music,” she said by the end of the four songs.
I would have defended my rock music further, but then, I looked at her eyes. Were those tears on the verge of breaking out?
“Nimo,” I started.
“I have to go Brenda. Thanks for being there.”
And with that, she was gone; as quickly as she had come.
If it was not from the half-empty bottle of Glenfiddich on my counter, I would not even tell she was ever there at all.
The next morning the video of your song came out. It was a beautiful song, the kind of sweet melodies Nimo loved. She was the only vixen in the video, playing your love unrequited. She did a good job, and I had to repeat the song around ten times just to see her dancing, her face, her smile, her eyes, her ass, her laugh.
Perhaps, beauty is not done for after all.
I picked the phone up after the eleventh watch, the words congratulations on my lips. This time, she had to hear it.
She picked up on the third ring.
I was cut off.
“Brenda. Oh My God Brenda.”
Her mum was the one saying over and over again on her phone. Why was her mum answering for her?
There had to be something wrong. There had to.
“Unezakuja KNH sahii. Aki Brenda, harakisha.”
And then she hung up.
I rushed to the hospital, taking an Uber and not minding the cost. It’s when I reached there that I knew what was happening.
Nimo had been hospitalized that morning.
“Mbona? Alikuwa mgonjwa?” I asked, knowing that she had not been sick at all. Just the other night she had been fine and healthy.
Instead of being answered, her family pointed me to her mother, who had been pacing up and down, tears running down her face.
I went to her, and when she saw me, she hugged me, the tears now streaming down to my own face.
“Nini mbaya?” I asked again, my heart beating fast, scared of hearing what I already suspected.
“Aki mtoto wangu. Woiiiii, mtoto wangu jameni,” her mum was saying over and over again, still holding me tight in her arms.
“Nini mbaya kwani?” I tried again.
“Nimo Wangu. Nimooooo. Nimekuja kuchukua maiti. Maiti. What am I supposed to do Brenda? What am I going to do?”
And now I had heard it. The thing I had suspected, the thing I was most afraid to hear. I could not feel my legs, then my face, then my whole body. I do not even remember how I fell down, but when I woke up, I was surrounded by Nimo’s family and a doctor, all trying to wake me up.
It was after I had recovered from the shock of it that I was offered the story.
Nimo, who still lived with her parents, had left my house and gone home. She had been in a foul mood, as she had been lately, and she immediately went to her room, closing the door behind her.
Since that had been the norm with her, no one tried to go talk to her. The next morning, however, her mother needed the blow dryer that was in Nimo’s room.
After calling her for what seemed like forever, she went to her room and tried knocking.
Ten knocks later, still no answer. That was when she started to panic. She called her father, who had the set of keys for all rooms, and he opened the door.
What greeted them, no one was prepared. Nimo, blood streaming from her wrists, her eyes wide open in pain and anger, her body almost lifeless.
No one knew what had pushed her to commit such a grave act.
No one but you.
You pushed her to do it, and then, when news reached the media of her suicide, you were the first on the scene to honor her memory. How many views did your song get after that? 3 Million? The highest views yet on your Youtube Channel.
Did you honestly think you would get away with it?
Did you honestly think no one would talk about how you drugged her after shooting that music video? And then, how after, you took her to your house, and did unspeakable things to her? Did you really think no one would avenge her? Avenger her honor, her dignity?
If you thought so, then you clearly haven’t met me. Oh, that’s right, you have. Remember how we “randomly” met at the club and you thought you could play your usual games on me.
Turns out, I am smarter than you think. The minute you went to the bathroom, I exchanged our drinks, and now here we are; you, drugged by your own medicine.
Now, now, now.
How am I going to make you suffer as you made her?