Rated R

Do you remember those old days when the family was in the living room catching some evening local TV and the kissing scenes came on? Do you remember how quickly your folks, your Mum especially, would barrel over to the TV to change the channel or, worse still, turn off the TV and announce that it was time for bed? But it’s still so early, you’d all protest in unison. It’s only 8PM, you’d moan pointing to the wall clock. (Yeah, you were old enough to read the time.)

Now do you remember how your Ol’Man would follow the conversation quietly from the dining room table? Do you remember how he’d momentarily look up from the newspaper and cast a glance to the little scene that was unfolding in the living room? The scene of a mother trying to shield her daughters from the vulgarities of growing up in urban Nairobi.

So I guess you also remember what it was like when you and your sisters sat around this same TV to catch an adult-rated movie (it must have been Jason’s Lyric, remember it from ’94)? And you all gawked at the scenes where he did more than kiss her. My goodness, what are they doing to each other, you asked as you all titled your little heads to the right, then to the left, following the camera as it panned across the naked and intertwined glowing bodies. Your mouth opened in a little ‘o’. You giggled in embarrassment. Your loins warmed. Do you really remember what the movie was about, anyway? Let’s be honest here – did the storyline of Jason’s Lyric have enough traction to engage you or was it your illicit desire for more kissing scenes that dragged you all the way to the closing credits? Or Poetic Justice from ’93? Do you remember how the only scene you remember is the final one, where Tupac (yum yum) leans over to give Janet Jackson that mouthy sincere kiss?

Do you remember hoping and wishing, in your sick little mind, that your sister would invite you to watch more of such movies with her again? Movies that your Mum strictly forbade. Infact, the more she said no to the kissing scenes on TV, the harder your sister hunted for them. Video cassettes borrowed from your pals next door, hehee, or that video library down the street. That your Mum didn’t know how to operate the clunky VCR worked to your favour.

Do you remember how, when movies no longer satisfied your little devilish urges, you found more vivid images in books? A solitary sin. A private pleasure. Unbounded and unadulterated. Do you remember sitting on the kitchen floor, legs folded beneath you as you indulged your impish desires while your Mum went about her business? Do you remember how she patted your head as if you were a well-behaved pet, urging you to keep reading such (in your words) ‘books for big people’? Eh?

Do you remember coming across cheesy lines that described how his manhood swelled as his trembling fingers traced the contours of her ‘milk-white’ and ‘butter-soft skin’? Or pages upon pages drizzled with words like ‘breasts’ and ‘thighs’? Do you remember how you squirmed and smiled to yourself?

Well, your Mum also came across those same words in that same kitchen, probably in the same instant you did. Except that hers were in a different context all together.
And guess what, you Sneaky Tiger, all along she knew exactly what you were doing in that kitchen.