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It will be a happy ending with a sense of considerable  relief and satisfaction. When it’s done, the feeling will be comparable to chugging down a cold soda in the middle of a European heatwave.

He is a body whisperer, this guy. Many men speak in varied tongues but his specialty is communicating with the body. He’s a rabbi of the language. He has a sway over the body with his speech, as if it’s a lap dog that sits or walks at his whim. He knows when to shout at it,level with it and coax it into submission. Leaving the body unarmed, ready for him to have his way with it. And have his way he does because more often than not he pleases without fail.

It’s something akin to that helpless plummet of a satin nightdress off the shoulder blades of a ravishing woman.

Consent. Whether acquired voluntarily or acquiesced never feels coerced. He’s understood how to make one willing even against their own will. For those with pitiful resolve, he barely asks. Those who play hard to get, he works his hands.

This guy is biblical if you may; for blessed are his hands.The body is an ear lobe he whispers into with a misty guttural voice. Tuning it to his tone. Toning it to his tune. Too good to resist. Yummy. Mummy.If ever in doubt about his expertise be at liberty, to peep his credentials.

His body count is in the droves. One referral after the other, men and women alike flock in large numbers for his services.

Come one, come all. Discrimination is not in question.

To every solution there is a process. There’s a method to each man’s work..

He is no exception. He has a preferred method of functioning, a modus operandi. He’s a procedural magician tactically applying his wand. He is a clairvoyant with a specified means on how he casts his spells.

Masochist machismo describes his style. Can I get an amen from anyone who understands you have to first endure pain to experience pleasure. It gets stormy first before it gets calm. No pain no gain. It doesn’t get easier to endure, he just gets better at administering it. All this while using three main ingredients for this joyful excursion. His hands, his mouth and ointment. There’s no particular order to their application. It keeps things spicy and mysterious. He knows better than anybody else the human body enjoys surprises.

He will start from the back and finish on the front. He will command. He won’t ask. Gleefully you will comply, once you are in the confines of a room with him. Usually instructions are simple, straightforward and bespoke. Dress down to your innerwears and he’ll do the rest. He’ll take it from there.

The Odyssey will start. He will probe with his hands and mouth.. You’ll want him to stop but he won’t. Way before he started, a caveat that escaped your ear was issued.

“There will be some pain, feel free to make any noises.”

Meekly, you will surrender. Faced with a Hobson’s choice you soon realize you have no option. He will continue and continue. Chatting you up to keep your mind close. Pressing your body hard enough to lose your mind.

Soon you’ll be in a trance. In the space between life and death where one feels most alive. In a surgical daze. That’s where you’ll be. This is the last stage of surrender.

Let him take what he takes and give what he gives. You are under his thrall for all you care. You’ll stop noticing his strokes. The clock won’t tick and tock anymore. Time comes to a stand still. He’s at a point of rhythm. Rising and gliding. Smoothening and smothering your rough edges. Like a good carpenter wood.

He will use both his hands to make light work. Intermittently, he will gnarl the palm of his hands into knuckles and inflict pain. Sometimes he may resort to using the finer edges of his limbs such as his elbow. You’ll want to bolt out of the discomfort but you won’t.

You will endure and persevere because you are under his aegis. Awaiting a climax. He is meant to be inducing relief and pleasure after all. You will hang in there because you trust his resume. His body count.

Until he crosses a line. Until he breaches the Rubicon. With the stealth of a snake, he will slide your underwear down exposing your gluteus maximus. At that moment, you will be a deer in the headlights. But even before you raise a qualm he will have started pounding and hounding your cheeks. Gradually he will move on to your thighs, calf then finish with your feet.

He doesn’t last long on the gluteus. Something that likens him to regular men. He’s a one minute man on the bum.

As he approaches the crescendo, he will ask you, this time a little more politely since he can sense your exhaustion, to lie on your back. You had been on your belly the whole time facing the floor. Now, you will be facing him, the body whisperer.

Of course he’s tall and a wahabi beard clings on to his chin. He’s definitely a dark chap with an immaculate smile. He undoubtedly boasts endearing looks.

Looking at his face you won’t be amused by his wiles any longer. Swiftly, you will reinstate your briefs to guard against the cold. But he will implore you with a canny demeanor.

“Please. We are almost there,” he will mutter in a husky voice.

And your concession will follow.

He is now in his final act. Readying his release and yours as well. Your legs will be spread apart then closed again. Repetitively. He will raise them up to the skies only to let them down. He will motion you from side to side. Knees to your chest. Hands to your head. Eyes rolling to the ceiling. And conclusively jerking your neck so hard your bones will let out crackling sounds. Abruptly, he will let out a yelp of, “Done!” like he’s freaking Ombachi.

Soon and quite quickly after, he will grow frosty cold on you. Just as all men do when they finish. It won’t hurt your feelings because you’ll still be processing your pain wondering when your dopamine will hit.

The body whisperer will ask you to sit upright. He will sternly recommend a similar engagement twice a week for the next month.

“Don’t miss .” He will be keen to insist.

As you walk out of his premises you will feel different. Your legs will be shaking. Sensations of delight will crawl on you. Pins and needles of pleasure will prick on you.

You will feel relieved of your prior crippling body motions. Nimble and lithe is how you will move. Your heart on the other hand will be bumbling from health and gaiety. It will be as if you have been born anew. An immaculate conception.

In deep thought, you will close your eyes and let out a sigh. One of relief. This feels so good, you will think out loud.

In the cellars of your conscience – you will willingly extend your ear lobe hoping he whispers, again.

Heading home, a yearning for the next dose of the body whisperer will be the only pain you will have to endure.


Ever seen a creased, folded and crumpled one hundred bob. One threatening to tear at the seams after spending a lifetime squeezed in the sweaty palms of a tout. Then when it’s handed over to you as change, it’s as though someone handed you a wet wipe they just blew their nose with. How gross. How grotesque. Right?

Two months ago that was my back. It was in a deplorable state. It was as useful as a wet wipe someone just blew their nose with. It wasn’t functioning. It lost its utility. But that’s only half of it. It was also in excruciating pain. The sort of pain that makes your soul grimace. 

I played a football game and after swinging my foot to shoot the ball. I knew. Something was off.

A joint must have been dislocated. A muscle dislodged. I knew, instantaneously, my back would be in disarray. That swing of my foot would be the last straw. The bottom had fallen off. The pain would officially set in after my evening shower.

Followed the stages of grief for the ensuing two weeks. I’m a sucker for denial. I get off denial. Ignore the pain and it ceases to exist. Do what girls do all the time. Ghost it and eventually it will vanish. Only it doubled down. After a week, I could neither bend nor stand upright. I slept in fits and starts. Walking was a severe and brutal punishment. I was an orthopedic mess. 

So I had to fasttrack my sojourn from denial to acceptance. I needed to act yesterday. Being a big fan of alternative medicine, I resorted to mrenda. Jute Mallow, if you must. Thus far it has cured everything for me. Including anger issues. Mrenda is an antidote yanked out straight from God’s pantry. It’s a shame big pharma would never acknowledge it. After drinking numerous bowls of the slimy substance it was only my bowels emptying but it wouldn’t get rid of my pain. In fact it would get worse. Try combining pain and hunger. I was now bewitched. 

Eventually I had to pick up the gauntlet and seek medical recourse. 

I perched at the Sports Injuries and Wellness clinic. Talk about love at first sight. Courtesy of a recommendation from a pristine middle-aged lady called Christine. It’s where, wincing in pain and begging for help, I met Lameck. Physiotherapist in chief. 

He’s an unassuming strapping young man who smiles at bad backs because he fixes them for a living. What took me by surprise was how simple the diagnostic process was. No MRI’s. No Xrays. Just looks and vibes. Okay that’s extra. Rather under observation I was led to do a few movements here and there before an abrupt prognosis was made. 

“The pain stems from your tightened hamstrings, they are weighing your back down hence causing you pain, we have to work on freeing those muscles.”

Honestly, I wanted to dash off because the deal was too good. I thought he was a charlatan. Nobody diagnoses anyone with just moves and inshallah. I don’t care if you are frigging Hippocrates. If it’s that easy then it’s likely he’s a quack. Yet I was wrong but I was later to learn something – the veracity of a man who knows his stuff.

I kept wondering why he wouldn’t shut up while working. He kept probing, asking questions about my life, work, what football team I support. Senseless small talk. Jibber jabber. I found it unprofessional but soon I’d understand why he was doing that. To get my mind off the pain that would follow. It was a necessary distraction.

This guy kneaded and twisted my back like he was making dough for chapati. He used goddam elbows to massage me. Elbows! What am I? A reptile?  He offered that I could scream if need be. He kept talking while I complained of pain and I thought to myself if dawa ya moto ni moto is actually a thing. What I found incredulous is how he kept affording a smile every time I wailed. What a sadist. Mr.Schadenfreude. But he insisted it had to be done.

Then he took it up a notch and dispensed with my boxers. Without asking, suddenly I felt my mood droop. There’s no higher indignity than having your ashy booty exposed to a fellow man. I wanted to cry. I wanted to make a confession on live tv. I wanted everyone who would watch that confession to believe me. 

That I was defiled. “ He just swooped my boxers away and……. *sobs hysterically*” 

Lameck punched on those gluteus like they were a computer keyboard from the 90s. I wondered what he’d do if I let out a nagasaki fart but I refrained. He paneled all those muscles back in line. From my butt to thighs downwards. He was ruthless in his motions. It appeared as though he was solving a rubik’s cube and he wouldn’t relent until it all came symmetrical.

He’d wrap up with some chiropractor ish. Back snapping stretches and neck jerking exercises ultimately letting out his Ombachi alter ego.

The first priority for me was to cover my buttocks then look him in the eye and act like he didn’t see anything. I’m glad he’d play along. No snide comments were made. He’s a professional. What happens in physio stays there. As soon as I left for home, I felt relieved like something was done right. The session was gruesome and discomforting but worth its while in the end. Pain can indeed precede pleasure. 

Excuse my intrigue but this was the first time in my green years, to see a physiotherapist. I never knew it was that intense. Or anything like it. I didn’t know it was so hands on and intimate. 

I didn’t know the body was a pot of clay awaiting molding. 

I thought I’d have chia seeds on a platter coupled with green tea then I’d be sent home to work on my sitting posture. I thought I’d be told my energies were all jumbled up and I’d need to work on my alignment.

But I thought wrong. Physio is hard work. Physio is nakedness. Physio is vulnerability. Physio is commitment.

When I asked Lameck if whatever he was doing was science. He was quick to interject, “ And art! Physio is a science and an art!” 

Then he went on and said something smug, “I didn’t choose physio. Physio chose me.”

I have never missed a session since.

The penny dropped. I was in the presence of the gods. Of art. Of a body whisperer.

Nowadays I saunter like a peacock. Art is responsible for my healing.

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