Dumped! Using sign language

Anyone who has ever tried dumping a lover knows pretty well it is not a walk in the park. There are outbursts of emotions to deal with, and depending on the nature of the relationship just about to be concluded, there is invariably an overriding fear of how the other party will take it.

Now, take it from me women are much more resilient when it comes to dealing with breakups than men. A woman can be dumped today, cry the whole night and tomorrow, she will be confidently tacked in someone’s arms, completely fooling her next catch into believing that she is alright. It has happened to me. A chick who made you believe(read assume) you meant the world to her casually walks off and moves into the next relationship so casually it hurts. Sometimes, she can decide to pick it up with a close friend on the rebound. This just goes to show that someone’s trash is in indeed treasure.

For men, especially this generation, it is something different. When a man is dumped by a woman that he truly cherished, he can commit suicide. Men love but once. Women are capable of loving again and again. Only the wrecks with big cocks who give them a sex of their lives they never let go from their hearts-think the typical bad boy Mike that they keep on singing two years down the line.

But dumping has become common place in a town like Nairobi, even though the habit of getting back together is just as commonplace. Lately, I wonder why guys even care to break up. Because having occasional sex with your ex seems not only fashionable but also institutionalized.

Facing someone to explain that you have to part ways requires skills. Good skills. Like a PR expert. Like a good diplomat who can tell you to go to hell in such a way that you look forward to the trip. You need enough emotional intelligence. That ability to emotionally connect with his or her inner turmoil as you explain why you are better off apart. Acceptance is always a problem in these matters.

Of course, everyone is familiar with the common line along the words,

“This one is about me. I know you deserve better. I’m not the right man/woman for you. I seem to be going through much. So we should part ways and pursue our own dreams, if we were meant to be, we will always get back to each other,”

If told to a lady, she will cry herself sour. To her, this is sheer rejection. She will run a quick self-examination questioning her looks or personality and will take a flight to a place called denial for as long as she wants. If she wanted to stay, she will plead. But what I know about men, once they have made their mind, it is done. It is irreconcilable. If a man switched off, especially sexually, it is hard to get his groove back. I think something in us just dies.

On the other hand, if it is a woman doing the dumping and has decided to do it verbally, she will be killing the man’s ego. Dumping is a man’s job. It is masculine. It bolsters our egos. But my experience around this town has shown that there as many women doing the dumping as there are men. And women do it differently.

A woman never dumps a man, until she is half way into another relationship with her financial, social and more importantly sexual security guaranteed. When a woman meets a man who treats her better (better here means, he can tolerate her crap or can subdue to her numerous demands), she will give the man a test run that includes a good shag before she concludes matters on the other end. No woman dumps her present catch until the future is certain.

When she shows up to break the news, she will always be unnaturally good or extremely moody like you have really pissed her off. Women can never be tactical on this one. Sometimes they can be blunt and get away with it. They offer to be friendly afterwards, but there’s always that evil grin of stupid conquest. What I hate most is their dishonesty. When you ask them, if it is another man?
“No, I’m not jumping into another relationship. I have been through a lot with you and I need some time off…”bullshit! Right there, she is busy texting him to meet for coffee. F*** coffee.

Either way, there is never an easy way out.

Use sign language

The commonest means of dumping is using sign language. Here are the common signs that all is not well;
• When the number of calls and messages go down, is obvious that you should read the signs.
• When she breaks the pattern of regularity, always busy with what sounds legitimately commitments, it is time to inquire about stuff.
• When the phone suddenly becomes a private affair with passwords to even lighting the flashlight.
• When there are no calls whatsoever forthcoming when you expecting them.
• When any sort of dependence is no longer called for. The other party becomes suddenly independent.
• When he starts flirting with women in your presence, a habit hitherto not witnessed it means a part of him has died. Take a clue boy.
• When there is always a reason to stay away from you.
• When the reception becomes ice cold each growing day with all the niceties and sweet nothings suddenly disappear.
• When the tongues begin to get suddenly to get as careless as possible and traces of untold rudeness begin to emerge.
• When your belongings, especially those lady with the clichéd habit of leaving behind small things like pants and earrings are relocated and your question is met with some still hostility, it means move out the next occupant is just about the corner.


Of Successful SONU election, my involvement and the bleak future of student leadership

I take a break from the usual men-women stuff and drop something about political leadership in the University of Nairobi. The usual tales and whining on whining  will resume next week

This week, I will be autobiographical and wax philosophical about my involvement in student leadership and politics of the University of Nairobi. I must admit from the outset that it is not something mildly colourful or worth writing home about, but it is an experience worth noting.

I have been closer to the former chairman and the lady who was in charge of the caretaker that took charge after the union was disbanded and I participated in the just concluded elections manning the biggest polling station.

My involvement in the student leadership can only be labeled as active-passive. I have always been there in the decisive moments even if my involvement was no more than observing the goings on. Let us get it on.

It all started with me picking Bachelor of Arts when selecting my degree. When I joined campus, I picked Political Science, Language & Communication and Literature. But it was the Literature class where everything imploded. The Literature class was the most talented class to have ever been assembled anywhere in a Kenya University. You can take that to the bank.

Everyone in the class was something, or was on his way to become something and they have accomplished their dreams in their stay in campus. There was me, already published with the major dailies. There was Alex Kirui, already an established children cartoonist. There was Boniface Mwalii, a gifted rapper, who apparently shelved his rapping ambitions and settled for the media job and is responsible for the popular Campo Sanity column in the Sunday Nation’s buzz, which was essentially the brainchild of a small group we formed called The Sentry. There was Charlene Kimara who chaired the caretaker for one year and was in charge of the SONU election as the lead commissioner, and a commendable job she did. Charlene also has a promising career in music and academia. All the best. Among others who will definitely colour this country in one way or the other.

And there was David Osiany. The tall, flamboyant chap shot with the gift of the gab and a voice that is a cross of Ken Rogers and Don Williams when he is singing. The first time he spoke in class, everyone knew that he was an extra-ordinary individual. There was an overbearing confidence about him, partly bordering on arrogance, partly bordering on self-confidence and completely disarming.

We became friends with David who had meteoritic ambitions. He wanted to become the SONU chairman in first year. On second thoughts he chose to run for the Faculty of Arts representative and we run some of the most unusual campaigns, door to door and ladies were especially impressed by his oratorical skills that completely wooed them and they voted overwhelmingly for him. He became quite a larger-than-life figure invariably amazing people by his gift of the gab.

Over the same period, one Dennis Marangu, the then chairman for Nairobi University Arts Students Association (NUARSA), was courting me to join the organization to help him edit the largely ambitious Bi-lingual Magazine called-Sauti Readers Journal-owing to my considerable background in the media. Dennis is one of those guys who is always brimming with ideas and readily talks about them incessantly and can be tedious about them. But a great chap he was. A true inspiration.

These are some of the chaps who the government ought to recognize. Some of his ideas were too precious. Too bad that he was born on the wrong part of the world. In the next election, I was elected, or appointed to be the Publicity secretary of NUARSA. Later on, the UN launched its inaugural talks on environment with NUARSA which Osiany moderated and from then henceforth his star kept rising. On the other end, our writing was getting published and life was generally good. I feel wistful nostalgia about it.

My role as the NUARSA publicists remained in the title only and doing some editing for the magazine that had brilliant ideas but badly assembled with enough typos to be sued any publisher worth his salt. Sauti Readers sold a good number of copies that saw even Stanford University ask for the subsequent issues. So unfortunate that the magazine never quite took off and one of my painful regrets I carry on with from the University.

In second year, Osiany went for the chairmanship, making history by trouncing a former SONU chair, Ngaruiya KJ(something very unhistorical, any former student leader or someone suspended making a comeback always got an automatic entry into the union). I grew to admire his (Ngaruiya) iron guts. Hate him or love him, he is a dedicated individual, vengeful at heart and must settle any score even if it takes ages. Can make quite a good character for my novel. His oratorship and convincing tactics saw him elected into office.

In the meantime, I was climbing up in NUARSA contentedly becoming the Vice-Chair. I had my eyes on the Prize: Become the NUARSA Chair, which in retrospect was by far a much visionary move than going for often murky politics of SONU.

In third year, Osiany committed what has been largely considered political suicide when he chose to do the unthinkable: running for the second time ignoring the will of his closest of friends. He persisted and the students protested and this saw the school shut down pronto and with that I lost 45 days rather unnecessarily.

I remember at the time being induced into the Caretaker Committee and refusing thinking that students deserved better. I stuck with NUARSA, became the chair after running my own elections with my partner in crime in the name of Bon-I. I was later to join the

Caretaker as the Main Campus representative and sat among the 18 representative who were generally not any different from the SONU politicians. I’m not being holier-than-thou, if anything I have had my fair share of not so clean dealings within but I’m just saying we are all cut from the same cloth. If anything, I observed rather curiously that most of the individuals there had tried something in SONU but failed miserably.

With the eventual looming return of the SONU, we positioned ourselves to be the commissioners in the SONU elections after the long brainstorming sessions that saw the seats eventually being reopened for self-sponsored students. The talks were laborious and painstaking. Sometimes too acrimonious. The Kikuyu-Luo rivalry nakedly informed the decisions and one could the long distance we have to travel in order to trounce tribalism in this country. Fists occasionally were exchanged. But eventually we delivered SONU, less controversially and Babu Owino becomes the first ever Module II to lead a public university and boy, did he spend?

There is nothing prestigious about being a student leader in the university. It is a gate-pass to steal or spend recklessly the students’ funds available. It is about feeling important in an environment where the next student doesn’t give a damn about who you are or what you do. More than half the student population don’t even know who the Chair is. And Nairobi University students won’t give a damn, or a fuck even if they had 20737 of them. Something that distantly amuses me.

I have had my moments. I have rubbed shoulders with the who is who in the university. I have encountered the who is who in the country but the only thing that is consistent about all these people is their myopic nature. Their insecurities with their jobs. The paranoia. The lack of objectivity. The appalling selfishness. Oh my!

It is impossibly difficult to pull something constructive for the student if you are a well-intentioned individual. The stifling bureaucracy will either make you a thief or simply drive you to give up on stuff. The old guard and the complacent young, ever so willing to bootlick, conspire to stifle any move that generally elevate the university to a truly world class university.

All I know, is the university has a long way to go before it achieves the world glory. Taming tribalism and getting the village out of the students is a better place to start…It is hard to find a student leader who can sustain a moderately academic argument before resorting to tribalism or fists. It is impossible to see any visionary leader. Many an excellent student would rather die than try politics. Reminds one of the wise donkeys in George Orwell’s Animal Farm. They were wise but never could talk…No wonder we always get the leaders we deserve.

A trip down Coast, fate’s big cock and my roving eye

It is now official that I should steer clear of spirits. Thrice I have disowned my girlfriends in a club, just but to get the number of that quiet chick on the next seat. Thrice I have behaved rather badly, like throwing up or dancing in a manner that at least sends half of the people on the dance floor to their seats. Thrice I have had to nurse really nasty hangovers. I woke up feeling like three old women are dancing in my head to three different tunes. I have woken up feeling very cold but drenching with sweat profusely. Very dry on one cheek and very wet on the other. Spirits.

No wonder they have those funny photos Tigers crying and lions sweating with a snowy mountain in the background.

Moving on fast, last Friday, I wanted something different. Something unfamiliar. Not the routine drinking at military joints where beer comes at a cheaper than the regular price in your average night club in uptown Nairobi. Some lady friend owed me drinks but they were not forthcoming (@Lo, this is sheer kidding). Hence an alternative plot was readily welcome.

A trip down Coast

If you were born and raised in the Western half of Kenya, a trip down Coast is something that you always look forward to. Everyone who has been to the Coast, just but once is always nostalgic about it rather blithely.

We all go to Coast for the first time mostly from school either through an academic trip or a sports tournament. Were it not for the school trips most individuals would never ever have made it there. At university level, you will either go through the school or if a lucky girl, some naïve yuppie can squander his formative salaries on you with carnal expectations at the end of the day. The man realizes for the first time that paying for sex does not necessarily happen in a brothel or K-street, if anything still happens there.

The girl on the hand discovers that her body can take her to places, quite literary. All she has to do is ensure that it is not that part of the month, act and dress pretty. Put her best smile on, find a place and lock her issues and moods and be ready to give some really rapturous sex in the 3,4,5-star hotels. Either way one is using the other and thus it cancels out. Later, the girl can plaster the photos on Facebook (we all do, don’t we).

When you go as student, you must run on a shoe-string budget. You eat at the normal roadside hotels, sleep in cheap hotels and buy the cheap stuff along the beach. Later in the other half of the 20s one can afford a 3-star hotel with a woman who is not very materialistic. If she is material, then boy, you gotta wait longer or start stealing or evading tax. But either way, Coast is the ultimate tourist destination for many a Kenyan who was not born there.

The most stupid, imbecilic men in campus

You would think that three years in the university are enough to allow the university to go through a person as well him or her go through the university but sometimes the truth can be shocking.

The most stupidly inane thing I have ever encountered in the University happened this past Friday. We had been preparing to go to the Coast over the last two months and Friday was the day. Unfortunately, it was Friday the 13th. You always trash such things until Fate decides to screw you with a really big dick to make you understand that 13th is an evil number. How?

See, back in March we organized low key friendly matches amongst the halls of residence. With it came a few dollars that we had to share with some players and the school games tutor. A quiet woman who astounded me with her venality. She asked for a kick-back half the money and refused to back down once we started bargaining. In the spirit of future interactions she had her way with the promise that come this trip, we will certainly get our cut. We have worked so tirelessly to get the money out and the last thing on our mind was that this lady could pull some mischief on us.

Then came this trip and little did we know that we had a few enemies in the bus who succeeded in locking us out of the bus completely.

Ruth and Brenda

In such trips, mischief is the name of the game. We knew this hence Henry, my sidekick decided that we book the ladies accompanying us in poshy Coastal bus and deal with the manly stuff of bargaining for our cut in the school bus we were supposed to be travelling in. So Ruth, Henry’s girlfriend and Brenda, the Kalenjin hotie from the previous blog were lumped together for the first time and we hoped they will get along well.

The wild goose chase

We got to where the bus was parked, at Serena, most likely to avoid Henry. We were also in the company of Diddy, a tall, objectively violent person and a chest thumping Manchester United fan with enough amazing Man U stats. We missed the bus by a whisker and thought it was an oversight and chased it through the fast moving traffic all the way to Uhuru Highway where they stood waiting for us for at least two minutes. As soon as they saw us approaching the bus, they took off and disappeared into the clear Uhuru Highway into Mombasa road.

We called the powers that be in the University but patently, there was little intervention. We grabbed a cab and started chasing the bus in the hope that they will stop somewhere to pick the rogue games tutor. To our surprise she was apparently in the bus in spite cheating us that she was to be picked at the City Cabanas.

We chased. And we chased. Into Embakasi. Into Mlolongo. Into Machakos Junction. All along being lied to that the tutor was yet to be picked. We felt like fools. Sheep, probabaly. We knew the taxi fee was shooting through the roof and decided to turn back. As we came back, we decided on spot that we were going to Mombasa, school bus or no school bus.

The art of being a man

The better part of being a man is that you can make decisions instantly.
Crisis: The taxi man wanted Ksh.5000
Problem: We had little cash on us.
Predicament: Our women were already on course to Mombasa.
Dilemma: We could miss a bus to Coast as night was fast catching up with us.

So Henry called on his man Omosh at Mash and booked some three seats and we went back to negotiate the taxi fee that was scandalously high…On getting back to Nairobi, we bought some Viceroy, fries and chicken for a quick supper and tucked ourselves into the back seats of the bus, feeling wasted, cheated, violated and shortchanged.

Whatever happened to the spirit of comradeship? When we joined, a University bus never got full and you will never leave a comrade behind, much less a student leader no matter how greedy or high the stakes are. So those men who did us wrong, get your facts right and that was the most unmanly thing that you can do. But that is water under the bridge.

In retrospect, that was fate’s big dick screwing us. Besides it was Friday the 13th . It must be something we did back in March. That was cancelled.
Our times at the Coast

We touched down at the Coast exactly 6.20 am to a warm and breezy morning. The Coastal town was up and husky contrary to the common stereotype traded that Coastal people are genetically slow.
First thing fast (sic) we headed to Mtwapa to secure an hotel and freshen up before we take on the Coast. It starts to rain and this gives our drive from the town to Mtwapa. It brought out the balmy, ashy effect to the weather that promises a brighter day ahead.

As soon as we booked the rooms, we took to the next Roadside joint and ordered enough meet to give us gout by 30. After that heavy brunch, we headed to town with the intention of leaving our women and try to chase the men and the rogue woman who stole our cash. We get to Mombasa Poly only to find our students stranded there with no plan to play at all. There was a Coca-Cola sponsored tournament for high school kids that we watched for two hours before going back to town and join our girlfriends and kick the fan ball rolling.

We hook up at Casablanca, sipping Red Bull and Soda having been joined with another Ruth, Henry’s girlfriend’s cousin. She is quite some piece of work but she has a fiery attitude that can explode a petrol tanker and I opt to steer clear of her pronto.

We get to Pirates Beach to swim briefly, ride a bicycle, en route to our hotel rooms. We grab a few drinks at the overly priced Pirates Beach Hotel and some bitings as we witness Manchester lift the premier league trophy for the record 19th time. History. Hey, sometimes we regret how we ended in Arsenal.

Onwards we march to our rooms, quick showers and a much quicker supper. Our budget was getting constrained, so we decided to enhance our bodies with a few spirits that nearly ruined the evening. The ladies settled for Vodka as we deposited Guinness and Viceroy in our bank.
At Bella Vista and my roving eye

We went partying at Vista, which I must admit is one of the better clubs I have ever been to. The crowd is well controlled and the spacing was good enough. We settled into a corner table and ordered our drinks. The mood was amiable and exciting. So far, our women had been behaving, void of drama and as respectably as possible, something not so common in the University Female Community.

A few drinks down the line and I started my usual drama in night clubs. No matter how hot the woman accompanying me is, I always develop a thing for the chick in the next seat. I have often disowned my girlfriends swearing by my great grandfather from the paternal side that I don’t know them just but to get the number. Not that I pursue them afterwards.

On this rainy Saturday, the missus was giving quite a raunchy lap dance and undoubtedly everyone would tell that she was in deed my chick.

But there was this chick in the next seat in a skimpy purple dress. Pretty and confident though she seems the type who can describe no less than 100 ceilings, if you get the drift. She disappears on me. The seat’s next occupant is a tall chick; possess the coastal, light-skinned beauty and a body that had sexy written all over it. I kept winking at her and her smiling back. She nabbed to dance with her but I pretended to be too busy when in the really sense I can’t move my two feet anywhere in the dance floor. I did the usual Nairobi thing…

“Number,” I said whispering.

“I only associate with men who are not taken, there is your girlfriend,” she said with the natural politeness born of the coastal upbringing.

“Who?” I asked ruefully.

“That one,” she said pointing at her.

“Nope, she is not, she is just a chick I came in with…”

Apparently people were taking notes.

My drama was becoming intolerable and my company decided that I had had one too men, it was time to go. As we got downstairs, it was raining like hell. As they were deciding, I ran back to get the number. Before she could give me the number, my company decided to come back.

Brenda finds out I’m talking to her and boy, did hell break loose. I have never seen a woman so irked.

“Silas, you don’t do that!” It was a command and she was justifiably pissed off. But thanks to my fictive mind, I got off this one by creating a long story that can entertain another blog.

As Henry tried to get of the stranger who had occupied our seat, there was imminent violence.

“Hebu tokeni hapa, tulikuwa hapa mbeleni.”Henry said trying to sound as Coastal as possible.

“Waniambia nini? Mi nilikuwa hapa tangu klub ikijengwa( spoken in the slow, arrogant casual Coastal accent).

Just how much should one spend on a campus chick?

In the absence of height, charm, wit, humour, Money and what it can bring has the same biological effects on a woman, thus sometimes someone has to spend in order to get a woman to bed.

Ksh 137,000. That is the amount of money my buddie Osborne spent on his girlfriend this past Easter down at the Coast. No exaggeration. Consider, they took that unfamiliar air route, were housed in some  swankier hotels in Malindi, Mombasa and Lamu. It could be more I suspect.

Osborne is one of my quiet and reserved friends. An ardent Liverpool fan, he is a different kind of guy. Can be painfully adamant, like insisting on supporting Liverpool. He is short, invariably in the most expensive casual wear. He possesses a sharp, quick wit and some substantial intellectual nerve that can sustain a decent conversation on worldly affairs. He is a big fan of my writings, both in this blog as well as in the newspaper and often agrees with my often debatable take on things.

Lisa, the girlfriend-wonder where she got that name from, it is too gisty for a Kenyan woman-is your next door type of lady. She is not immediately beautiful. But there is a sexual aura about her that is tangibly sensual. She has that desirably slender figure and signs of acquired class are evident. The type that discovers what a carrot cake is and develops a sudden inexplicable liking for it.
She looks the type who can make a very dutiful mistress in the future. Loyal as long as the cash is coming. Lisa, like fish, has a specific liking to shiny things in life. She looks the type who can abandon you if your pocket becomes inconsistent without as much as a backward glance.

Osborne on the other hand is possibly the richest kid in my class. His bank account must have clocked a million, courtesy of family business and his sharp business acumen. He is a romantic but his approach is heartbreakingly destructive and financially crippling.

Here is the catch; they broke up upon returning from the Coast and Lisa moved onto the next chap disposing Osborne as a used tampon.

I was having some real animated chat with Osborne as he narrated this to me and actually he felt like a used tampon. He was at the right place, but at the wrong time.

This got me thinking. Just how should campus guys spend on the objects of their desire?

I will not be the best one to judge, given I have had my fare share of financial indiscretions. I have spent money recklessly on women. And by this, I don’t mean the cheap dinners and the countable beers in the crowded clubs of Nairobi.

Just slightly more than a year ago, my dawg Bon-I and yours truly smoked our hard earned cash on two women, up in Kapsabet where we had gone for a burial ceremony of a departed fellow.

See, we had just been paid on a Thursday, something that can pay rent for six months in a decent neighbourhood such as South C. The following day, some two young lasses had accompanied us and we had other parallel arrangement to the funeral. The funeral went on fine. Later on in the evening in Eldoret, we were drinking very pricey drinks and booked into the most expensive hotels for two days. My dawg Bon-I was getting his groove on while my catch had busted me in the least likely of twists to a story that I can’t discuss in this forum.

But we learnt. We did, for sure.

When I was growing up, it was considered taboo to give women money in order to get laid. This may be explains the stinginess of my clansmen. It was presumed that any man worth his salt could pull down a woman’s pant without spending even a single cent. That was in the village. Even buying soda was a sign of weakness. Those who were known to be spending were deemed weak, stupid and silly.

However, for me, I always held that there are men who must spend in order to get laid. And we ain’t discussing prostitution here. I mean, buying a dinner, some chocolate or flowers, whatever she fancies. Some men are not gifted with even a small modicum of charm, wit, humour and height to turn a woman on. And as far as nature can provide, that is the much women demand. The only other alternative is money. Money and what it can bring has the same biological effect on women as the aforesaid qualities.

Ever wondered how some men can lay just about any woman without spending even a single cent? Ever wondered why some chaps are always under undue pressure to impress, if only to get laid? You have seen those women who you must deliver pizza on Tuesday, a burger on Thursday, take her to a movie on Friday, get her out of town and then at the end of the day the only reward you can get is some pornographic sex, that is if she is generous enough. Recent research has shown that, the most demanding women can hardly pull any magic in bed.

Campus women
Spending on a campus chick is a risky adventure. By spending, I don’t mean the Friday night clubbing and buying pizza on Tuesdays. I mean really big time spending. Yeah. Buying phones and other fancy electronics. Going out in the Mara, or the Coast and other affordable destinations.

We spend on women for a number of reasons. The first and the most obvious, is to get laid. There are women whom all you need is buying simple dinners, drinks and going out occasionally and you are good to go. Think the pant-removing powers of black ice.  This is the quickest route to get laid.

Secondly, we spend to retain the chicks we really want to keep. The women we really value as girlfriends or candidates for wives. This is normally a very rational way of spending. Highly recommended and rarely does a man has to overspend. If you have to borrow money from a friend or a soft loan in order to sustain a relationship, walk out. She is simply out of your league. In Nairobi, women come with price tags.

Thirdly, we spend to impress on women. As men we have egos as big as the Chinese wall. When we unleash cash and treats, awing women, it is a sure turn on. This is common place, especially if you are a pseudo celebrity in the company of female groupies with exquisite tastes. Have you ever noticed that women are a very understanding lot?  They always try to eat the best you can afford.

Hence you have this lady from Buru, who can eat your chips and chicken and compliments you profusely. The following day, she will be in Trattoria in the company of his white boyfriend ordering sea food. We have ladies who can take beer if that is what you can afford, but if you look loaded, Zappa and other overpriced cocktails served in fashionably moulded glasses will do.

Finally, we often spend for good time sake. We often get these good women whom you don’t really mind sitting down and eating just about anything and talking about just anything. We have those women who are not gold diggers, not bitchy or have those really fanciful tastes. If anything, they can even foot their own bill. Or they are not really loaded but out of your own volition, you decide to spend on them.

The issue here is how much is enough, considering we are competing with really impressionable yuppies who drive cheap Toyotas. It is scientifically proven that cars have an aphrodisiac effect on a certain class of shallow women. They see a ride and they can pull down their pants faster than you can say, er, pants. OK: What does a car and six bottles of Black Ice have on women? Clue: refer to the preceding sentence.

Given that we are not very much loaded, I always advice my friends to cut their coat according to their cloth. In a university such as ours, our women are extremely exposed to varied tastes that we can ill-afford to sustain their demands. It is not their fault. Blame the environment, the TV, the magazines and the rotten city that is Nairobi. Of course we are on course towards fulfilling the vicious cycle of coming back to hanyaing in campus.

Thus before one spends, one must determine what is in it for him. If it is a quick lay, get to know when you will cut it off. If you want a stable relationship, it doesn’t hurt to let her know your exact financial ability. A woman who loves you specifically for your money is dangerous and selfish. A woman who loves you for your cock is dangerous, selfish and immoral. A woman who loves you for who you are is the best thing that can happen. And getting one is as rare as meeting a young woman who can admit to have done an abortion, yet there are like three in every five. By the way I’m not a statistician.

Spend wisely. Remember, women retain all the memories about the good things they do to you; meaning, the freaky bedroom moments. They have an hormone called, forgetiosis that makes them to conveniently forget all the best things that you ever bought for them. Women.

So as you spend, establish if she is the right woman. Whatever you spend, it should correspond with your income. Spending over Ksh 100 000 and for you to be left so casually can break any man’s heart, and in deed Osborne is now reeling from the financially disastrous effects of Easter. Lisa on the other hand seems so comfortable with her new catch, a loaded man in junior class. I can’t see any trace of guilt in her. Lisa. Women.