Of house parties, stolen kisses, useless talks and cougars

I recently kissed a notable local female celebrity. Not that I kiss and tell, it is immature, impish, petulant, childish, stupid, silly but for the sake of this prose, I will narrate. For starters it was not the most electrifying or arousing kiss I have had in the longest time. I am not the best kisser in town but it helps for bragging sake when I am out with the boys and her voice comes through  the radio. More like a watchman making out with a minister’s daughter, or worse the wife. These are some of the things that make us equal other than beer. Let us talk about house parties.

House parties

I loathe house parties. Very few house parties I have attended where alcohol supply was enough. Guys of my age invariably turn up with hard liquor that I no longer drink. Spirits have a way of unleashing the beast in me. After many years of soul searching in search for a brand, I have settled for good old Tusker. I tried Guinness but that stuff can fuel a vitz. I still drink it when I am broke, though. I have tried Pilsner but never quite liked the taste. I had a brief affair with Tusker Malt but it didn’t last for long.

I then tried Heineken but my buddy Paulo told me that I lack the software to decode the crispness advertised…I skipped. Either way it was expensive. So I went back and apologized to good old Tusker and we have had a formidable relationship. If I have to cheat on Tusker, a bottle of Gilbeys’ and some Lime Juice have proved worthwhile companions in doors. I digress.

I loathe house parties. Almost always, the loo will be messed up after a while and I normally have a sacred relationship with washrooms. I can’t stand a dirty Johnies. Water has a way of running out or proving insufficient given the number of guests and the gatecrashers. I hate house parties because individuals get drunk faster on the alcohol mostly they have not contributed. At worst I look at house parties as inevitable extortion form our hedonistic friends. Someone thinks of some fancy idea (a birthday, housewarming or anything); calls on friends to arrive with a Mzinga and the rest as they say will be on the house.

If a man, he will promise that there will be ladies in full supply and our randy selves will always show up, only to find average chicks with attitudes(how I hate them), beautiful ones but taken and pretty ones who seem to be supplying kisses to just about everyone willing. I recall one house party where one chick kissed three different guys , caressed by the fourth, and still stumbled upon her with yet another of my friends in the bathroom fondling and almost on their way there…The boyfriend collected her two hours later to take her out. She was not very drunk.

House parties. They are so common everywhere I am looking. Two months after finishing campus, my nigger Bon-I has held no less than six of them. I am yet to warm my crib, but it is gonna happen inevitably soon enough. I have attended at least ten such but the result has always been the same. So much for middle-class wannabeism. House parties. While I hate them, my company lauds them so much that every weekend, there is always an invitation to one.

A few days ago I stumbled upon my old high school buddie Michael. We have always called him Michael, never Mike. My classmate in high school is the quiet type of person but can get loquacious when talking about something he is familiar with; IT stuff, soccer and general world affairs. Mike has been dating a really beautiful woman in the mould of Genevive Nnaji-whatever her name is- the hot Nollywood actress. I have silently admired the chick and it looks ominously they are marrying.

Michael is doing well. He used to be that quiet dude in class who commands respect. Not that he was brilliant but he did conduct himself professionally. Although short, there is a silent pedigree about him that makes him command some following and respect.

So I am outside Nation Centre and when Michael and his girlfriend, Michele see me and they both wear the broadest and loudest smiles, quite exaggerated and they moves towards me.  We did the men shoulder to shoulder thing before his chick who is suitably tall gave me the hug of the year. I feigned some talk to elongate the hug but neither she nor Michael know of my little dirty intentions of milking that hug for all its worth. We strike some brief conversation on ‘how’s the going?’, ‘how have you been?’, ‘when is the wedding’ (from me) and then the ever embarrassing ‘where is your mama Sila?’ from Michele that puts an end to that conversation.

By the way when a chick calls me Sila with a mellifluous voice it lifts my soul. But it seems no sooner someone meets me than they pick their own rendition of the name…Sila, Silas, Silasiae, Cyrus(common with Kyuk chicks) et al.

Michele probes me further, “You still hating on women?”

“I have never hated on women at any given time,” I quip.

“But it is all over your Facebook updates, Twitter and your indecent blog…”She was telling me in every bit sarcastic, but Mike came to my defense…

“Silas is no chauvinist, just tells it like it is and you chicks just take offense…”offered Mike.
“He is. He even admits it himself…”Michele stretched the argument. Telepathically, we discovered that she is a woman and only she can win the argument, we dropped the matter altogether and she was quite dissatisfied. There was something she was dying to accuse me off, but I got away with it.

“So what are you up for the weekend?” asked Mike concernedly.

“Nothing much… Just my beer, glad the EPL is back though Arsenal looks shaky…( Michele laughed…imagine young as she is, she has already committed the fatal and lethal blunder of supporting Manchester United. Many women have made that decidedly blonde move to support Manchester).”

“Right, on Saturday, it is Michele’s 23rd birthday; wouldn’t you just come over to my place for the party? It is gonna be big…”

Ordinarily, I couldn’t have turned up. Mike is a silently competitive chap. He competes with me and measures his strides with mine. Something I silently loathe just like the house parties. While on the surface it was an invitation, I silently read that he wanted to flaunt to me that he stays in a poshier place, has a better job, drives (whether it is a family car) and worst of all in a stable relationship.

I am not insecure at all. I have always been comfortable with myself and my pace. Men are egoistical. If I turned down the offer, I was going to hurt him big time. We all need friends from various places to validate ourselves. To measure ourselves…And don’t we always feel good when they start  asking about where we got that aquarium?

So I begrudgingly accepted since he’d even agreed to pick me from my place and without failure he did turn up with two very beautiful ladies who found their nails and hairstyles more interesting than my presence. As we drove back, even with the colourful introductions the chicks had the nerve to forget my name. Anyway we got on well with Mike talking about stuff and the occupational hazards of our jobs (him selling IT stuff and me tarmacking).

We got to his diggs in Kileleshwa and boy! Does Mike lead a tasteful life?

He lives in a two bedroom apartment, tastefully furnished and comfortably housed the 20 or so guests. We arrived and the birthday girl was behaving in every way like a bride. She was jumpy and visibly excited and you could see why. There was food and there were drinks and everything going as planned. And the attendees, save for me, didn’t look in any way freeloaders or gatecrashers. The ladies were fashionable in the skimpy dresses and the perfumes they had on were not from Eastleigh. The men donned leather jacket and seems reasonably older, in their late 20s and I sensed they were eying the lasses. The number of nice rides in the parking explained as much that some high profile affair was in the air in the reasonably quiet evening.

I was doubly nervous. This is not my type of shindig. The guys who come to such places are normally the snobbish types. Guys who think that they own and run Nairobi. Young misguided men with small-time salaries full of themselves. They own sophisticated electronics and constantly fiddling them. No one talks to the other. Guys group themselves into small groupings and have some useless banter. Chicks huddle together comparing their nail colours, weaves and hairstyles and recapping on the various parties they have attended in the recent past. So someone like yours truly has no place to fit.

We entered and Mike offered me some a Tusker can and I asked for a packet of cigarettes. I walked into the balcony and stumbled upon some dude making out with a woman I suspected to be very beautiful but never could see her because of the poor lighting. I walked to the far end and lit one cigarette as I begun to chain smoke to boredom, playing aloof.

The party was getting on well and it was getting noisy with the ladies ever pretentious of enjoying the carefully selected music…No sawasawales, jangu by obsession and such. It was house, trance and good choice of danceable rock. I traveled out of that place emotionally and mentally, minding my own business. I found company in my Tusker can and cigarettes.

I went to the house to get myself another can of Tusker but Mike was not in sight at all. Jeremy’s birthday sex was playing and even though I am quite slow I put one and one together and figured it out. The men were all over the women and there was no lone ranger in sight. The seats, the floor had all been converted into making out zone and the ladies seemed the type trained to moan, rightly. It was getting dirtier even though earlier on I had presumed these lads and lasses seemed decent enough.

I was left wondering what has become of this city. I know it happens morning, noon and night but come on, ladies have not become this loose…or have they?

Cougars and stolen kisses

I have been to a number of parties and what I have consistently observed is that anything goes. You can make out with just about any chick in the house and whoever who plays hard to get, make her feel guilty or jealousy by just doing that with the next willing woman. These house parties are just facades and excuses to get drunk, smashed, make out and have sex for those quick and who know how to grab opportunities right. There is a willing chick or chicks, whether hitched or not, if you push the right buttons they  always play by your way.

If you stumble upon women in their 30s in stable employment enjoying the liquor in such parties, they are the most vulnerable. They drive cars at such points of the night and can readily give it to you on spot. They are always looking for young blood to reinvigorate themselves. These are the women you kiss and they melt down. Trust you me. They so much want sexual fulfillment having achieved the basics. I have a list of friends who have taken up such kinds of jobs.

They kiss them in the privacy of their cars and just about everywhere including clubs. There were days when a kiss was something you sought after for the longest times. Nowadays, even a stranger can kiss you. And a notable female celeb if you are lucky…How it became so easy still escapes me…but it seems everyone in this mad city is loosening up…for worse.
As for Mike, I did enjoy the cans of beers, no end and the cigarettes provided some really good company while you guys made mad mad fun in every sense of that word…and you inspired this week’s long post…
Happy 23rd birthday to Michele. Hope you had fun too baby…not every day a girl turns 23…


Best of Luck….


Why buying Viagra is a tough act for young men…

Ever been sent a stool sample by a doc? I have never. But I bet it is not in the list of top 5000 funniest things. Last week I was tasked with the unenviable task of fetching Viagra for Freddie and ended up visiting 23 pharmacies and chemists, which is just about walking the whole CBD.

Buying a pack of condoms requires a set of three things: anonymity or familiarity; brilliance or dumbness; balls of steel or indifference. It is never a straight forward matter. Chances that you always get the wrong person on the other end are 90%. It is always a motherly or fatherly figure or a young woman who serves you with a sinister grin that you cannot comprehend whether it is envy that you are getting some or pity that you are perverted.

Buying Viagra for a young man (put it 25-35) requires three things; anonymity, dumbness, and indifference. Trust you me, nothing is a sure give away than getting to your pharmacist and asking for the blue pill. Viagra is a reserve for older, potbellied men with Erectile Dysfunction.

But young men do go for what is referred to euphemistically as vitality drugs. These drugs that are advertised in the gents of every night club have become increasingly popular as a substitute to the failing libido of men. I have not figured out why they have not followed the conventional mainstream advertising. They promise instant rewards and users have not complained. They are natural or so they claim and a number of local pharmaceuticals are supplying.

Last Tuesday Fred was back in town. Those unfamiliar with Fred here is a brief intro. He is my randy cousin. He drinks sex. He eats sex. He reads sex. He worships sex. He pays for sex. He sleeps sex. He works for sex. He is a pervert and has a knack for picking really gorgeous redheads with personalities of wolves, bitches, female warthogs and anything in between. Where he gets them, only the devil knows. As in the earlier post where I explained that he brought two prostitutes who stole from our crib, he was back in town and sent me on a fool’s errand to fetch Viagra for him, and what a mess it was?

See, I am your average straight, honest guy. I like my drink Tusker (served extremely cold) and cigarettes (Dunhils have a certain balmy effect on me). When I am lucky I run into a chick who has the patience with my usually outdated stories to get it in with. Those moments are few and far between. Yet I’m surrounded in a sea of categorically beautiful women, that my friends are getting tired for my stunted speed at capitalizing on such opportunities.

My friends and folks are a different lot altogether. I pack the randiest, lustful, lecherous bunch of guys. They are always getting some whether from their exes, girlfriends, friends with no-strings-attached, one night stands, chips fungas or whoever. I’m a letdown since in that sector I am as good as Fernando Torres at Chelsea. Suffice to say that I have access to some of the hottest beauties that Nairobi can offer. Since I am beyond help but still go hanging out with these highly virile men, I invariably endure their exploits, sometimes enjoying rather vicariously. By the way this paragraph is extremely unnecessary, let us cut this crap to what transpired last Tuesday.

At exactly 4.47pm, I was done with my routine visit to town and wanted to get home before the exhaustive Traffic took over Jogoo Road. But Fred was back from Western Kenya and this time apparently to get laid and get laid only. For a whole week, I had been ‘sexiled’ in my own house. I have spent time on the sofa in the living room as Freddie and his woman rule the bedroom.

Somebody protect me from my friends. I am safe with my enemies. There is no way I can deny Fred the bedroom and I have had to put up with his lewd self and a shapely mama who is the most possessive woman I have ever seen. I was a stranger in my house for a whole week. To compound my problems Freddie decided to send me the most humiliating errand, after of course the humbling, yet highly humiliating stool sample debacle in hospitals.

Tragedy 1.
I am a young man. What use that does young man has with Viagra?

Tragedy 2.
I am a tall bugger. At 6’4, albeit skinny, it is an impressionable height. Now we all know the stereotype with tall men. We are well endowed, energetic and of course masters in the game. Women fantasize with or about us as much as men ‘fap’(masturbation for those not on Twitter) with beautiful women. Of course the truth of the matter and this stereotypical fantasy have never don’t know each other.

Tragedy 3.
It is Tuesday for heaven sake. Who is in need of Viagra at the start of the week?

Tragedy 4.
I was only having bus fare.

Tragedy 5.
All chemists are virtually run by young women in town.

But Fred did call.
“Cheki, hebuni bebee Enzoy sachet ka tatu.”

What? Did I get it right? I was holding my breath and was almost questioning whatever that had happened his legendary virility but he hang up on me and switched off his phone. Which basically meant that I had to get him the vitality drug through the thick and thin as he was not ready for any explanation. Besides Fred gets what Fred wants. So I was in a quintrilemma (should mean five dilemmas)

I walked to the bank to try and withdraw the only remaining Kshs 200, just but to get Freddie Viagra. How demeaning? The lengths men go to ensure that their men get some…We have ever eaten school fee with my buddy Bon-I. We have slept on floors for our friends. We have spent many sleepless nights in the cold waiting for our friends to wrap up but they go into extra times and penalties. But it is only funny if it is reciprocal. But if you are always in the receiving end, the joke ends.

I was at Koja as I picked the call. I banked on my facelessness and walked into the nearest chemists at the far end of Tom Mboya and stood in the relatively tiny chemists with amiable Luo attendants. Two were busy serving and I stood staring at the counter, afraid of stating what I wanted, exactly. If I had an STI, I could have trembled less.

A tall, dark middle-aged man of Luo descent walked wearing a disapproving look like he knew what I was up to. And then entered a really beautiful woman in her late 20s who picked some anti-diarrhoea tablets and I couldn’t help noticing the irony. A young, tall man asking for Viagra, and a young beautiful woman with diarrhoea, though I heard her say something to the effect of food poisoning. Anyway, she looked rich and for the rich it is always a stomach upsets or food poisoning. For you and I, it is and will always be diarrhoea. Another irony, she had the balls to ask without as much as batting an eyelid. May be I am a bit childish.

I faked a phone call and walked out. And with that begun one of the most useless walks around the CBD.

I crossed the road and went to somewhere around Roost House. I got into a chemist. There were two proprietors. A man in his early 40s and an old woman, old enough to be my mother. The gentleman had an easy, even understandable face but he was serving another lady who was buying some Flu Gone. The old woman sat far away and aloof, wearing a very sad face, may be the right one given she was dispensing medicine to ailing souls. As the man served, he ran out of the wrappers and stepped into the inside rooms to get some. The old woman asked me in a rustic accent that sounded Meru,

“Nikusaidiaje?” she was sympathetic and empathetic.
I sighed absent mindedly; I actually faked this and wondered out aloud,

“Nilidhanini Agrovet.” How dumb of me?

I promised myself that I was going to buy in the next chemist no matter what, but that is easier said than done. I walked into the next chemist. There were two ladies who seemed jumpy and excited. Now, I have bad luck with such kind of women. I figured out that if I bought, I was likely to run into them in a night club. Believe you me my instincts are always right. If that ever happened, they will be gossiping about me given they know my dirty little secret. I skipped.

I convinced myself in the next pharmacy, I was going to ask about it like I had been sent and wanted the best for my randy uncle. But as I moved back to Moi Avenue and eventually to Kimathi Street, it was increasingly becoming an uphill task. Who could save me from myself? I was perturbed. Fred is not the type that you give a silly explanations that you were afraid. I called on my bolder mates but none was in town.

I thought of the supermarket but I always have bad luck. I was once caught with a very religious friend of mine buying some rubbers and it was an embarrassment as he gave me very judgmental looks as the supermarket attendant took her time wrapping them up for me.

I stood outside Sarova Stanley in mental turmoil comparable to what Gaddafi must be going through. I counted one to ten. I told myself, I was going to select a street at random and any chemists there, I would walk in and get Enzoy, Stamina or whatever that could help boost Freddie’s virility. If there comes a time Freddie needs such kind of drugs, no matter how demanding his women are in bed, it is not a good sign for the entire manhood of this country. Freddie is the answer to the stereotype that men from my community are virile. But if he wants to dope in bed, it left me wondering.

I picked Koinange Street (Funny, right?). I walked up and straight went into the first chemist I came across. No sooner I stood in the counter and placed my order than cold, small feminine hands held my eyes from behind in that lower primary school playful manner. What I normally do, if it is a man, I normally hold his balls instantly and he jerks off, cursing. If it is a lady, I am normally patient. Turns out the lady is Cynthia. Cynthia…*I wanted the ground to open up and swallow men. And then there was a blackout.

No there was no blackout, Cynthia wanted me to be served so that we could walk to the stage together…the sixth tragedy…call it Hexilemma…

Of condom bursts and other awkward bedroom accidents

Everyone who regularly partakes in sex knows two irrefutable facts about protection. One, not many people believe in consistency. Two, condoms have a way of bursting, every so often. Virtually every sexually active man I have spoken to has admitted that once or twice, the little thing has disappointed spontaneously causing considerable anxiety.

It happens when people are drunk. It happens when people are sober. It happens when people are most careful. It happens when people are reckless. It happens during the day. It happens at night. It happens with trusted branded rubbers. It happens with cheap, free and doubtful brands.

For men, it happens on the verge of breaking off (read cuming), potentially putting the woman in jeopardy. It happens when one picks a prostitute or that random risky date. It happens with the virgin who entrusts you with the noble responsibility of introducing her to the ultimate reason of human existence: sex. It happens when she is at her most fertile and vulnerable. Basically it happens at the most dramatic point of the involved individuals’ lives. Like when the man is broke.

Now, nothing spoils a good mood than a rubber getting torn during the act, no less arousing when one is drunk. It is an instant kill joy. Of course the pervert can get a new one and move on with matters on hand but the psychological disturbance of the discovery will override everything and it leaves many a sexually active man in doubts about his HIV status. We all know those of us who consider a visit to a VCT a confirmation of our positivity. And boy! Don’t we dread that one moment?

No wonder I always encounter some really pretty women excited when they are confirmed negative. About five have ever hugged me profusely like I date them when they received the news that they are negative, or was it an offer? It leaves with many oohs and aahs and ‘Kumbe they mess around’. Just goes to show that we like it fresh and fleshy.

Many people in relatively long and stable relationships drop the rubber altogether and the young woman would rather bank on P2s, their devastating effects on their bodies’ health in the long run notwithstanding. We, the younger generation, it seems have an unquenchable lust that finds the rubber unfairly limiting, hence the risk. For a man, we can only think of AIDS. For a woman, there is pregnancy and there is AIDS. Local research has shown that young women are more scared of pregnancy than AIDS.

We are unfortunate to be growing in an era where protection is a natural part of making love. The exciting days of tubeless love are long gone. In the past, gonorrhea and syphilis were curable. But AIDS is still a nightmare and it seems to be quite deep rooted and if real statistics were to be released they can be baffling. But however scary, most women are not responsible enough and normally entrust their men to make that life-changing decision mostly with disastrous results. Men can be convincing.

How men deal with it?
I don’t know the immediate worst fear of women, but those who act unconcerned are considered by men as loose and reckless and can make a man to be extremely worried. But those who go raving mad offer some little reassurance that at least they care about sexual safety, but from my statistics, men are normally more worried about the situation than women on average.

For young men, any sexual activity is hypothetically risky. Any condom bursts involuntarily throws the man into panic. It is selfish I must admit and often the safety of the lady is secondary. Ironically any average man thinks he is likely to be messed by a woman that he can mess her up. While the statistics somehow favour men on this ground, this assumption wrongly presumes all women are infected or always capable of getting pregnant (which is quite right to an extent.) But for men, it is about him, never about the woman. Therefore, women ought to be duly in charge of their sexuality.

When a man discovers that there is puncture, the reaction is normally instant if he is not drunk. But if he is drunk he might opt to go to the end but in the morning the regret is cancerous. Especially, if it was a woman who looked a professional Chips Funga. The fear can only be assuaged by a casual visit a VCT but that is easier said than done. It is a nagging and recurring fear that will scour his mind every wakeful morning.

In the next coming days, he will be constantly afraid of the call. That call when a woman calls claiming that her periods are not forthcoming and she thinks you owe her explanation. Women under such circumstances are or pretend to be indecisive, caught up in the trap of the unexpected pregnancy, the unending abortion debates and school or career in a deathtrap.

Drunkenness and sex
I have encountered young women who told me they like hard liquor or getting drunk when they want to get down with it with like hell. A few weeks ago, I met this extremely gorgeous chick in an upmarket club. She looked of middle class descent and probably in college, at most 22. She spoke a nice cocktail of English, Swahili and sheng. She was completely sloshed but reasonably aware of my presence and constantly reminded me that she liked tall men. She wanted us to get into their car and get something going on.

Now, I no longer drink alcohol to stupendously drunken levels and could only sympathize with this lady who called herself Joan. I excused myself into the gents and disappeared. May be she hated me but we have morals to protect and such opportunities always come but you just have to flip the coin and ask how often does she do that and with who?

It is proven that most condom bursts are happen when individuals are drunk and the sexual pleasure overrides everything at the moment. Drunken sex brings with it all the hedonism that defines modern living but also the consequences. The morning visits to the pharmacists and chemists on Saturdays, Sundays and Mondays are a pointer to unprotected sex and CD bursts.

There are a number of considerations that account for CD bursts; lack of lubrication, temporary vaginismus (google that) expired condoms, having the outer side as the inside (how drunken can one be) , wrong size of the condom (both in terms of length and girth) and too much humping hungrily fast and so forth. Other than lubrication, it is mostly a man’s fault. But again, there is connection between foreplay and lubrication.

It is not immaturity. There are no experts. Even regulars

Female thieves in the Eastlands and other stories

True Story.

Fred, my cousin and the Casanova-in-Chief was in town over the weekend. In one wrong judgment he Chips-fungas two women from the popular Visa place in Umoja II. They end up stealing  shoes, jellies and lotion…and butter, sugar,fruit jam and spices from the kitchen…Getting acquainted in the Eastlands

Every man has that one friend or relative who likes sex, that is if he is not the one. He loves sex, so much that whatever he does is geared towards getting him the next shag. His life is about sex. His thoughts are about sex. He lives only for sex. He works for sex, literary. He can go to very desperate lengths, just but to get a woman to bed. There is nothing constructive with him other than women and sex in particular. He lays any woman: beautiful or ugly; tall or short; intelligent or stupid; young or old; morally upright or a prostitute. Whatever that will get things done.

I have a dozen such friends, but none is too outstanding than Fred, my distant cousin and a longtime friend. In fact our friendship overrides consanguinity. We were together in high school. He never quite passed and he never pursued any college education afterwards. He went into business and his business acumen is unrivaled and I somehow believed that he must have hit his first million. And to think he is only 25. He loves money and women. He is the living vindication of what the Greek shipping magnet, Aristotle Onassis once said: without women, all the money in the world will be useless.

He makes money and he splashes it on women. He also dates a dozen cougars who he knows how to fleece and use their cars to get other women. He is impossible, this boy Fred. Perturbingly enough, he is short and stout, even though he has hit the gym and can flex some muscle that virtually every chick we run into when we are together must notice. Fred always steals the thunder from me. He once bedded two campus women whom I had been eyeing for two years.

He took a record three hours on the first and four hours for the next and no alcohol was used. He met one of them on a Wednesday evening in some Karaoke at around 7pm. By 8pm they were dating. By 9pm she was the girlfriend and I heard her drop the word sweets. By 10pm it had happened in the car. The following day they were exes. She is not the loose, that one I can confirm. He met the other one the following day and made a fool of me by leashing the best lines that have ever been used on a woman. She bought his lines, hook, line and sinker.

They have never given forgiven me for having been taken for a ride. They still want him. Where is this Fred ranting going?

Well Fred was in town this gone weekend, brought two prostitutes to our crib and they taught us our first lesson of Eastland living: avoid any woman aged 23 who drinks at all Costs. But to this we shall return. Details first.

On Friday, last week I was having a bad day. It was the deadline to pay rent a number of bills. The little monthly stipend could not just drop into bank in good time. I was short of cash and I was moving around town, making calls to friends to bail me out America style. I did manage to get all the finances to settle the bills, courtesy of my magnanimous friends and by the end of the day, I was totally spent. I didn’t want to see the sight of beer. I was bitter with myself and wanted to go lock myself in the room, undress and sleep naked meditating.

At exactly 6.08pm, I was torn between getting myself some Hot Masala tea in some hotel as I waited for the traffic to ease or go sit through the jam. Then a call came through from an unsaved number;

Caller: Cheki, kuna street light hapa inafaa kureplaciwa lakini hawa wasee wa kanjo hawana ngazi si ukam hivi Moi Avenue karibu na Nandoz uwaokolee…
It was unmistakably Fred’s well regulated tonal voice, always finding something new to poke about my height, always stupid but refreshingly funny. Anytime he calls like that, he is definitely in Nairobi and wants to flaunt his new catch. He resides in Webuye and traverses towns in Western Kenya where he runs a number of businesses.

Me: Jinga hii usinishow uko area…

Fred: Come Nandoz saa hii…(He always presumes I am in town.)

I was around Hilton and I knew I was in trouble. I knew I was getting drunk and things were born to go wrong at some point in the night. I walked into Nandoz boredom written all over my face, climbed to first floor athletically. It was really crowded with some of Nairobi’s hottest and possibly the loosest women you can come across enjoying their pizza. I personally believe that Nandoz is a gold-diggers den from the way women who throng their dress and the nature of men who accompany them.

Fred is huddled in one corner with a really gorgeous chick but who was too heavy on make- up and the weave did not serve her any justice. She seemed tired and exhausted and was leaning on Fred’s arms and there was some unfinished pizza on the table. I hate pizza. It is the biggest culinary fraud ever invented by men. I compare the Nairobian woman’s obsession with Pizza to her faking orgasms. There is no way that sh*t tastes better than wet wheat flour.

Fred saw me and opened the widest grin he could muster, stood and launched into a chant in mother tongue as he complained how difficult it is to hug me. He introduced me to this hot mama with those ‘take me to bed’ eyes who looked up to me and lazily received my hand and went back into leaning on Fred’s arm looking like my presence only inspired boredom in her. Fred urged her to finish her pizza but she refused saying that she was full. She gave me one look and I had to confirm that my ears were not falling. Ostensibly, she hated my face. I hated her instantly. She was sluttish and scary. She looked the type…Mmmh…lemme spare you that. Her name was Babianka or something like that. Blunder.

Fred doesn’t take crap from women; beautiful or otherwise, rich or otherwise, young or old. He forced her into taking another mouthful of the offending pizza before we walked out. The relationship was instantly frosty and the chick was purposely getting into my nerves. I asked Freddie his plan because I can’t stand a sulk woman, beautiful or not. Even a man with issues is my enemy. Luckily Fred was getting her taxi to take her to South C where she stays with her single mother. Spoilt brat…let her board a mathree, or a Jav as they call them.

With Babianka out of the way, I asked Freddie his plans and why he had chased the girl away…”Tulikuwa lodgo, nishamalizia” was his response. Wa!!!You should see how casual he can be about it. Women ought to be treated better. But with all his abusive tendencies, he attracts more women than you know who…

Way forward. He decided that since I am a broke ass he could buy liquor but we must go where it is sold comparatively cheaper. I decided to take him to my new place SALT along Mfangano Street, off Ronald Ngala St. The club packs the impressionable Eastlands bunch who binge waiting for the traffic to calm down. I have joined the crowd. The stroke of genius for the joint is not even the relatively cheaper beer. It is the waitresses and their miniskirts and fishnet stockings.

Men go there to ogle at those feet. I believe that the waitresses make the beer sweeter. We walk down with Fred telling me the lowdown of all his shags since last April. He is dirty minded with an uncanny knack for portraying a near cinematic kaleidoscope of his bedroom escapades. Almost pornographic. He is one chap you don’t expect to garnish his tales with gallons of salt. If that is what he does, you just pray that he doesn’t encounter your daughter.

We settle there, his first time and in spite of the crowd he likes the place. Within a minute he is seducing a waitress, unknowingly until I explain to him and he thanks the pervert who invented the idea. We empty the bottles pretty fast as he wore me down with his business ventures that I am always a little jealousy and his women. Normally, when he is in town he books into some decently rated hotels along Tom Mboya or thereabout. He once spent at my place in campus and just hated the place. But today, I have moved out and got myself a pad in the Eastlands and he was coming along. Five beers later, we hit the road. I was a little drunk, having not eaten anything.

We got to the house, emptied our bladders and Fred told me that he was hungry and there is no way we were going to cook or sleep hungry.

“Any place here that we can get some Nyama choma?” he asked.

I stay near Visa place in Umoja II and we decided to walk in there to get some juicy steak. We got there, typical of any Visa place it was crowded but in Umoja they play only Kikuyu music that when played long enough begins to sound like a combination Indian music and Bangladeish. I don’t really do that genre of music beyond the popular club hits. Fred ordered some one kilogram of Mbuzi choma and ugali. While waiting it was only natural we drunk some more as he narrated his endless skirt-chasing missions, getting dirtier every minute.

I was getting tipsy and feeling light. After eating I begged we leave but he was totally opposed because he was beginning to like the women around there. The urban legend in Umoja is that 89.83% of women at Visa are prostitutes and dangerous. I had to leave and I left Fred behind. He could find his way to the crib. I left at about one.

Drama at dawn
He knocked on the door persistently, arousing me from a very beautiful dream. I was dreaming that Citizen TV was running a feature on who owns Kenya and I was the subject. Julie Gichuru was telling all and sundry that I am the youngest ever to be profiled and the best part was that I had amassed wealth through cleaner means. He knocked louder and louder and saved me from the stupidly indulgent dream to the realization that one side of my head was fighting the other in what was on course to be the mother of all hangovers. My bad! Whatever is happening to me? I unlocked the door and Fred was in the company of two very old women, mostly in their 30 with stinking weaves.

Alarm bells were ringing in my head. A week ago, electronics worth hundreds of thousands had been stolen from my mate David. Where Fred was seeing sex I was seeing thieves. I jumped into my bedroom, took my laptop, which is my lifeline literary and locked it up. My wallet had a couple of thousand notes for further business and I locked it as well. I stood at the door ordering them around on where to sleep. They were shifty. Fred was too randy. He couldn’t wait to get laid. He had inquired in mother tongue if I had some rubber to spare. They acted pissed off and complained that they wanted to sleep together and couldn’t sleep on the chair or on the carpet. They ridiculously demanded that we let up one bed for them.

This incensed Fred, who in his characteristic vulgar tongue launched missiles their way questioning their looks and sluttish behaviour. He threatened to dismiss them if they didn’t toe the line. They dared him. I stood there watching and cursing at having been robbed my beautiful dream, the way it seemed real. I locked myself and ordered Fred to solve his mess in the other room. Fred ended up chasing them.

I was having an early Saturday. I woke up took a quick shower my head demanding that I tilt it at about 77 degrees. I got to the shoe stand and my latest edition of leather shoes was missing. I couldn’t go searching anywhere. The shoes were barely a week old. I turned into the bathroom to get some jelly, lotion and perfume for my perpetually scaly skin it was missing. Come on…this was proving to be nightmarish. What else might they have stolen?

I prepared breakfast. Went for a loaf of bread and when I went searching for butter, it wasn’t there. And the racks looked scaringly empty.

In the absence of any reasonable electronics in the sitting room and the other room they had opted to kleptomania and pilfered anything they deemed valuable. Eastlands…Introduction.

The trouble with dating average looking women

In my dating escapades, I have encountered numerous categories of women. I must set the record straight from the get-go that I am not the Casanova-in-chief, but I have had my fair share at the game of seduction. I have encountered really gorgeous women who proved out of my league and those who could buy my stories were either too spent, or had one fatal flaw that you pressed skip as soon as you learnt about it. I have dated average looking chicks, every so often, truth be said the world is full of average men and women. And like any man of my age, I have seen my days with women who were not exactly hot and my friends didn’t hide their disappointment or hesitation either. On the same note, I know I have been that not-so-handsome dude to many chicks.

Since most of the time, we mostly deal with average women, I have come to gather and appreciate they can easily be the most complicated lot to date. If you thought extremely beautiful women are a handful, then you better steer clear of the average woman who can be decidedly sticky.

For starters, to their credit average women sometimes have some of the most interesting body parts. The most memorable boobs I have laid my eyes on were from a chick with the most average face. Some of the most well-formed hips or bottoms are mostly from averagely looking women. It is called nature’s balancing act. Just pick any lady randomly with the best sitting apparatus and I bet, you cannot write home much about their faces or vice-versa. And I have enough anecdotal evidence that average looking women leash out some really outstanding performance in bed, mostly as a compensatory factor.

Any man past 24 can tell you that the best sex they ever had didn’t come from a chick with a face of Angelina Jolie. Average looking women normally have the fatal problem of overestimating their beauty and firm believers of makeup. Hence those scary eye shadows and glaringly scary lip glosses inside Nakumatt Lifestyle on a Friday Evening. As for female shoes, I have a specific, inexplicable hatred towards them.

Average women. They are the most sticky and demanding. If you thought a beautiful woman obsessed with her beauty the most tragic thing, then you have not really met a possessive, nagging average chick. Believe you me. Ever noticed that average chicks are twice likely to call you all manner of sweet nothings as soon as the first shag is done?

Average chicks have the tendencies of leaving behind their panties and other paraphernalia in your pad to announce their presence for any woman the man might try to bring home. Average chicks know a thing or two about detecting female presence during their absence. I have had hair strands extracted from the wooden pillar of the bed and questioned the whole night.

Average women have these thing of putting demands, sanctions and all manner of curfews on their men, often to appalling levels. You can’t keep them waiting, but she can keep you. You must always keep part of your bargain. She is under no obligation to fulfill her end of expectations. They demand gifts. They have biological reactions to inanimate objects like a piece of card with banal and hackney words sprayed on it. They have hormonal excitement if you can get them flowers. They believe in love, even when all a man wanted was shag on the go.

If you want to date an average chick, be careful what you say. They are like the police and the legal system, ‘be careful what you say or else it will be used against you in a court of law.’ They are the type that demands full commitment before they can part with their ‘you know what’. You must go through the rigourous courtship rituals; buy the coffees, take her out for dinner, deliver pizza, sambaza her airtime and all manner of gifts in order to get her to the designated destination: Your bed. The preconditions you must first go through are nerve wracking and men give up pretty fast, because they are not worth the chase, quite often.

Quite understandably all these necessities that precede the sex are meant to weed out the jokers. Any man who quits was primarily after sex. Quite strangely, even in this era of cheap and casual sex from every quarter, we have a bunch of average chicks still living under the illusion that relationships are tenable. It gives hopeless romantics like yours truly some hope, but problem is that these women get cheated one time too many and they give up on their ideals.

And nothing like an average woman who has let it go. It is a biological security backup on the women’s part to ensure that no man takes them for a ride, unless, they consent. But most average women, more so teetotalers can really cling to their beliefs. If only their efforts would be rewarded suitably by a man who doesn’t think monogamy is the capital city of Mongolia.

While they do that, any man who has dealt with women long enough will know which side of his bread is buttered and can utter just anything, if only to get laid. When they stick around and tie the man, the men will always forage for it elsewhere.

As a certified bachelor now, my house has been turned into a mating ground by my friends in stable relationships or even married. Their partners are average to say the least but they live under the illusion that they are the only women in their (my friends’) world and anytime I’m in their presence and they are talking, nagging like the own the men, I can’t help but sympathize.

Many women would better understand their potential rather than exaggerating their looks and all aspects that matter in the game of seduction. The selfish desire of the man is always to satiate his pelvic thirst and go. Your selfish desire is to keep him. You must meet somewhere. Men like politicians know how to measure their words in order to get laid. The best way of measuring a man’s commitment is after the first shag. If he comes back for more, you can be sure, he must have been impressed. You can start dangling the carrot. It is far much better, than being lied to and he walking casually like there was never anything going on? Equally scaring him away by numerous senseless demands can be costly for this can scare the good man away unnecessarily.

But may be women have only their sexuality to dangle…MAYBE

All those awkward moments: uncut, uncensored

Anyone on Twitter knows the common worldwide trend with the hush tag‘#Thatawkwardmoment’… It is my favourite as individuals compete filling in what they regularly consider awkward with a likelihood of some universal agreement. And why not?

Such moments always show up, quite frequently and sometimes in the least likely moments. Some are unspoken, like when you let out that nasty fart and you are oppressed in the pungent, obnoxious odour, helplessly praying that nobody shows up. And they do show up…Some are random acts that are embarrassing or annoying but funny nonetheless.

In my pervert mind, this week I gather what I consider really awkward moments in my life and I hope it cuts across as much as possible…Here, tie your belt, nod along, laugh a little, frown upon me for a second, hate me in the long run but here is to a start in my comedy career…
• It is always awkward for men, especially starters in the game putting condoms under the bed or pillow, in anticipation for sex from the visiting girlfriend. It is always awkward if the shag is not really guaranteed and you have to bargain over the pillow. It is doubly awkward if she refuses and you have to pray that she doesn’t stumble upon them.

• It is much awkward if the roll of tissue paper was not in the bedroom and you have to sneak it in with a sheepish smile or feigning indifference.

• It is awkward when your closest friend mouth stinks and he or she is whispering to you and you can’t tell them so.

• Awkward is when you are visiting and you are served with really hot food and you take a spoonful and it burns you so much that you have to swallow it painfully…it burns and tears stream out of your eyes in embarrassment.

• It is awkward if you pretend to be a sophisticated person and you go to those poshy homes and the electronics there are too complicated to your understanding and you are told to do anything at your pleasure. Goodness! Even the remote, is a touch.

• You know that moment when you are shaving down Karura and you are taking different positions, while you have locked yourself fully…

• While in those sophisticated home, you are served with a hand wash and you don’t know how to proceed and you are too ashamed to ask for directions. While at it, you don’t know how to open those expensive rum bottles or a fruit sachet. You proceed to do the needful and end up pouring it all over the place.

• There is this awkward moment when you are with your averagely looking girlfriend and one of your buddies unknowingly makes a sarcastic remarks about their looks or lack of class and it is irreversible. It is even ‘awkwader’ for the boys who know about it and have to stifle a laughter, just but not to hurt you, especially if you are really sentimental about it…This has ever happened to me when my intrepid, journalist friend Tony had a lash for my crush. Boy it was nasty…Bon-I do you remember?

• You know that really enervating moment when your mother or aunt explains to you how they used to wash you and your nappies and how you hated water in from of the extended family, or your childhood nickname that really pisses you off pops up and everyone laughs

• That awkward moment when you are watching a movie that seems to be really entertaining to your partner and you can’t simply get it but you have to play along and it is two and half hours long.

• That awkward moment when you want to get to bed quickly and shag but this visiting friend has so many stories that are endless and you can’t chase him or her. Your chick is acting up really tired and sleepy but still he can’t get it…You have to act disinterested until they go…you get to bed, she is pretends to be asleep and she jumps back to life and the first thing she says…’Haki huyo Fred si ako na story mob…’

• Awkward is when you are seated in a restaurant as equals and having drunk or eaten and you don’t know who is to foot the bill and one person offers to settle his own bill, unsettling the dude who wanted to feel boss and angering those who wanted to ride on someone’s generosity.

• There is that moment when you hit your ex’s lover and she declines when you thought she had sent all the obvious cues…so much for misreading.

• Ever been in that really awkward situation where you meet your ex with her new lover who happens to be knowing you and you both burn in the idea that you have drunk from the same well and chicka feigning some seriousness like she has never used the two straws to…

• There is that awkward moment when you are all in the sitting room and guys are kissing on the tube and the remote is inaccessible and you have to pretend to be doing something else over the phone…or when Jimmy Gathu or Trust Condoms ad runs pops up and your conservative uncle is visiting.

• Ever skimmed through a porn flick, playing for as long as 5 minutes and skipping claiming that there will never be nothing new in the porn industry and you hate porn while you are continuously watching…

• Ever been caught ogling by your girlfriend and when she asked you and you came up with such a dump excuse like…’She looks like my cousin Imelda…

• Ever been in a small class and the teacher asks a seemingly simple question that no one can answer and everyone expects you to answer and you are just as helpless.

• There is that awkward moment when you run into an old friend, preferably from high school who was homo or used to wet his or her bed and you seem not to get over the images and you constantly have to pretend that it is not an issue anymore.

• You know that awkward moment that you introduce your below par (by whatever standards) boyfriend/girlfriend and your folks simply ignore and the friend can see that and you try to put in something like, ‘my folks are often indifferent around strangers or you become much frank and admit you host a bunch of snobbish folks.

• There is that awkward moment for men when you are at it and she is demanding some more and you don’t seem to be cuming and you have to keep struggling, lest she labels you a weakling…something no man wants to be labeled.

• There is that awkward moment when someone from your community does something really nasty and all your friends turn to you for an explanation, think Onyancha. Or Alfred Mutua, Bon-I explain to me this one…or when a Luhyia decides to make a wife out of a hen…

• There is that moment that you eat a lot of proteins like smokies, sausages, eggs and you consume a lot of liquor and you wake up in the morning and you know you can’t kiss…what does that thing smell like…?

• Ever tried name-dropping and big talk to impress a chick only for your efforts to fall flat. She has been there, done that…

• This one we all do it… Checking on the profiles and walls of our exes and wishful lovers and quickly checking out afraid that they might notice you were there…

• We all do it…takes time to reply a text in order not to seem desperate…

• There is that time you finish eating last and you take the plate to the sink and someone senior is doing the dishes, almost finishing and you sneak in and out, not knowing their exact facial reaction.

• Ever been to those houses where the toilet is right at the sitting room and you can’t go about doing your thing afraid of the likely foully smell or you could be riding (and a big vehicle, it is.)

• Ever had a lover who is a sloppy kisser who is insistent and you don’t know how to fend him or her off?

• At the swimming pool. Ever gone there just but to ogle until you have a boner you don’t wanna get out of water. Only perverts can be on in cold water…debatable

• Chicks, how do you normally feel when you packing that odd stuff in the bag…you know condoms, tons of makeup, food, shoes, clothes…

• Chips funga…there is that re-awakening moment in the morning you discover that neon lights in a club and beer have an effect on your eyes and you really fungad a particularly ugly thing and she insists that you walk her to the stage and you have to make all those turns in the block and she is calling you sweets and baby.

• Are you the type that gets embarrassed using sweet nothings and your partner insists on the same?

• Ever been told to offer a prayer and you simply cannot compose one impromptu.