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.