When a man can’t just get it on the first night

A man who has been denied sex when he was so sure that he was gonna get some for the night is murderous person. His mind riotous. His thoughts, suicidal. If his anger and hatred can be condensed, it will be more poisonous than the worst snake poison known. A woman will be more lucky to be shown where the toothpaste is in the morning as the man resorts to MANTRUMS. I recently experienced this and here is my conclusion.


We left the club at 3.37 am. I had socked up no less than 13 bottles of cold Tusker and I was walking as if my footstep would sink the whole earth into space. I could barely tell my second name, let alone my phone  number off head. I am with Alfred, a great friend of mine whose generosity had been milked for all its worth that night. Alfred drives, which meant the Matatu hassle had been taken care of. Besides I was going to play host to Alfred’s clandestine activities for the night.

Alfred had managed to Chips Funga a girl with a very average face that you could well calculate the mean of anything on her face. But whatever she lacked in the face, she had a great body that had been the erotic food for the optical needs of the men for the night. She had wrung, swung, rubbed her bottom and hips enough to pain the groins of men watching. If she danced that way with a beginner, I won’t have been surprised if she sent a man down with one orgasmic epileptic feat. She had a fancy name, I think Laura.

Alfred is a randy married friend of mine whose wife has frozen the goods at home and I had accompanied him to the club to forage for something to calm his surging  pelvic desires given he is past the age of Vaseline and wet dreams. . .As usual, at the club, I was more engaged with the bottle than with available beautiful women. So when he whispered to me that he had ran into a former colleague who used to have hots on him, it seemed that his troubles were coming to an end. But the lady had other ideas.

We got home at 4.03 am. Alfred couldn’t wait to get started. Boy, he must have been starving. As soon as we got into the house, he stumbled onto a room he is very familiar with,  his catch alongside him and it seemed to me that they both needed each other rather badly. I was wrong.

I checked into my room so wasted I had forgotten all my troubles. I was in one of those states that you get to bed with one shoe on, the belt half untied and of course with everything else on. Under such times you just slump onto the bed and can sleep on your hand for 10 hours. I performed a small ritual that I normally do once I get home after a long drunken night. I check on the time and I calculate how long I would wish to sleep before throwing my phone anywhere I can’t hear it ring. I don’t really care if the head of state will try to reach out for me.

Barely 27 minutes later, Alfred rudely shook me up and sighed so hard that someone in Mountain View might have heard  from my dusty Eastlands apartments. He let out an exasperated sigh that nearly sounded like whirlwind rudely pulling of my duvet.

Maze huyu manzi hanigei,” he said sounding so frustrated and tired. The desperation in his voice was a sure giveaway. The gods of a rigorous hangover were beginning to drum up in my head. The North East part of my head had begun that small drubbing that ends up keeping in bed a whole Sunday. I looked into his eyes, and all the drunkenness in me was reduced by 80% in a flash.

Nataka tumdrop kwake, wallahi, namwacha roundabout ya Dohn?” I was instantly alarmed. Alfred is a man of his word. He once slapped a certain woman who had gotten into his nerves so hard that she was admitted for a whole month in a coma. He is a Luhyia for the record and his hand is the size of a spade. He speaks in a menacingly low voice that threatens even me. I could see the headlines on Monday. The fate of Laura was at stake. I had to comfort Alfred to take it easy for more than an hour, as he broke stuff in the house and even tore the carpet mercilessly to assuage his anger.

He cried about his time. He cried about his three or four Black Ices that had done the reverse. He got carried away by his quarreling and slept on the floor. You should have seen Alfred.

R & B diva, Monica is one of my favourite singers to have ever graced the rhythm and blues scene. She is far from being the prettiest, though my handful cousin Patrick will beg to differ. But I like her voice and her music. There is certain femininity and vulnerability as  she goes about her thing that is coolly admirable.

Her 1997 song For you I will is the third best in my best ever collection. Another song that I like is the one she did with the super cheeky producer Jermaine Dupri or JD if you like the names fancy; First Night. Google the lyrics if you can, the first part where Monica sings and the chorus. That is all about this piece.

There are two things I have observed about women on their first night date; they are unusually quiet and scarcely can eat anything. Especially if the man is gambling and everything has not been settled beforehand. Unless a prostitute or a chips funga, most ladies are invariably hesitant on their first night.

The first night is always a nervy thing. I know countless men who have bought the best dinners, served with wine and all other prerequisites only to be frozen at their time of need. These are the men who thrive in the assumption that if a woman has drunk the coffee,  ate the dinner and gulped the wine, he is good to go. In the past bedding a drunk woman was easier and many older men got off well with sufficient bottles of black ice or hard liquor for the lady to lose all her  bodily senses but for sexual urges. Not anymore.

Lately buying a woman too much liquor in the anticipation that she will give in is foolhardy. While we live in a fairly liberal world and many women have no qualms sleeping with strangers at the first encounter, there are some who still play difficult at the man’s hour of need, especially if it is the first night.

So much sex happens between strangers lately, I never knew why tinted cars have become so popular with non-politicians until I stood outside Club Psys in Lang’ata at the car park smoking when I witnessed the rottenness in this city.I have seen strangers make out and proceed to get it on in their cars and get back to the club as if they had gone out to pick cash from the vehicle for more drinks.

But the first night is still a puzzling thing. Every man who beds regularly has encountered such a shocker. It bores stiff. It is not about lack of expertise in handling women. It is a fact that there are women who believe that getting laid on the first day indicates that they are loose, which is incidentally the reality.

That is why they guard their first encounter, especially if they are reading some potential future in the man. They will rather act like they don’t sleep around as often. But men always have bent opinions about these things. You can tell a lady who sleeps around by initial interactions without investing too much intellectual input.

Ladies, here is the thing: Denying a man on the first night after he has spent on you is down-rightly unfair. While it is foolish of the man to presume that his efforts must be rewarded by a woman sleeping on her back, a woman will do good and help the man in making things clear early enough.

Any reasonably old women have encountered men who can’t hear anything when they are randy. Not even the periods can stop them. Since women have been known to stick tampons falsely to keep off men they don’t want but can’t tell off for the sake of gaining financially, some have been known to go to the lengths of touching blood. In deed seeing is believing.  That is how men value sex when they are up to it.

Anyway to make matters easy for fellow men, here are signs that you are not getting any that night.
• If you arrive home and she asks you the sleeping arrangements, know mentally sex is out of question.
• If she offers to sleep with you in the same bed and gets to bed with her jeans on, start adjusting to the reality.
• If she asks for an extra blanket, your goose has been fried.
• If she starts talking like she can be comfortable on the carpet or the sofa, you will require the persuasive skills of the most qualified PR person in the world to convince her otherwise.
• If she starts hinting on the ride home that she would wish to go to her place.
• If she starts claiming that tomorrow she has a busy day.


Tales from the North, the unreliable women in the 20s and my unending beef with Luo men

Premature ejaculation, supporting Arsenal and being interested in a woman who is not interested in you must be the three most frustrating things for men of my generation.

Premature ejaculation is a universal enemy of all men, and women. But it happens all the time. There is a foolishness about it that that really frustrates men. Women have learnt to be sympathetic with men who give false hope and false starts in the bedroom. There is that embarrassing silence that ensues when the two individuals involved discover that the sound went ahead of the lightening. Men with such a problem are called one-hit wonders. One-minute men and while women can be patient and understanding, they drop such men faster than their speed of ‘cumming’.

There is a helplessness about it, a vulnerability that a man cannot defend himself at all. For the woman, it is the height of being shortchanged. For the man, it is failure in manhood where it matters the most. It is caused by performance anxiety, going for long spells without sex and sometimes, it is just an inexplicable biological failure. Often the woman might be too hot or otherwise getting the life juice out rather prematurely. The silence after it is too awkward. Women are instinctively wired to sympathize with men who fail and can try to make the situation feel like it is right, and even fake an exaggerated moan, just but to cushion the fragile ego of men.

Supporting Arsenal has become a nightmare. Most guys 8 2 acknowledge that they have been poking fun at us 4 3 weeks. Whoever who makes up these puns deserves something to be shoved up their a****. But unlike the women who have the luxury to change the teams they support in as many times as the number of men they date, we don’t have that luxury. I have been supporting Arsenal since 1998 and might be forced to support it until it is relegated.

But trying to get the attention of a woman who doesn’t feel you ought to be the most frustrating thing I know. In campus, there was this chick I was so obsessed with that if I gave you my notebook, you can easily tell that something invariably went wrong with my handwriting. As soon as she stepped into the lecture hall (always deliberately late), my writing became ineligible. The ineligibility was directly proportional to where she sat. If closer, it would be completely indecipherable.

I liked her. I liked her fashion sense. She scarcely possessed any sex appeal but there was something about her that turned me on. She must have cast a nasty spell on me. I was high-school infatuated about her. My friends who just saw a plain girl in her never heard the last of it from me until sometime in third year when I summoned the kind of courage that David must have summoned when he took on Goliath.

I pulled her into one of the class rooms told her my predicament that involved nearly being run over by a speeding truck. As I poured my highly fluid heart onto her laps, she seemed least interested in my confessions and impatiently dismissed me with the all-time clichéd dismissal of ‘these things happen’ .Boy, I have never seen a woman so full of herself. But if I overcame that cancerous Crush, I think I can overcome anything. Until of course you run into another woman of her ilk.

A couple of days ago, I was in van with seven strangers headed to North Eastern Kenya for some undisclosed assignment. It was my first time to the Northern part of Kenya and I had taken up the opportunity to go and explore one of the most enigmatic places in Kenya.

I had joined the six individuals, two men and three women and the driver. The two men had assigned themselves the two garrulous women and had left out the prettiest of the clique to herself. Given they work together, I presumed there were special reasons. This lady was the assumed team leader and sat with the driver quietly reading one of those books with titles such as ‘Habits of highly successful people’. I am sure one such habit must be, ‘Never hang out with individuals who have wear loser faces like mine.’

The driver I assumed lacked the intellectual faculty to participate in the conversations. The two men and women seemed to have clicked so well that my X-rated mind even foresaw some group sex amongst themselves. There was some magic alchemy about the interactions and they seemed to be sharing highly perverted memories. My object of desire on the other hand seemed lost in the prose she was reading and here I was basically doing nothing.

Facebook had suspended my account, my Idiotic Ideos(a valuable treasure, I must confess) can’t keep the charge long enough for my unbridled tweeting and the journey was too spontaneous for me to pick a Nelson de Mille novel or the Marilyn Monroe’s bio that I’m currently reading, posthumously admiring her sheer beauty and guts. So I had only my thoughts to engage in. It is that time where you let your imagination wonder, what my colleague Mwati called psychological masturbation recently.

I was interested in this lone ranger. Ruth was her name. Hell, nearly all the Ruths I know have issues. For crying out loud, we were both alone and lonely and naturally, we needed to pair up, even for the sake of the trip. But she was so much into herself. If a genie gave her a wish, I strongly believe she would request to be the axis upon which the world rotates. I tried all the antics in the book but she handled me professionally and answered all my questions monosyllabically, really frustrating me. I hated her.

She was the most beautiful of the three. She had the most perfect set of teeth, where are the Aquafresh guys? She had a perfect figure with hips and a bum that will even the Pope looking her way before questioning the way women dress nowadays and i couldn’t help wondering where were the Kenya Airways guys are? Seriously. Her skin was flawless, how come the Nivea guys have not noticed her? Her braids looked just expensive and I thought I saw the name Ashley’s written all over it. But she was irresponsibly selfish with herself.

We got to the North, did the things that took us there and I have never seen a much more professional team. For two days, I worked with the group where my professional expertise was required and spent the rest of the time idling and suffering from being overlooked by this woman.

I hate guys in the age bracket 26-28 with the stable jobs and disposable incomes. They bore me stiff and part of the reason I was so vexed had to do with this. But this woman was a real headache. I was once described in campus as the most forgettable person and I have come to believe this. Thank the heavens we made it back to Nairobi, Facebook lifted my suspension and I had a cold Tusker.

Luo Men
On arriving in Nairobi on Friday, I called on my wicked friend Caleb who sells plots (not pieces of land in Ruai and Kitengela) but weekend plots. Like where some house party is or how we can create one. Where guys can drink and of course get women. At our age, we can only outsource from campuses. Caleb is Luo gentleman, quiet to fault but with the most wicked brain I have ever interacted with. He can avail just about anything in Nairobi. He drives and that means every weekend he comes in handy. And he was in deed this gone weekend.

On Saturday, his friend had a cut and was throwing some little toast. One must admire some of the guts that Luo guys can exude. Here is the thing, our friend is nearly 28, had just received a cut and was celebrating it openly. He told us about the decision as he was proudly excited about it, entirely motivated by the research that it lessens the chances of contracting HIV/AIDS.

At his house, he leads a decent life. With poshy leather chairs, a 48-inch plasma TV and a thick carpet. Bachelor pads don’t come out neater than that. He brought a bottle of Viceroy from the refrigerator and I was given the graces of opening it. After the small rites that involve honouring our ancestors we toasted for friendship and for the reason behind the party before checking into the rides and took to a club.

And here is my where my beef with Luo men begins. Luo men make almost all men from other tribes feel inferior, insecure and stupid. I have lost three prime catches to Luo men. My closest pal, Griffins once danced away with an exceptionally beautiful lady incidentally who called herself Pretty two years ago. They took to the dance floor and next thing I saw, they were kissing and I have never felt murderous. Were it not for the Cigarettes, I would be serving time somewhere. Good thing, she disappeared and I never saw her again.

My wicked friend Caleb has escaped with my two catches under disturbing circumstances. These things leave a sour feeling in my mouth. Sourer than the beer on the table. Before you think that I am an insecure prick of a man unable to defend myself from the randy Luo men I hang around with, just know that I can be funny and these women do listen and feel my vibe, up to until a Luo dude shows up and water down all my efforts.

Where I can buy beer, they can provide wine. Where I can buy a simple birthday gift such as a cake, they show up with big cards and an electronic gift of her choice. Where I present myself as a simple dude since women like simple men, a Luo man shows up very complicated leaving in their wake a very offended Nyanchwani. Since in my circle of 15 close friends, more than half are inevitably Luo it means that I must get me a woman of strong character not easily swayed by alcohol or material things. But as many women as possible in their 20s lack these necessary traits.

The unreliable women in the 20s

The third reason I loathe Luo men is that virtually all the most beautiful women from my tribe of about my age have a special liking for Luo men. Whenever I take issue with them, they tell me and men of my tribe to style up and get a few elementary romance notes and then approach them. And indeed Luo men hug like their hugs give more life to women. Can spend on a woman, often to unreasonable extents and can in deed love a woman rather terrifically. But while at it, they have this ability to spread and share the same love with as many women as possible. Not to say that there are no faithful and responsible Luo men.

My real beef emanates from the fact that sometimes they treat the wrong women rightly. I have seen them squander valuable money on expensive gadgets only for them to be dumped the following day. I find this to money abuse and one should only spend appropriately with the intentions one has towards a catch. But if you meet Nyanchwani with a beautiful lady without a NO software, slice me, two days later on her birthday you are showing up with a billboard size birthday card, yet she is willing to sleep with me and a dozen other men for less, I get irritated.

While I entirely blame such kind of women for being lured easily by simple things, my beef is when a man decidedly overspends on this woman but gets annoyed when he discovers how unfaithful she is. So to my pals, PO, the two Pauls, Caleb, Chris, Odhis, OT, be careful on how you spoil a woman. A round of drinks is decent enough. A lunch treat is reasonable. But a laptop for a college chips funga who stuck is reckless irresponsibility.

As for my sisters who love the Luo men, it is your right to be treated like a queen and you deserve. I acknowledge that virtually all Kisii, Kikuyu, Kamba, Meru, Kalenjin and Luhyia men missed classes on Romance, but mine is a word of caution; don’t get mad and demand a comeback once he dumps you for the next woman. Take it in good stride, sing along Whitney Houston & Deborah Cox’s Same Script, different cast.
To be continued…

The most beautiful baby and those humiliating embassy appointments

I like babies. That sounds feminine, I bet. But I like babies. There is this deep biological desire within me to have a DNA-proven kid, without necessarily marrying. That sounds foolish and irresponsible, but just as more and more women in universities are interested in stealing sperms from men with proper bones and no history of insanity in their families, I am after stealing a womb…Any offer? I recently saw the most beautiful kid of my life, arousing my desire, the more, but that is at the tail end of this narrative.

I once told a close female friend of this desire to have a baby with her and I have never seen a scorned woman more furious. She is an engineer but I was at the receiving end of her grammatical best.

“Silas, did you just say that?” She asked, visibly pissed by that reckless and thoughtless suggestion.

“Yeah, I did.” I said wearing my annoyingly sinister smile.

“Silas! That is demeaning, belittling, condescending, chauvinistic…”She was panting, sighing and looked like she could irrigate my face with her cold tea on the table. Everyone at the table was terrified. The men horrified by my inappropriate remark and the women frightened by the overreaction of their tough-talking, no-nonsense friend. It is a statement that I regretted for the rest of my life. You don’t tell a woman that you would like her to be the mother of your kid, unless you have put a ring on her finger. The double standard is that, for a woman, she can scheme to rob you your sperm and you are not supposed to question, much less get vexed.

A girl I was dating a while back told me that that if she ever wanted a kid from a man, that will be the easiest thing. She told me reasonably oldermen (check 35-50) are a gullible lot and always consider any moment to have unprotected sex with a hot 20-something a great privilege. One of those moments that you hate yourself being a man. One thing that beats up being beaten up is a man being led to bed to stud. I think sitting down to masturbate at a sperm bank is somehow better than a woman unknowingly extracting an Obamallete from you. I know men who will beg to differ; hence I depart from this long intro into this week subject.

Humiliating experiences at the embassies of Western countries
Anyone who has ever had an opportunity to travel outside the country more so to States, Western European countries and South Africa know the pervading paranoia in their embassies. The rules and restrictions border on the inane. You must arrive at a given time and even a single second late, you have to re-book, usually after ridiculously long spells. You must carry all manner of identification.

The security measures seem to be getting really preposterous by day. The number of gates and checkpoints seem to be increasing after every last visit. The heavy metallic gates with intimidatingly annoying alarms have a way of instilling this inexplicable tension within one. You feel like you are the terrorist yourself. So much for Osama and the 9/11.

But it is the frisking that really hurts, especially if you are a man. You are stripped everything. They take your phone; switch it off and everything else that they think might endanger the sacred lives of the foreign embassy officials. You certainly getrankled by the overzealous local security guards about how they go expending their duties, treating fellow Kenyans like animals. Locals, especially those of Somali background are treated with utmost respect. And suspicion.

I recently had an embassy appointment at one of these Western countries. Booking was itself a huge problem. Almost every other calendar date seemed to have been taken; I was like, “Kwani, how many Kenyans go there?” Virtually for from August to November, there were less than five day available. The booking is done electronically and the reply is an auto-generated reply that instructs you never to reply. Very impersonal, and annoyingly so.

So on that Friday, I was in the company of a beautiful young lass called Bella. I will be traveling with Bellato this undisclosed country, later on. One of the most striking things about Bella is that she is happy, rarely moody and has no issues, at least for the few days I have known her. I’m the captain of the journey, so I’m forced to conduct myself professionally, no hanky-panky here. We meet in town and get a Matatu to one the more affluent places of Nairobi where these embassies and consulates are located. Whites love exclusivity.

We get there unusually early, almost by an hour. We decide to sit on the chairs outside that remind me of the Tsavo. Those wooden and metallic chairs under trees that make you look at nature rather differently. We are proof-reading the forms before submission, there are no second chances with this embassies. One mistake and your money is gone.This young female security guard came to us and rudely asked us whether we had an appointment.

“You have an appointment?” She was rude.
“Yes we do.” I told her trying to sound like I was in charge.
“You or both of you?” she impatiently asked.
“Both of us.” We said in unison.
“Then you get in, you don’t sit here.”

Boy, was she annoying. I looked around for a sign warning against idle sitting and I couldn’t see any. We were whisked in after passing through the third gate to be given a pass, another one where we left all the metals, coins, keys and belts and trousers; the belt buckles and the zipper are metallic, apparently(OK, that is a little exaggerated). At the fourth gate, they took my laptop and orderedme to switch off my phone. Without my phone I’m like fish out of water. The fifth gate we show all our passes and state the purpose of our visit, for umpteenth time and my patience is diminishing.

We get into the lobby and there is a small queue. We are ushered into unoccupied seats. The Kenyans look so scared and humiliated. It is as if this will determine their lives, quite literally. They are so quiet and uncertain. Only the embassy officials are a little noisy. Before you take to those heavily shielded windows, where talk through a small irritating mic (if only our banks can embrace this for the low-voiced amongst us), there is a young, fat woman who is supposed to clear you.

This woman is in her elapsing 20s with unkempt locks. She is beautiful, looks like that chubby, pretty but dirty, ‘I don’t care’ chick in school. She is beautiful but has zero sex appeal. She cannot inspire anything sexual. She looks too confident for life. She has balls. She seems too aggressive and in charge. The lobby seems to be the place she has conquered. She treats everyone professionally, but she sounds automated and far removed from humanity.

When it is my turn at her desk, I’m frightened by her presence. Beware of women with locks who look you in the eye. She looked bisexual. Even with my gigantic self, she made feel like a midget. She made me feel like paper. I was making mistakes and was incoherent and inconsistent. She even had the cheek to poke fun at my Central Bank governor designated signature. What nerve? She told me that I looked confused. That coming from her, I swear, I was must have been. I noticed, the senior black staff inside there was just as conceited and brainwashed. They thought that knowing the foreign language makes them foreigners more than Jungus saying Jambo makes them Africa.

Then we took our respective positions in the sitting queue. And this woman with the cutest baby showed up…

The most beautiful baby I have ever laid my eyes on
This woman walked in holding a baby. She seemed relaxed but possibly having a nagging problem, certainly not financial. I took one look at the baby, and it was the most magical piece of humanity I have ever seen. My heart skipped. The kid was impossibly beautiful. About a year or so old. The kid was cut for adverts. The kid, if a Hollywood agent happened to be around, must have conjured a kidnapping movie. The kid seemed happy, healthy and welcomingly troublesome. The kid wore a certain, funny smile. Unbelievable.

The mother on the other hand seemed preoccupied with something else. The mother exuded a certain good background and wore shabbily but tastefully. The mother though didn’t have hips, but that’s how the white men like their women. She looked 29 or there about. The kid was a pointee, definitely and must have taken the dominant gene from the father. The mother was not necessarily hot, even though she looked classy, the slim type you see in malls such as Sarit and Westgate, sipping coffee.

Bella had not seen the kid. When the mother sat down and Bella saw the kid, she was exceptionally overjoyed. She was telling me something serious but she stopped mid-senntence…and in what would be the loudest whisper of my life…
“Wow, cute baby…ooh! Awesome!!!!”
“I agree. That kid is quite pretty.” I said non-committal.
“You can never go wrong with a white man. The kid will always be awesome. Always.”

Bella went on frenzied, unaware of how hurting her words were. I felt ugly. The good thing with Ideos phone, you can even buy a mirror from the promised 60,000 applications. You just lock the phone and the screen will serve as a perfect mirror. I had to look once to confirm how ugly I am, as Bella kept hammering home the fact that a white man and black woman will always bear a masterpiece.

“With an African man, it is gamble. 50-50. Never so with a white man.”All these unrehearsed? I had to believe her. To secure my pride, I asked her about a black man and a white woman.

“Equally the same, but mostly it seems men have the desirable dominant gene.”

I was sensibly offended but Bella had said all these, without any intentions to offend me. The kid was an attraction in the lobby and everyone was overtly looking and mumbling something to the nearby person. The mother seemed unconcerned but I’m sure she could feel the peering looks. She was sure that the kid was the most beautiful in the world. I believe she carried the kid as a trophy and purposely to teach other women how to give birth to handsome and pretty babies.

But this annoying black, clean shaven woman behind the counter
Beware of a woman without her hair. A clean shaven woman is more dangerous than a woman with a weave. A woman who keeps her hair short is a walking time bomb. So there is this woman behind the counter who is extremely rude that everyone in the lounge is really pissed at. Either she is having a bad day or that is her nature.

When Mama Pretty Baby walks there, she takes one look at the baby and then decides to rile the mother. She asked questions in rapid fire and in a very dismissive way. Mama Pretty Baby is very professional and very patiently calls for another embassy official, a foreigner, who had instructed her to bring the documents. When the said foreigner comes and listens, she is visibly happy and treats her like a human being. We are all watching this in amazement. A foreigner treating a Kenyan better than a fellow Kenyan.

First she did the most decent thing. She pointed out that the kid was beautiful and proceeded to help her rather quickly leaving the African lady with an egg on the face. She eventually served us and we left but that kid made me dream about many things. One being, where do you get a woman to fulfill my deep biological desire??????