Freddie, Viagra and Valentine Day drama

WARNING: THIS POST MIGHT CONTAIN INAPPROPRIATE TOILET REFERENCES AND SEXUAL SLURS. READER DISCRETION ADVISED. OTHERWISE, NOTHING IS EVER TOO SERIOUS IN LIFE
There are embarrassing emergencies. Like being so hard pressed and you don’t have a tissue paper. I have enough anecdotes that involve guys taking their socks or using their handkerchiefs. In extreme situations have had to use bank notes. Another scenario is when you sneeze so hard and the sputum and mucus is all over your face and you don’t have a handkerchief. Or like Freddie’s story I am about to narrate, you swallow Viagra and then something comes in between and she has to leave, and you are already randy and on fire.

Freddie, as the readers of this blog already know is a step cousin of mine who loves women and money. A year younger than me, he skipped college and took to business and he should be way into his second million or hours away from it. Freddie likes sex. I can certifiably say that he is an addict. All his vibe starts and ends with his bedroom escapades. Personally, I believe he lacks any intellectual grit to sustain any modest conversation and has a habit of dismissing my friends as opinionated when he cannot participate in a conversation.

Freddie is short, no bigger than 5’6 and a little heavy. But whatever he lacks in height and intellect he makes up for it by dressing expensively, tastefully and nicely. He also spends on women, which really does it for him. He has the charm of 1,000 men. In fact, his charm can light up Uhuru Highway from The Haille Selassie Round-about to Museum Hill. I remember once he visited me in campus and there was no power and we wanted to boil some eggs. He turned on his charm and within a minute, the eggs were ready. OK. Kidding. That is a lame joke.

The first thing Freddie does when he comes across a woman he fancies is establish what rocks her world. If she is an easy lay, his charm is enough, plus may be money and alcohol. If she is the difficult type, Freddie is the master of feigning seriousness and can promise commitment and even marriage to get laid. He has a simple philosophy, ‘GET LAID FIRST’. He once told me that, not that she will kill you if she discovers that you are a jerk. Besides, women are stronger and can handle anything.

With his philosophy, he has laid very unlikely candidates: A very insecure daughter of cabinet minister. That is not the news. But he did it in a lodging in no shadier place than along Accra Road. He has also surprised me by taking to bed a young opinionated lecturer from a private university. Back in campus, anytime he showed up, he posed as my cousin from Moi University and he did slice me many a chick I fancied. Freddie. No woman is impossible to him, at least as far as I am convinced. Well, Valentine day proved otherwise and taught me for umpteen time that, assumption in deed is the mother of all blunders…

Valentine Day: Lonely and Comfortable
Few people had a better Valentine Day plan than me. I had re-watched the Godfather Trilogy the whole night and slept on the Valentine Tuesday at about 8.17 am. My intention was to sleep until 1.03pm, wake up go to the office and use the office internet to Facebook, Tweet and read other blogs for 5 hours and 49 minutes, meet any friend we do tea and I go back home to finish my Nelson DeMille Novel. How is that for single chap?

But messages kept coming wishing me a Happy Valentine. It took me so long to discover that I should have switched the damn phone, since they were coming at an interval of every 27 minutes. And the messages were coming from very unlikely sources. There were three from my exes. One had tone of ‘may you die of loneliness this Valentine’. The second one had an indifferent mood. And the third one had a big cloud of malevolence…what is it with Exes?

Well the next set of three messages came from women I have hit on but never quite had my way. There was a silent mockery in them and I really don’t know what they want from me…I wished one to choke over the dinner she was  going to be bought that evening. Another one to step on a banana peel and fall down embarrassingly as her red dress goes hip-high for all to see her red lingerie. And the last one I prayed that she catches her man with a woman who is not as beautiful as she is…

There were more from my sister and other close friends who were doing their dutiful obligation of sending seasonal greetings. I did sleep, nonetheless and woke up late and stepped into town. There were tents all over town selling flowers and cards to the love birds. I went into the office just but to misuse the internet and kill off the lazy silly Tuesday meant for people who need reminders that they are in love. And for  men and women who just started dating it was a reason to hang out, the man hoping that she will indulge in too much wine and give it up on the that night. Equally hoping it is not that day of the month.

At exactly 7.43, I stepped out of the office and to go for my tea but all my friends were having their dates and were in the fancy places of Nairobi. It was time for me to catch a Jav and head home…By the way, are peeps from Eastlands allowed to call Matatus Javs? Just asking…

I was walking past the Mboya Statue, lost in my thoughts when the phone vibrated violently in pocket and I was about to receive it but it was a strange number. I had to figure out whether it is anyone I owe money and I have not been picking their calls trying to trap me…I received it anyway…

“Gesiora, Uko wapi?” It was the unmistakable regulated tenor of Freddie that I find irritating but women find sexy. At least five have whispered to me as much.

OK, something brief about my name…It is Gisiora. Just that.Gi-Si-O-Ra. But even my clansmen don’t get it right. It is place specific and not a common Gusii name. But I hate it when someone violates its pronunciation, especially from my community, but I cannot blame them, least of all Freddie whose presence in Nairobi  guarantees beer and a few thousands for hosting him and many of his young outrageously beautiful young lasses with the worst imaginable behavior in Nairobi.

So Freddie informs in mother tongue that he has two women and he wanted me to avail myself and keep the other one busy as he tries to convince the other one that getting laid is the best recommendation of concluding the Valentine business. He further informed me that the other one was lonely and if I could get my Swahili proper, I could have my way…Nothing motivates a man like those six words… “Kaa utaeka Kiswahili yako poa…utatoboa? Well, I was not particularly randy, but I could do with talking to a woman…Just talking.

They were in Nandos, a few strides back and I made a quick U-Turn. I HATE MY AVAILABILITY. It makes me so vulnerable, but it was an opportunity to freeload. I like abusing Freddie’s generosity. Since he keeps abusing me that by the time, I make my first million, (if I will ever), he would be in his first billion and has a specific contempt for college education.

I walked in Nandos, not as the most broke person in Nairobi but someone who owns the place. True to his standards, he was in the company two very beautiful women and his catch was the lesser beautiful for the night, but desirably petite and a fetching smile that reminded of women from a certain place I have been to in Europe.
Freddie did the introduction  like a boss, he was, and I felt that even with my height, decent dressing, I was not exactly invited. I settled and cracked a joke, and none laughed. For Freddie, it was too intellectual a joke but for the girls, I was yet to figure out. One was Sheila and the other Gertrude. You know your parent hates you when they give a name like Alex, Peter, Boniface, Gertrude and Paul. Gertrude. I tried to squeeze humour out of that but it came out flat. Freddie placed an order for me and left me to my own devices with Gertrude.

Gertrude is possibly 22. A little heavy or fat if you like it in a crude way but an absolute beauty. She had the skin colour of pea-nut butter. Natural, flawless and void of any make-up. Save for the weave, she had a consciousness that with her beauty, she could get away with that weave, hideous or not…Some random desire to peck, actually bite her cheek came to me but I had to keep it to myself. Her boobs stood erect, defying gravity and the cleavage could give even  the Pope a boner. Something about her lips… She was eating a hotdog and some cocktail juice, what an odd, combination?

Sheila was savouring her pizza as were hundred other girls in the house with men who were unhappy, probably because they had been ambushed to buy. I hate pizza…Pizza is culinary fraud at best. I believe no African should find it tasty. I normally have this ignorant belief that women who insist on Pizza have 90% chance of being false screamers in bed. That is just me…

I tried to make easy conversation with Gertrude but she was impenetrable. May be she wanted me to sit there and admire her beauty… I tried everything…Flattery, I could not get through. I tried humour and my humour is above average, I could not get through. I tried intellect and I was frustrated.

She only had monosyllabic answers. I was beginning to hate her. Except that she was biting her hotdog with an expertise that was not common at the dinner table. I actually liked it. It was a sure sign that it is not only hotdogs she bites or swallows that way.

In the other table I could see that Freddie was unusually jittery, a sure sign that all was not well. It was increasingly becoming a long evening. What can you do to appease a pissed of lady…For a man, you can start some talk on football or sex and you are good to go. For a woman, you can’t really tell, wassup! It could be her periods, her boyfriend, family or just pissed off for the sake of being pissed off. Or I was just too ugly she could not stand my face. I decided to bore her anyway with talk about parliament, The Hague and war on al-Shabab, I really wanted her to yawn…something about her mouth. But I hardly succeeded.

I saw Freddie clap his hands in despair…A sure sign that a Kisii man is irritated. He curtly told me that we leave the place. As we walked down, nobody was talking to each other and Freddie was a little sulky and not at his charming best. He dismissed the two lasses rather badly. And yeah, Gertrude had that perfect body and a good ass to go with it…I wish I could score even a single mark on her, but I am sure she has even forgotten if she has ever met a princely looking man like me…Kidding1

After they had gone without even a good night, Freddie turned to me and said without warning in mother tongue that he needed sex…He put it as crudely as possible to explain the urgency.

I asked him, what was wrong…and without any preamble, he told me that he had taken some Vitality drug(read Viagra) that works within an hour and he was hoping that Sheila was going to give it up…But she had adamantly refused. Freddie was on fire…it was going to be a long evening for Freddie because it was only on a Tuesday…

To be continued…

Cynical about Valentine! Must be single or broke

Broke men are twice likely to label women gold-diggers and other unsavoury terms than loaded men. Loaded men on the other hand, unless stingy, have no qualms apportioning a part of their salaries to treating the woma(e)n in their lives, correspondingly with their earnings.

There are those who can afford dinner and a few drinks. Others foot the rent and other monthly bills. Others are too loaded to occasionally do something incredible like a holiday in Seychelles, buying her a dream car and affording her the extravagant life that she craves. But very few women are that lucky. Some men go out of their way, sometimes even running into bigger debts to impress their women. But broke men are always philosophical about relationships and romance. Think about me, for a moment. Always whining, like life owes me an explanation.

So Valentine is upon us this Tuesday. It is that time of the year that men can never be forgiven for not treating their women to a special gift, some dinner and a decent wine before going all the way. Thankfully, it seems lately everyone has figured out on how to go about it. More and more women have become cynical of the day and you will be overhearing them dismissing the day to have been made for the naïve and the weak at heart. There is a curious coincidence in that many people who say bad things about Valentine are either single or broke.

Broke men will be waxing philosophical on how expensive it is to meet the demands of a woman residing in an urban centre. They will say that it is pointless to squander a dime treating a woman who will never appreciate your efforts in the long run. Well, it makes sense. Lately men go unappreciated than women. But it is because women now have more choices like men had in the past.

See, a good number of women probably date more men than fellow women did in the past. They are exposed to these men at school, the work place, and her job or private related tours and outings. Her level of reciprocity entirely depends on a man’s input. Men had the same privilege in the past and they never appreciated the most important women in their lives. Thus, such women went unappreciated. Now that shoe is perfectly on the other foot.

Of course, the city will not be painted red. Those who wear red on Valentine are normally given very cynical looks and at best considered deluded or misguided. At worst it is seen as some level of immaturity. Craving for a romance that is not possible in 2012. The most skeptical lot are the ones who are single, have broken up recently or who have never fallen in love.

But is there something wrong about treating your woman on Valentine? It is absolutely perfect. In fact, more than anything she deserves that. You have to go out of your way and find something nice and pricey for her. May be it is the only time of the year you will have to do it. Well sometimes women ask for too much, but can be ready to settle for less, if one goes for the right thing supported with the right poetry. As they say, it is the thought that counts.

The problem with men is that sometimes they go for women who are out reach. They go for women they can hardly afford their basic demands. It is contemporary wisdom that one should cut his coat according to his cloth. My request to whining men is that, try and go for women within your reach. It is foolhardy making a debt to entertain a woman. Taking a bank loan for a wedding is a little on the extreme. A bank loan to buy her a gift is certainly dumb. But affording her a suitable gift for Valentine is not too much to ask.

So if you are single, drop your jealousy vibe and deal with it. If broke for whatever reasons, let the love birds do their thing. Spare them your empty diatribe. That habit of everyone being a relationship expert in dismissing Valentine should stop.

I have come to the conclusion that women are like restaurants; you can only walk in (no pun intended) to those ones you can afford.

Of tall broke men and tall light-skinned slender women

“You are too broke to seduce a woman with a ring on her eyebrow,” Paul, told me rudely. If I was a younger, he would have told me with a slap.

“Silo! You can’t seduce a Brook, right? You are not yet done with Carols, Marys and the Susans of this world,” interjected Griffins.

Here were my too closest friends tearing into me in an evening that was turning  disastrous quickly. They were genuinely exasperated by my predictable stubbornness.

Well, Lineth had shown up as agreed from the previous phone call. But she had done that typically Nairobian thing of post-high school or middle level college of turning up with a friend. Yet we were meeting in no central a place than Tribeka, a place of her choice. No sooner I saw her than I knew that I must have been too intoxicated to have considered her even mildly beautiful. It hit me so hard that I instantly had a migraine. A perfect case of ‘good from far, far from good.’

To start with, she had stained teeth, like she was from Nakuru. Her face was not as smooth as I had seen the previous Saturday, and everything about her spelt ORDINARY NAIROBIAN GIRL! BEWARE. I could understand why my friends were angered with me, considering that we had walked almost 20 Km to go and collect the money I was about to wash down the drain. Worse still, the money was for a job that can only be considered a construction job.

I always tell Griffins to use his brain when confronted with such a situation rather than his dick. It was Griffins’ turn to use the words on me. I wanted to dismiss the women according to the plan we had in mind, but something within me, something deeply altruistic pushed me to choose a lesser criminal way of disposing them. Like a glass of juice and then we part ways for good?

I opted to go with them in, after a thorough sermon from my friends that ended with a pained F**k U as they left me, cursing and wishing that I fall the stares as I climb Tribeka.

We got up, chose a deserted lounge and settled. Brook sat on a separate chair, fiddling with her pricey phone as I sat with Lineth on the next table. I was still recovering from the shock that alcohol could have distorted my optical ability that badly given that I pride myself with the keenest sense of beauty among my peers.

The catastrophic evening was spinning out of control, when she ordered a meal, claiming that she had not ate anything the whole day. She then passed the menu to Brook, prompting her to order something. Being a good judge of the situation, she opted for a drink. Bright girl Brook! But she was to order fries and chicken in what was going to be a long….long…long night, yet it was a Monday.

As we begun introductions, she had already lied to me that she is in in the University of Nairobi.

“Which campus?” I asked.

“Sii hii ya hapa ya tao…”She replied impatiently.

No one in UoN will ever refer to the Main Campus, like that. That is profane. Never one to put someone in spot, I left that topic…

So how did we get here?

Broke on Saturday
On Saturday, at exactly 6.33 pm, I wanted a beer.

Problem: I was thirsty and only a cold Tusker would do me good.

Trouble: I only had Ksh 70, which was just about my fair home. I had literally chased money with my freelance employer the whole day as she kept moving from place to place with my money, which she could only pay in cash.

Crisis: I had stupidly taken an Okoa Jahazi of Ksh 100 bob that was now running low and Safaricom were threatening to disconnect me from the service. In my ATM, I only had an irretrievable Ksh -62.

Disaster: Flavia just called, wanting to be taken out. The exact disaster is she really thinks that I am loaded. The really disaster is that I am interested in her and she is is extremely hot, even for me. Either she has slept around too much to care about her next boyfriend or I just hit a jackpot. Either way I would like to take her out. I met her at some luncheon, bragged a little to her and she bought my lines hook, line and sinker. But I have been avoiding her since, claiming to be busy. But like a classic Nairobian woman, she can tell man who is really busy or a broke ass feigning business. And from her voice, I knew my bubble was burst.

So, with these many problems, I started walking down from Anniversary Towers, head bowed, biting the lower lip and in cursing mode. Cursing whoever who brought me to this world. They should have used protection or mummy should have just aborted and save me all these troubles. A man of my age should be able to buy himself beer. A man of my age should be able to take out 23 year old girl with a fancy name such as Flavia.

I made some quick mental statistics on the men who can buy me beer and I had ten options. For six of them, I was yet to honour my round, no need of pricking the wounds, so I let the sleeping dogs lie. Two of them who could buy me were not in Nairobi and they did promise next time, which never comes any way. Another two were simply douches who will never honour the manly creed of always returning the beer favours in kind and I deleted their numbers pronto. Trust me I deed. A man is not worth two balls if he cannot honour a round of beers in a table, sooner or later.

This was possibly going the most boring evening ever. Then the phone vibrated, rather jumped in the pocket, as if to inform that the plot had arrived.

Bon-I, my brother and the chief partner on crime was on the other end…

“We malaya uko wapi?” (Forgive the expletive, but he actually used a worse one).

Everyone has that one friend who can abuse them any word, any time, any place, anyhow. Bon-I to me is one such friend. Though I have warned him lately that one of these fine days, I might end up as the president and he would have to start respecting me. Touch wood.

So after a minute of exchanging expletives, he tells me some big time insurance company has a dinner and has invited journalists and writers. He asked me if I was available.

“Is the Pope Catholic?” I asked him.

Within 7 minutes and 33 seconds I am at the place where the cabs are picking journalists to herd them off to Upper Hill.

I take my seat and in the taxi I log onto Twitter for I can’t stand fellow journalists. Journalists have egos the size of (insert the biggest thing you know). They are one bunch of egoistical persons, full of self-importance, and they carry with them an annoying propriety. They can’t stand each other. So Facebook and Twitter provided better company in the mean time. Have you ever stopped to wonder what we would do without social media in lecture rooms and when dealing with boring friends, or in the traffic.

We get to Upper Hill and it seems the dinner can’t start fast enough. We took our seats, these journalists with big egos but broke like me, sat as far away from the big table as possible. Apparently, it was a strategy so that when beer time came, they could imbibe as much as they wanted without offending the bosses around.

Bon-I and I took our seats at the high table. Luckily, it was one of those rare days that I was smartly dressed and there is something about broke men putting up their best show. Bon-I was equally in his corporate element but I knew that a few Pilsners down, it was going to evaporate. The boss arrived moments later and followed closely by the most gorgeous woman I have seen this year, so far.

Think of a typical Kikuyu light skinned, outrageously beautiful woman, in her early 30s with little or no makeup and with the reddest of all lips that are kissable as well. Add some shapely hips, the most touchable ass in Nairobi and she carried with her some ethnic long hair, she could me a musician, in the mould of Samantha Mumba. To cap it all, she was tall. She had these shifty, white, sparkling eyes that spelt VULNERABLE. As expected, she was likely to be snobbish, drove a Benz or at worst a BMW.

She sat next to the boss, closer to Bon-I and I was facing them. I could see Bon-I eye-undressing her and proceed with the foreplay. Bon-I wore that MILF look toward her. I can say as much for myself. We did a quick eye-consultation and agreed that she was a piece of art. Soon afterwards, Bon-I was in his perverted self as he sent me a text that read… “Kuna msee hukuta hizi vitu jo na hata ashaboeka nazo!”I couldn’t blame him, given that he was on his fourth Pilsner.

After doing some gossipy chat with the manager host, she turned to us and gave us that Nairobian, corporate, ‘Hii’. I must concede that it was so natural; you could plant a flower on it.

“Hii”, we both replied.

“I am Cece, I work with Google.”

We introduced ourselves with our respective media houses and she apparently reads Bon-I in the papers and happens to have stumbled upon one of my rantings about women in the same pages. It helped a great mile. After the ice-breaking talk came to an end, we had won her over. While she was certifiably bright, she was blonde to say the least. Soon, we were in control,

“Cece, should be a short form of Priscilla, right?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure. But Priscilla is a mouthful and I always prefer Cece.” Bon-I, gave me that look of ‘Dude, where did you get that from?’.I can be bright at times.

“I know that because I am big fan of Cece Winans. Great voice. Beautiful (I meant great body, anyway) and it seems that the name Cece was specifically meant for beautiful women,” I offered, turning my flattering charm on.

She didn’t know how to take that so she just smiled sheepishly. I let it sink, before Bon-I said with his Dick,
“Yeah, I quite agree.”He had that smile of someone with a random boner, only that this time it was not so random. Cece was there.

We both noticed that Cece craved for attention as she started telling us about her job and how hectic it, but she likes it anyway. Soon, she was telling us how far, she has travelled. It helped that both Bon-I and I have been to those places and at that moment, we both belonged to the same class. But, wait, it was short-lived. The boss came back and we had a more inclusive talk.

The boss is my type of guy. In his middle 40s, he is leading an ideal life. Driving his dream car, has the photo of his compact family for his screen saver and quite a brilliant chap, even though the accent refused to die. There is something naturally inspiring about these men.

Bon-I, on his sixth beer, had been letting his tongue loose and I was a little afraid. The boss had taken only two White Caps and was acting bossy as expected (what gives White Cap its respectability, I don’t know). But, he looked white Cap. There was something going on at Carnie that was better and the Manager wanted to give his brief thank you message to journalists who were now too inebriated to care less if the talked dirt. Before, he left, we engaged in an elitist talk on the shape business journalism is taking. He was upbeat that things will be fine, and journalists have become less corrupt and more objective. He was positive that with people like us; journalism was on the resurrection bed.

He had decried the present crop of journalist on how corruptible they are, regularly demanding tips. Then, Ben, one of the names that I respect in the industry came up to the boss and asked for a tip pronto, without even disguising his language. He watered down all our efforts completely and he lost my respect while at it.

Cece was getting jittery as the husband was calling. She had the insecurity of a woman in an unsatisfying marriage but who was holding fast hoping for the better that it will work. She asked us where we had packed and that is when she discovered with our big talk, we didn’t belong to the same class. We had packed there with our feet. She offered to drop us along Lang’ata Road as she went to Carnivore. We got there; she gave us her business card and sped off towards Carnivore. We staggered towards Off-Road, to join Griffins.

We joined the table like bosses. And Griffins did the manliest thing of the year 2012. He sent ten beers making our table the brownest in Lang’ata at that moment. Seated across the table was the aforementioned slender light-skinned lady-Lineth. She wore the shortest black dress that I could see further up. She had this ‘I am the boss’ smile; charming and seductive. Her feet struck me first. They were light, slender, without a single freckle and hairless. They reminded me of someone from the past. Our eyes locked and two things were certain, she liked my height and I liked her and before the end of the night I was going to get her number.

I took my seat as Bon-I took to the dance floor. We kept exchanging approving and familiar glances. The boyfriend was there, apparently a lazy ass like me. He did notice my erotic interests in his girlfriend but he was laidback, kind off disinterested. Probably with the full knowledge, that with or without his approval, the girl can cheat on her. See, what men have been reduced to.

He went to take a leak, and I sneaked upon the girlfriend.

“Take my number before my boyfriend comes back.” She said quickly and conspiratorially. She grabbed my phone and punched her number and she told me to call her the following day. I was guilty, but I am old enough to care much.

I kept the promise. I called her on Sunday 5.07 pm. She sounded like she was at some Matatu stag, somewhere in Muthurwa. I t was so noise. She told me that she had been swimming and promised to call back.

She never called until the following day. At 9.31 am, she called, but apparently she had KSh 0.87 cents as she barely said Hi, and apologized for having not called the previous day.

I called her and agreed for a drink in the evening.

Now here we were. She turned up with her friend and asked for food. Nairobian Girl. Then Gedi, my Nigeria friend, showed up. He saw the two women who are light skinned and he became horny. He decided to throw drinks and meals, given that he is loaded.

Only on a Monday, you would think that it was Gedi’s birthday. His eyes were trained on Brook and he was certain that he was getting laid.

On the other side of the table, was me and Lineth. Totally bored with each other. She had turned out to be lesbian, or so she claimed, ‘Ever since I was in High School.’

We had mutually agreed that there was nothing that was going to take place. She had not met my physical expectations and I had not met her financial expectations. We very cold to each other, only tolerating each other because Gedi, on whose bill we were drinking, was getting cozy with Brook.

After countless drink on Gedi’s benevolence, we did go home and Lineth was really acting up. Brook was now angry. She wanted some fries and chicken. She got it and Gedi was really determined. But Lineth ensured that Gedi’s carnal expectations were thwarted as they demanded a taxi home…to Mlolongo. Nope, we had to take them home…

I met them this last Friday going to Tribeka, her place. Possibly, to meet somebody else. The Silos and the Gedis of this Nairobi. And the cycle continues. No one has called another in the meantime. It is mutual.