“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.