Of Weed messing up friends and a weekend in the wild (read Rongai)

I had a cousin called Maina, (never mind the name, he was Kisii) who smoked bhang,  a few sticks too many,  that it messed him so badly. He started reporting every wrong thing he has ever done, with whom, where, when and how. Especially if you showed up at the home rehab, where he was confined to check on him and he remembered what he has ever done with you or for you, he will start regurgitating it in front of the bewildered  relatives and friends.

So being cousins,  let me pick on a random thing and see how could tackle it…

Assuming that over the weekend you sent him a pack of condoms, or much worse he was your guard as you shagged some village girl in the Saiga (Houses where men start sleeping after circumcision). Or worse still he was your accomplice in an abortion or Heaven forbid you participated in a combi (the village version of group sex or threesome or foursome or whatever) with him and you happened to show up to pass your get well message…He will give you a look and start laughing rather disarmingly…Then…

He was a light stammerer, and spoke is a soft regulated bass…he will go like…
“Yaa Omoisi( Hey comrade), it was fantastic over the weekend…You really screwed that chick so well, ” Then he will turn to the one of the elderly uncles and say something as damaging as,

“He is really a loaded donkey, he made that chick scream his name, boy, you are amazing!” The will let out a shrill laughter and sing praises of the family and clan. In the case of an abortion, he will unleash all the juicy (no pun intended) details and expressing his sympathies with the poor girl. In case of group sex, he will explain everything, to the horror of those around, especially our mothers who are  at advanced ages…

Soon it became embarrassing for individuals in every age group to hang out with him in the domesticated rehab. It was dangerous, embarrassing and calamitous. Those cousins who had participated in any ‘bad’ business with him gave the place a wide berth, essentially betraying themselves that they have been up to some mischief, more so the incestuous relationships that are common in the village.

The old man could nudge my elder brothers and cousins to go and keep Maina company, help him heal and explain to him the dangers of drugs. Nobody was ever willing to go and the unease and the tension in the room could power an overcrowded neighbouhood such as Highrise Nobody was ever ready. The tension, the suspense, the possibility of the reckless mouth of Maina spoiling your ‘picture’ in front of respectable persons could even annoy the worms in one’s stomach. What amazed me back then was that even some reasonably younger but old enough uncles were all of a  suddenly busy…

I was reminded of Maina recently when talking about how drugs are abused in the University of Nairobi and the situation is really out hand with a student who knows of what is going on. Fareed told me that his friend went bonkers and was screaming in the hostels and crying profusely…When he asked him what had exactly happened.

He confided to Fareed that his girlfriend was pregnant. He kept crying that he is poor and he has no source of livelihood for the child…Fareed asked him how come he did not use protection, this is what he had to say…

(Crying), “See, I have never even screwed her. She has only given me blow job once and I came and she swallowed. Now she is pregnant,”

He is now in the rehab.

Drugs are bad. I remember sometime in Campus this Muslim chick who came to the urinals and started looking up men’s penises, asking if she could have a peek at them. At least three guys granted her the favour, more out of curiosity than adventure. Some were taken aback or thought that the Naswa guys were around.

Drugs are ruinous. No fewer than ten friends of mine have checked into the rehab. We were all there when it begun. Either we chose to ignore, or thought they were having fan and could manage to contain them. They used to say that they will only develop a habit but will not get addicted. Rather regrettably some were extremely brilliant, now they are completely ruined, spending their time in between rehabs and no sooner they check out than they run to the den almost immediately.

I have never been a drugs’ person. This is mainly due to my upbringing in a strictly religious set up, both from home and the schools I attended. That does not mean that I have not had my fare share of ‘fan’ with drugs.

Though, they have never had a special effect or given me a specific memorable high, the first time and the closest I ever felt like taken outside myself was when I smoked four sticks feeling like superman. The next thing I knew was a dizzy feeling like there was a whirlwind in the head, followed by a hurricane called (insert any Nyeri female name here). Hurricanes are named after women for a reason.

Then there was peace within and a smooth waterfall flowing from the back of my head down towards the neck…Then I had this discussion with myself, staring at the bathroom mirror…

SILASI OUTSIDE THE MIRROR: Boy you are wonderful. Do you know you are the tallest man alive in the University and you need to start utilizing your height…?
SILAS INSIDE THE MIRROR: True by the way. And you are handsome as well.
SILAS OUTSIDE THE MIRROR: That’s gay. F*** you.
SILAS INSIDE THE MIRROR: Noo! Just accept it. Ladies find you hot, now you know that, don’t you?

I gave that mirror a bad kick that hurt my feet rather badly. I still have that scar as a souvenir for that epic moment.  The kick was Billy Blanks, Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris combined. It broke the lengthy bathroom mirror. Then I walked out whistling slowly. A Tony Braxton song that I last heard in 1997, July sneaked into my head…The song was I love him, some Him. Rather surprisingly is that I had the lyrics with me. I have not had the time to confirm if they were the the right ones or my brain just composed its rendition.

Then as noted in last week’s blog, I tasted some special ‘tobacco’ from Fareed and the effects were well noted. Of greater concern was the potency of the drug that made me abandon Kelly Rowland, my celebrity crush. The drugs almost gave me an erotic dream with Mariah Carey. Not bad though, on second thoughts, save for the mosquito that ruined the fan.

Drugs are bad to say the least. My boy Seth, had an illusion that he was Isaac and his weed supplier Abraham as they walked down the flight of stairs after buying his sticks. The weed seller was a taller than him and Seth saw a long beard and white hair and he knew he was being taken to be sacrificed and boy did he plead with ‘Abraham’ to spare his life? And I once ran into this lady at midnight who hugged me and asked if I had taken lunch. I thought she was being funny until I learn later that she has gone bonkers.

Trip to Rongai
On Saturday, Seth called on me that we need to go check on my best and closest buddy, Ericoh. The agenda of the trip was to take to Ericoh some weed for him to taste for the first time. Hopefully it is not the beginning of that ruinous path. The objective of the trip for Seth to see the plot where Ericoh stays with the hope of buying it some time. The aim of the trip was for me to ride a bicycle. It is been a while.

So we checked into the immigration department for a temporary Visa to Rongai. There was no queue and we were served too fast. Seth had not renewed his Yellow Fever certificate and we had to rush to the hospital for the certificate, before we board Flight 126 to Rongai. The Railways Airport was crowded but we were able to get a flight.

Travelling to Rongai is like traveling through Time. We adjusted our watches accordingly, checked the weather and the Met department assured us, we will experience the ordinary Mediterranean Climate experienced in Rongai.

So the plane hit the runway. There was traffic, but as soon as we hit the Rongai air space, we could feel it. It was cool. It was luxuriant. Rongai is in the Wild, literary. Ericoh stays in a place called Kisembe. From the name, one is persuaded to think that is where they process animal hides or where the sewage system of Rongai State is processed.

But Kisimebe is a cool place. A few miles to Rongai. It borders the Nairobi National Park. Our prayers were that we don’t bump into a stray and pissed off lion. We were so hungry. There was a small shop, the only of its kind over there. One of those ramshackled, Mabati Kibanda where they sell some natural uji, served from a Kimbo mkebe…Mark it, it is mkebe, not the plastic ones.

I ordered a cold coke but there was no refrigerator and the woman inside the shop with a shaved head, handed me a coke that was expiring on that very day. My boy Seth, settled for the local Maasai Yorghut and some doughnuts. Then we proceeded to Erico’s place. It is a 30-minute walk, but it is a spiritual exercise and the best interaction of flora and fauna.

Erico told us, there at least 1007 known species of birds in the forest that we were traversing. We met people. Imagine, they communicate with horns in Kisembe? I felt that I was somewhere in Africa in 1497AD. We got to Erico’s place and Seth initiated Ericoh into the Weed business and I could see Ericoh was not good in taking lessons. He wasted almost three sticks teaching Ericoh on how to hold the stick and inhale and get high, first enough.

I had my share, grabbed the bike and took to the road. I was riding it like Lance Armstrong in Tour de France. I felt like I can grow to be the best cyclist not only in the planet but the universe. The cool Mediterranean side air, the verdant fields, and the azure sky covered with sparse milky white clouds, gave me the impression that I was in the best  but distant place in world. I cycled some five or so miles and went back to let Seth ride a little. Ericoh was disappointed that he could not get high and feel the overrated highness of weed.

Later on, we watched the London underdogs waste each and both lost the two points. So there is only one team in London. ARSENAL. It was time for us to leave Rongai and we board flight after donkeys dropped us at the nearest road. What hit me most was when I was given my balance in terms of notes of former president Moi that were last in circulation 1992.

I got to Nairobi West Mall, my drinking den to catch on the second half of the Arsenal-Aston Villa match. That Mikel Arteta free kick is the best so far in the season and with that Arteta earned my respect some more. I rate him as an average midfielder but on a good day, he gets right. I tried to use the Moi notes given to me as balance but I was almost arrested for using unacceptable denomination that is legal tender anymore.

All in all, drugs are bad. Let us not let our friends get addicted. I am drafting on a two month plan for my boy Seth who needs weed for creative purposes but from the number of sticks he had up on Rongai, it is dangerous…They kept popping up…He is clearly in the ADDICTION STREET, before he turns into the NEVER-GOING BACK AVENUE and then he hits the RUIN HIGHWAY.


The day Mariah Carey made love to me

True Story
Mariah Carey was giving a very steamy kiss on the forehead. It was as erotic as it was arousing. It sent blood rushing in my blood stream, so fast that I could hear it running around turbulently. It was like what you hear at Thomson Falls. My heart was racing speedily. She then kissed me lightly on the lips, held me by the arms, looked me deep into my eyes, with such an intense love, lust and passion that I knew, I was in heaven.

“Silas, I love you.” She said and I felt such a joy in my heart. After being so unlucky, it turns out that Mariah Carey is the woman who is loving me. What a relieve. She was singing softly, ‘Thank God I found You’( the collabo she did Joe and 98 Degrees) at the turn of the millennium.

Then she started stroking my hairy chest, her hand moving slowly down to Mr Wiener. She reached for it. She breathed heavily and was about to take it on. At that very moment she was at the crescendo of the song…Screaming that Oooo, at the end…
Thank God I found you
(Yeah yeah)
I was lost without you
(Lost without you baby)
My every wish and every dream
(And every dream)
Somehow became reality
Where that beautiful screaming ended, a mosquito took over. It was a mosquito drawing blood from my ear. Actually it was a mosquito kissing me all along. Making love to me. How disappointing. How heartbreaking. The dream was so real. That was Mariah’s eyes staring at me. That was Mariah’s sweet voice humming, very appropriately, ‘Thank God I found you.’

First, there were so many wrong things in here. First, why Mariah Carey? She is hot, desirable and one of my favourite divas, but she doesn’t cut it for me when it comes to fantasies. If I was to send a lotion bill to someone, Kelly Rowland would be the culprit. She is my celebrity crush. I just put her poster in my room recently and I am actually responsible for 307, 345 views of her video Lay it on me on YouTube out of the 15,424, 637 as of the time I am typing this. Just the other day YouTube wrote to me requesting me to stop it because I am giving their statistician a hard time discerning the exact number of clicks from different individuals.

What was going in here? My back was undergoing some inexplicable, searing pain. I was feeling hot, sweaty and so heavy that I couldn’t even lift a finger. First I had to figure out if I was not in hell. I thought I heard Satan say something to me. It was dark and I could tell it was Christmas Day in Mosquito World or its equivalent. Their whining was actually musical and I thought I heard them synchronize it to sound like Bonnie M’s ‘I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas’.

The room was like the world’s busiest airport. Let’s make it Heathrow. And the mosquitoes were the airplanes landing and taking off. And I was the runaway. I felt like an overused runaway. Their whining were getting louder than a helicopter landing. Something was definitely wrong somewhere. I couldn’t tell which planet I was in, what time it was nor what had hit me.

I started recollecting everything and my brain was working like a P1 computer. First I established it was actually my room. Secondly, I discovered, I had not covered myself and the mosquitoes were literary feasting on me. I lit up the bedside lamp and I caught mosquitoes staggering and cheering each other. They were so high that they were going in circles whining musically, albeit annoying. I am not exaggerating anything here.

My immediate concern was: what was this so potent to make me cheat on Kelly Rowland in my dreams, fantasies and anything that men do with their celebrity crushes. What was this so harmful to my memory pattern that could invade in with Mariah Carey and make a 3-D erotic situation that was so believable that I was so disappointed that I was still in my room dealing with recalcitrant mosquitoes and not Mariah? It could only be ‘TOBACCO’.

I call on my boys, Bon-I, Paulo and we head to KBC to meet and console my boy Fareed. Fareed lost his foster mother recently and at the time, we were both caught in between Nairobbery, hence we could only console him, belatedly and in no inappropriate place than KBC.

Now Fareed is the phenomena (note the plural and the article ‘the’). Fareed is easily the funniest man in the University of Nairobi. He combines some rare wit, with uncanny observations and serves the joke, deadpan. He has the enviable ability of telling a very serious joke without laughing. Above all he is respectable and irreverent when he wants to be.

So we met and bought a whole crate of beer and sat on the stones and opened the warm, dusty beers, toasted and we begun various stories, initially consoling Fareed before letting him feed us on the different developments in campus. We discuss just about everything: the eternally immature politics that is SONU. Kenya has a long way as long as the country banks on SONU for its future leaders. We talk about women of course, what is going on with the hottest and desirable women of his year-Fareed was a year behind us. Who has given birth, what sex and who is pregnant and other stories that can only come out past the fourth beer.

An hour or so later we are joined by Plato. Plato is my disillusioned friend with the most serious face in this part of the Sahara. If you met him, he exudes that authoritative, choleric face and if you listen to him, you might think that he is an authority and in charge of shit, whenever, wherever. Until I actually turn you to my conversations with him and you see what his mind can conceive and you will know what is so wrong with this our country. To put you in picture, imagine Michuki-RIP- seducing a woman.

So Plato joins us and he informs that some two ladies will be joining us and he whispers to me that if they don’t live up to our expectations, we will trade names and help him dispose them. Unfair, but that is how this town is run. Women will dismiss men on the basis of money, and broke men will dismiss them on looks. A few minutes later, they arrive. They are actually fine and we exchange our coded language whereby we use various metaphors to discuss their beauty and how worth they are? We agree that they are worth the trouble.

The one who is slightly beautiful than the other turns out that she has some attitude and thinks the place stinks. How dare she? The place actually stinks and reeks off some unbridled masculinity and only tomboys can tolerate it. No self-respecting woman should find herself there. They refuse to sit on the stones and they made us gulp our beers fast as I did an abominable act of pouring my beer. What dishonor to the gods of beer…No wonder I was about to be screwed.

We check out of KBC and head to town. I ask them what is there favorite spot in town? That is how I establish the exact age, class, and profession of a woman in Nairobi. Though not a guarantee, if you put in some little experience like mine, you piece the things together. I discovered they have penchant for Moi Avenue Clubs. Not the campus/college and teenage ones like Hearts, Spree but Jazz, Scratch and Tropez.

Their other alternatives were clubs that I have never ventured into, such as Hornbill or Hunterz. So from their looks, they were a little heavy, no surprise one was Luhyia and the other Kisii but as expected pretending that her grasp of Kisii language is minimal. It pisses me off. Women from my community have really deserted our rich tradition. One recently pointed me in the eye…That is how women attract curses upon themselves. They were heavy in an Africanly attractive sense, simply put, all of us at least ran some erotic desire in mind, of course alcohol induced.

I could tell, most likely they were either through their starter marriages, or were mothers of at least one. But they were trying to regain their lost youth, definitely lost on the ravages of motherhood and lengthened times of feasting on junkie food. I also established that we are not yet in the age that could instantly score with them and go home with them. I cut all myself from any pursuit of them. Lately, I prefer my beer and my bed. No women. By now, you all know there is nothing more expensive than a woman who has a free weekend. I don’t have enough disposable income for that.

They aged anything between 25 and half to 28. That means, men over 29 are their game. The men who buy alcohol without showing any financial restraint and either drive or at least utter the words ‘TAXI HOME’ somewhere along the conversation. Men who both look and show the part. I am not yet there so I kept off them.

We entered Scratch. The place was so packed that even the tiniest and the thinnest of all snakes could not slither through. Guys were sweating and suffocating and smelling rather obnoxiously. And there are people who actually fart on the dance floor. Heaven forbid. We checked out. We went into Seasons, Kimathi Street.

What is going on here? It is Mid-Month and Seasons is jam-packed. Who goes to Seasons? Four years ago it was a club of bored couples in their late 20s and early 30s. But now it is teeming with life and the sound system has retained its aged quality but well, nonetheless. The beers from KBC were clearing from the head and our human entourage cannot find seats in a collective place and two or three excused themselves and left to more progressive clubs in or out of town.

So here we were, Plato, Fareed, Paulo, the two ladies and I. Other than Plato, the three of us-men-had tactically withdrawn and Peter seemed clueless on what to do with these women. The budget is greatly constrained and we have to do a manly thing and help the burger save and buy for the lasses and try his luck. He claims to be randy and his groins on fire. None of us wants to come in between.

Fareed brings out a small, metallic container with encased words, Copenhagen Tobacco. Fareed knows that I smoke and he wants me to sample his preferred version of indulging tobacco. He tells me it is different. It is cool. It will have zero effect on me. In fact I will beg for more.

I am never averse to drugs, tobacco or alcohol. I am easy and like every rational human being, I experiment first, if it doesn’t work for me, I cut it. I am old enough to make my own decisions, not what society proscribed. So based on this alcohol inspired stupidity, I took my thump and my index finger and scooped the snuff.

“Toa tu kiasi, uweke chini ya ulimi, usitie mob,” Fareed advised. I scooped some more and placed beneath my tongue.

Seconds: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10…nothing. Fareed is giving an assured look that nothing will go wrong. I node my head and I feel like asking for more, I hate it when something doesn’t work instantly.

Seconds: 11, 12, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20…wait! Did you notice that 13 was missing or you are high as well?
Still nothing out of the ordinary.

Seconds: 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27… And
I feel like someone just injected hot water into my bloodstream and it is speeding within my vein at a speed of a Miraa pick-up in the outskirts of Meru on the way to Nairobi at 3 am. I next I feel like my feet are growing and I can feel an elephant in my thighs and a python rolling in my pants.

I knew then I was screwed. I knew I was shit. Fareed came to me and whispered that I go to the bathroom wash my face and take water. It hit me that I could barely close my eyes; much less raise my now gigantic feet. Under such circumstances safety precedes everything. I called on my in-law Caleb who was in town and I told him that if anything happens to me, he will be answerable to my sister. I grabbed Paulo, and I told him that if I lose any valuable he will pay me and my safety and destiny for the night rest on his shoulders and Caleb.

Next thing I know, I am in heaven and Mariah Carey is groping, caressing and all over me like cloud covering the sky when it is about to rain.

Nkt…the best kiss I have ever had was in my dreams. Not with Kelly Rowland but with Mariah Carey. That is what I call, win-win. I can give anything to relive that moment. If only dreams were ‘replayable’.

POSTSCRIPT: Drugs are bad friends. I have seen them ruin many a youth. I will be exploring the topic. Hope the severity of the matter won’t be lost in the humour (or lack of it thereof.)

Putting in a good word for the woman from Eastlands

The amount of pepper in her stew nearly choked me to death. I was sneezing and tears were gathering in my eyes like I had run through Tom Mboya street when the police had just engaged hawkers with some teargas. She was laughing profusely at me. Later on in that house party, I saw her drinking something really hard. Something with a photo of a tiger crying. Or was it a lion paradoxically sweating beneath a wintry mountain?

She used more swearwords than an annoyed Tupac Shakur. She was cool. Great company. She was fan to be with. She was funny. There was a carelessness with which she carried herself and her crew that evening that was both scary and inviting. A friend leaned towards me and told me.

“Huyu ni dame wa Eastlando,achana na yeye”( That is a girl from Eastlands, leave her alone). Of course I am familiar with her type. They are the most derided in Nairobi. They are known to open a soda with their teeth. They can pop open a beer bottle with another beer bottle, what is generally considered a masculine thing. They can raise an offensive finger your way if they don’t feel you vibe.

In a night club, whenever a woman dances too physically, more so to Ragga music, she is presumed to be from Eastlands. They are known to consume hard stuff in transparent bottles and know something about the economies of getting high cheaply. They are practical. They are unpretentious. They are simple where it is required to be simple and sophisticated where it is necessary. One of them pushed me violently when catching a Matatu home, because it was about to rain and she cared more about her hair than the next innocent person rushing to the Matatu. Suffice to say she was super beautiful and corporate.

Eastlands woman or one from the ghetto is a product of where she has been born and bred. She is rude, only because she deals with men who are repulsively rude and uncouth. She possibly grew in a needy family and knows not to be extravagant with her finances. Hence the ritual of drinking hard stuff before making it to the club to buy better lesser alcohol and have her fun as affordably as possible to her and may be her group. Until may be some randy loaded man shows up.

She speaks the latest version of Sheng straight from Dandora where it manufactured. They like Reggae and Ragga as opposed to the pretentious Neo-Soul listened to those from the other side of Uhuru Highway. She knows how to talk to the police when she is in trouble, unlike her counterparts who will use some annoying English and convert a simple traffic mishap into a full blown and protracted case. They have no qualms eating Mutura, regardless of the hygiene conditions where it is made without the risk of food poisoning.

Given a rich woman and one from Eastlands, I will go for the one from the Eastlands. A woman from a better off background sometimes can be a bore. She is insecure going down River Road to make a bargain and would rather be ripped off along Moi Avenue. She scorns certain eating joints and sometimes can be unrelenting with their unending demands on their men.

A man can afford to be honest with a woman from the Eastlands. But many men might be forced to lie or go into debts to make it happen with a woman from a wealthy background? See for the woman from Eastlands, you have to say, ‘Sweets, let’s do fries and chicken from Moi Avenue than Galitos’ and she will understand. Women from the other side of town might frown upon this; thus he will have to feign that he is busy or unavailable for the lunch, until he finds some money.

Hence, those who poke fun at the Eastlands woman should be considerate. While they are a minefield for humour, they are by far more interesting to be with because they are very practical about life and it is easier to be yourself with her

When you catch your best friend’s girlfriend cheating

They were kissing. The man, passionately. The woman, indifferently. There was desire, love, lust, anxiety written all over the man’s forehead. There was nothing I could read on the lady’s face. I could deduce that the kissing meant more to the man and he had been looking for it for quite some time. The lady was doing it out of some obligation. It could be the money being spent on her. It could the man’s persistence that she was rewarding. Something about her body language that was just off.

The man seemed to be fishing deeper with his tongue with some expertise that must have been acquired later in life, especially after he got the money. I could not establish about the lady’s skills, though, owing to her casual disinterest. When it comes to the bedroom and foreplay, most women will give a man the upper ground for him to feel important.

Unless a man establishes that he is good, a woman will not let down her guard. Mostly, women are more qualified in these things than men. But subconsciously, they don’t want to scare the man away. In this case they like pampering our egos. If they told us the truth, there will be fewer men walking with their heads high and egos intact. But I digress.

Seated on an elevated position in this private and swanky restaurant, I was fixated with this couple. Not so much for any voyeuristic intent, even though it is been long I was in such a situation. I was just preoccupied by something that I couldn’t put my finger on. I was half-smoking. Half drinking my Tusker that was becoming insufferably tasteless, having been on a drinking spree for four preceding days consecutively. At this rate, I am headed to the rehab. I was also half watching them getting on with the foreplay and the man’s hand was now on her knees, going up her short black dress. Her thighs looked sumptuous.

What is it that kept my eyes on them? It couldn’t be the man’s short-sleeved, checked-shirt and Khaki pants, my preferred fashion sense. It couldn’t be her extremely short and provocative dress. Women in Nairobi dress rather skimpily that men no longer hanker after such things as boobs and thighs. The curiosity of hiding those things has just disappeared. So what was it? I looked. There was something about the couple that was just off, as I was about to find out.

A quick word on how I ended upon in this pricey, choicy restaurant. In my trade, part of the treat is meeting dignitaries, artists, celebrities and other well-known or infamous characters in hotels, behind the stage and everywhere they can be found. It is not an interesting task. After you interview a few you learn one thing, all this people in the limelight suffer from certain delusions. Very few are sober and sensible. Others are always making constantly stupid demands but we have to do it, so that you can read the ‘exclusive’  interview in the newspapers.

So this evening I am meeting a certain female celebrity who insisted that we must meet here because it was closer to her home and we were meeting rather late into the night. She was now almost one hour late but she had called me and told me drink some more on her. She claimed to be stuck in traffic. That is a typically Nairobian excuse that we no longer take seriously. Either she wanted to get me drunk so that I can ask her silly questions or she wanted us to procrastinate the interview for the umpteenth time.

Here is the drill. In our trade, there is never limit to the alcohol one can access. It just comes. You can’t help it. Few of us have trained ourselves to resist free booze. Sometimes you meet interviewees who will ask for the most expensive thing and push the bill your way, but those understanding always take care of the bill. Those are the ones I like. Like the female celeb boss I was about  meeting.

I lit another cigarette and watched the lovebirds do their thing, hoping that they were about to make love there as I watched. Save for the two seemingly bored waiters, there was only me and them in the dimly lit establishment. The man was on a green bottle. It could have been Heineken, Tusker Malt or Tusker Lite. Speaking of which, what is this LITE nonsense thing going on in town?

Thing with green bottles is that they are slightly more expensive and communicate some quiet class that no self-respecting man gives a damn about. She was drinking from one of those funnel shaped glass, something that possibly goes for the price of two ordinary beers.

They had stopped kissing and seemed like they were about to check off. I could see the car keys on the table and the lady wore some look of satisfaction or gratification from the side of her cheek that I could see. Then they arose to go and I was shell-shocked to see that the woman I have been watching all along was Emily. F**k! I actually mumbled almost audibly ‘What the F**k! And I sobered up. That was Emily. I almost wanted to call her but by the time I finished debating on whether to call on her or not she had disappeared in the arms of Mr. Charmer.

The romantic music from the 90s kept on playing. Some Mint Condition, New Edition and TLC had been the diet and now it seemed that I could not enjoy it anymore like I was doing before I saw Emily. Emily is the girlfriend to my boy Rodney.

Save for the name, Emily is easily one of the most beautiful women I have seen in real life. If the beauty scale was 1-10, I would put hers at 9. And the missing one  has to do with her terrible attitude ( towards me especially). She has it all. The height, the facial beauty but without grace, a body that is every horny man’s dream. She has a slight forehead, but her facial beauty makes up for it. She sort of reminds me of Tamar Braxton before she discovered plastic surgery. Emily has the best shade of chocolate in the world and can be the face advertising of just about everything; from a female banking executive to some body lotion.

But Emily hates me. She thinks I am a big time prick, an opinionated chauvinist, irredeemably stupid and I think she silently wishes me a lifetime of impotence. I am not cooking up these. She has ever told me as much but with some sugar-coated language, but her attitude towards me says as much. She once told me that this blog is full of baloney and she stopped reading the newspaper that I occasionally write for. She disqualifies me to write anything on women, men or relationship. She thinks that I belong to another planet and age, preferably in the past.

Why does she hate me? Frankly, I don’t know. I think I am fairly handsome. My mum used to tell me so and a few gracious female friends have told me as much, even though it happened when I was buying them beer and they were on the fifth one. She normally stops eating or drinking whenever I show up. If I stayed with them she will starve.

I have tried to establish the reason for her scandalously unimaginable hatred but can’t. I once dated her in First year and she declined. She was in Law School and I was in Arts. Rodney was Business School where they obviously met and went on to set a good example that love can indeed blossom in campus. When she declined my advances, I left her alone. I never persisted. I never persist. Will never persist. The fact that she ended up with Rodney by sheer coincidence and I never made any bones about it can’t be the reason she thinks that God made one big mistake by letting me into this big, wild, wide world.

Anyway, there I sat thinking deeply on what to do. Unconsciously, I picked my phone and I dialed Rodney who picked it in a slow, nerdy drawl that really wastes my airtime every time I call him. After the small talk, I asked him if I could say ‘Hi’ to Emily. He told me that she had gone visiting her parents. Clearly the man she was with could have been her father. Who knows very strange things happen in this town.

Rodney sounded innocent and professional as usual. And he believed that Emily was visiting her parents. They live in together. I thought about slapping him out of his comfortable stupor with my findings this evening and I thought I needed to think about it.

Here is the trick bit about it. Rodney is a professional. He is a cool guy and he loves Emily so much. He has ever confessed to me that Emily was the best thing that ever happened to him. Emily taught him  love and (hopefully sex) even though imagining them making love is one of the motion pictures that has consistently refused to play in my head. Partly because Emily does not have any sex appeal at all, courtesy of her no-nonsense  face that she puts on and partly because Rodney is your typically lanky, bespectacled lad working in the IT sector of a bank.

I run a few things on my mind on what to do. Some were really beautiful ideas, like me trying to blackmail her to try my luck and see if I can sleep with her. I strongly believe that her ass can cure any cancer. It has a certain life and exuberance that I have never seen on any other chick. So I could imagine me blackmailing her but I was unlikely to succeed given Rodney is the one who needs the relationship more than she does in my own estimation.

Something stupid was telling to just ignore and mind my own business but I would be breaking the 19th code that defines male friendship. So I was stuck and two weeks later, I don’t what to do or tell Rodney…Any help. You can mail me, inbox me on Facebook or even text.

The real deal behind tattoos and body piercings for women

I was standing outside a popular fast food joint, that is often thronged by young women in their 20s, waiting for a friend to grab some greasy fries on the run. Being a Friday, there were many young ladies in the vicinity. With the January heat that seems to have been imported from Sahara Desert, their skimpy dressing was perfectly excusable.

While waiting for my friend, my ever roaming eyes picked on two ladies close to me who were talking very fast, although they seemed relaxed. One was light skinned and the other on the darkest shade of chocolate. The light skinned had rings on her eyebrows, on the nose, on the upper and the lower lip and of course on the ears. The dark skinned one had a hard-to-decipher tattoo, owing to her complexion, but she had put all the efforts to ensure that it was visible.

I flinched at the number of rings on the light skinned lady. Then it suddenly hit me that everywhere I am looking are young women with tattoo and some oddly placed ring somewhere. It is like the new fashion statement. A few closer to me, have asked me about my honest opinion about it and I am always unequivocal: Build your personality. It is the best investment. They always tell me that I suck. May be.

Days when tattoos and body piercings were preserve of the artistic and musical types are clearly behind us. For celebrities, it always fueled their egos. They had to find a way of standing above the rest of us, mere mortals. There is no denying that for some, these hurtful practices communicate about their religious subscriptions, sexual orientation and other significant emblems in their lives, but mostly it is a show off thing.

So, what is this sudden crazy obsession with tattoos and bodily piercings for young women in Nairobi and our other towns? They say it is the in thing. It is the new ‘swag’ and our women are always loyal and quick to jump on any bandwagon, without considering whether some of these fashion statements are appropriate or even applicable locally.

Let us face it, the tattoos are supposed to signify something we love or deeply believe in. Of course, the women are wiser and no longer tattoo their boyfriends, but we need more convincing about these ostentations. I am persuaded that on average most of those with tattoos don’t necessarily believe in what they have tattooed themselves. They do it on the spur of the moment, or just because ‘Annete did it, and it was so cooool’.

There is nothing wrong with tattooing your body or piercing it as much as possible, but do these young women pay attention to what they are communicating to the world? Do they even care about the stereotypes attached to these fashionable pursuits? It is decidedly naive to do something without some future consideration, such as career or marriage.

Some are really tattooing and piercing themselves in the remotest of all body parts, sometimes with future possible ramifications that they will invariably regret. But advice like the youth is wasted on the young. It is one thing tattooing your groin area or piercing your navel, and it is one thing struggling to show it to the public using desperate efforts.

They will say it is self expression. Identity. How weak? Most of them hardly even know the philosophy behind their tattoos. Show me one lady who truly believes that the tattoo gives her more personality, identity or helps her express herself well and I will show you an honest politician. Beyond showing off, there is little else this posturing communicates. Rather, there are stereotypes ranging from how freaky these women are in certain departments to their sexual orientation.

And in the short run, most men will be hesitant to go out with women who have too many tattoos or the rings all over the face. Mostly, they will only be driven by curiosity. But there is enough evidence that women who do them outrageously are bold in a repulsive sense. It is hard to justify some of the trends but with Lady Gaga as an inspiration out here, it says a lot.

Perhaps, what these tattoos and piercings point most is that the younger women are now liberated, bold and can make their own decisions, disastrous or otherwise. They grow in a generation of anything goes. Nothing should be taken seriously. Neither should their tattoos. I can only tell men that they need to step up their game, get some balls, because women are becoming bolder and bolder.

It takes a lot of courage to have more rings all over your face and in every protrusion in the body. Take my word for it. And for women, also consider your future career before immersing your hand in that indelible ink.

One thing is for sure, in 30 years, grandmothers will be running around in tattoos and body piercings. They used to do it in the past, and they now can do it for different reasons though. As the cliché goes, culture is the most dynamic thing. But I think in a cyclic way.

Freddie’s Viagra woes

There is something about life and coincidences that I have never quite understood. Or is it just me?

Like when I forget to carry my handkerchief is when my nose experiences an El Nino. Or worse when I forget to carry a piece of tissue paper with me. When I am badly dressed is when I bump into one of my hotter crushes (every so often). When I am broke is when the women, whose company I hanker after all the time are willing to show up. Probably, because the better loaded men are busy fueling the fantasies of other women of their ilk.

I don’t know, but these things are invariably ill-timed. Like this Valentine evening, we standing outside Ambassadeur Hotel with Freddie, my randy cousin. His would have been date just declined to give IT up and he had taken a vitality drink and it was beginning to take its toll on him. We were weighing our options. A really embarrassing emergency. Then guess who taps my shoulder?

Our Aunt Margret. Aunt Margret is always trouble walking on two feet. For starters, she talks in that eerily, sharp and cacophonous sound typical of my tribe. Second she never attended any summary class, so you cannot dismiss her like we do it in Nairobi to other relatives. And like the name suggests, she is respectable and I knew we were in for a million questions, given that I have never her visited since last Easter.

“Gisiora!?” she shouted my name, her right hand on her waist followed by a long tirade in mother tongue. It took about one and half minutes but within that time frame she had asked me the following questions…
“How have you been?”
“Fine,” I answered.
“Why have you never come to visit and see how your cousins are holding up?”
“I have been quite busy, but I sure should find time this weekend.”
“That is what you always say?”
“Believe you me that I am always held up, including all weekends.”
“But you do find time  to call on Andrew (her son) to go and watch football?” She asked.
“But football is something else, mum,” I always refer to her as mum to flatter her.
“So football is more important than me?” OK, my ex-girlfriend used to ask me that a lot. The answer is always yes at the time when the match is being played but I can’t tell her that.

Then she turned to Freddie who was standing there, nervously and unusually quiet. I suppose the boner was by now hurting and Freddie was hoping that I would be brief and save him his predicament. But it was my moment of schadenfreude (German for enjoying while your friend or enemy is suffering).

Look how funny it is, here we are amidst a tirade from one of our favourite aunts, whom we couldn’t just dismiss and Freddie is as horny as hell. And he is about to take no less than 21 questions from aunt. Freddie’s body language is not inviting-literally.

I had to intervene, lest blood ruptures Freddie’s Weenie to death.

I told aunt, “Freddie is actually sick and we trying to find some medicine…”

“Oooh,” putting both a maternal and matrimonial tone on, “Oooh, my son, what is it that is ailing, you look terrible.”

“He took Viagra and the woman rejected and now we have to find a woman to cool him down.” If I said this I would have made things easier. I actually wanted to say that for experimental purposes. But I thought twice about it.

She picked her phone and started dialing and spoke to a tax man to come and collect us. Freddie instructed me with sharp eyes to get rid of her immediately.

“Actually, he has a 10.30pm flight  and we must leave town right now. We just want to pick up some drugs and leave town…”

“But he is sick, he should cancel the flight. We can pay for another one tomorrow, if he fairs better.”

“He has to go.” I insisted.

“Why the hurry, Kisumu is just here?” She was feeling offended by us refusing her offer.

Freddie gave me sharper eyes telling me to be more ruthless in my dismissal and I had to heed.

I just told her that he is rushing for business and he has to go. She took offense and mumbled something to the effect that we are not the sons who shit she cleaned when we were young. Thanks to her. But auntie had to know that there are times that men have to do what they have to do… She had further questions on marriage and kids and I instructed her to kill a cock that weekend I assured her I will turn up with someone and excused ourselves. I hate parting with a woman dissatisfied, in whichever way.

So, we moved down a little bit and Freddie asked me where to get some really quick sex. I suggested he tries one of his many concubines. He took his phone and scrolled and started making calls.
Girl No. 1:

She was in Rongai…OK that one won’t make it in time considering that she must get a Visa, have a yellow fever vaccination and other immigration problems before making it to Nairobi.

Girl No.2:

Mteja. All her phone lines…It is Valentine’s Day, wherever she was, you guess is as good as mine.

Girl No.3:

She must have started with a quarrel about not being taken out and being called too late in the day. I heard Freddie try pulling some charm but it was not working. Next I had him smack so hard that someone in Upper Hill would have heard it. He was getting irritated and the boner kept hardening. I liked the tension. He turned to me, ‘Any options?’ more like command in a movie scene where I am the pimp and he is the boss.

We were actually standing outside Sabina Joy. I proposed that he can try, granted I held every valuable with me and he goes in with only the necessary cash. But Freddie is always cautious with prostitutes (as if it makes much difference from the next girl on the street). He asked me what I know about them and I told him that they are very brief in timing they make you come in less than 5 minutes, so you cannot fulfill all the desires of Viagra. OK that is from anecdotes.

Freddie thought for about 17 seconds and sighed.
It is extremely fantastic seeing Freddie suffer with all his money and women.
“What is the longest duration it can take?” he asked sounding like the most desperate man on earth.
“For as long as you can afford. Alternatively, you can try Luthuli Avenue. It is cheaper but riskier as well in every sense of that word. Or try Dodiz….”

He handed me his phone and wallet. He took Ksh 4,500 and gave me his worldly belongings and disappeared…