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
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.)