We all have memories. Some we cherish. Some we detest. For a woman, her most cherished memory is probably the day she receives multiple orgasms, leaving her ecstatic and for the first time she understands the divine essence of sex. And life.
So good is the overnight romp that in the morning she naturally wakes up, picks up the condoms (if they used), goes ahead to clean, scrub the floor, and even dust the house. If it was good enough, she will even make you a sandwich. Or pancakes. You know a woman enjoyed it, if in the morning she volunteers to ruin her nails to scrub your jeans. I gather women don’t get as many as orgasms as possible, so the few they manage to squeeze make part of the memories they cherish forever. The reason why that one ex she talks about should always be a threat.
For men, the best memory is always that first million you made. I don’t how that feels. I have never touched, smelled or even seen what a million feels like, ever since I learnt that a million has six zeros more than 20 years ago.
I lie. The best memory for a man is that woman who made you feel like a king and an emperor at the same time. She actively participated in bed, packed a good game and totally exhausted you. She offered styles that hitherto were possible in a A-rated porn show. You lay in that post-coital position, reflecting about life. It looks cool in movies, especially, if a man lights up a cigarette, blows powerfully and gazes into space as the woman coils herself and rests her head on chest, and drifts to sleep.
Sex, good and bad, terrible and lousy, expected or unexpected defines some of the best or worst memories that carry in our minds and our hearts.
There are other better memories outside sex. That Christmas that all of you were around. Mum and dad were happy. Even the family’s black sheep looked happy and together. In most families, the black sheep is always the bro or sis who had difficulty grasping algebra, the sister who got knocked off, or the that second-born bro who has smoked his brains off- now damaging his liver irreversibly. We always judge them without really knowing what got them there in the first place-mostly some parental and sibling neglect or stupid sibling rivalry.
Now that Christmas you were all there. Sisters tagged along nephews and nieces. The male members of the family mercilessly terminated the life of a goat, took the bile away, and cleaned the innards and roasted the ribs as the female members made those soft, tender chapattis that only sister Catherine can make. You shared meal and studied each other and wondered how things changed so fast. When did Benja develop eye-sight problem? Looks cool in his new specs though. Why is Lizzie pregnant for the third time, kwani he married a Catholic? It seems. You know the dirty little secret of Sharon. You gave her money for an abortion. Now she seems oblivious.
Families. You were all fine, fantastic. And enjoyed each other company, painfully aware that it might be the last time that all of you gather under one roof. From then on, life will happen. Ronnie moves abroad on a green card. Ruth will be ‘too expectant next year’ to come by. Sharonne will marry some cretin who will ruin her. And Benja will end up with a wife who does not get along with your family and always discourages him from visiting. Of course mum or dad might die anytime as they are grappling with cancer, high blood pressure, arthritis, name it. The family will never be the same again. But at least mum and dad are together to the very last day. Not many family have this privilege of parents living together to their 60s.
There are other memories. Like your first lap dance and the subsequent discovery that women are an integral part of our lives as men,without them, life will be colourless. Now, you just bought this lass one drink and she almost broke you Joe Woods wiggling like there was no tomorrow. Or that beautiful woman with an ass to kill for, who gracefully danced with you, gave you the number but sadly never picked your calls. When someone finally picked it, they told you that that was the front office of Mathare Mental Hospital. It wasn’t even funny.
I have one such memory. She didn’t dance with me. Neither did she offer me a lap dance. It was at Club Soundd. They were a bunch of women in their healthier side of 20s. One was outrageously beautiful, not even the weave she had on took even a single mark off her. She had a healthy body, urbane mannerisms and very splendid legs. But she was either stiff or shy. She danced to a couple of songs, but was mostly seated. Back then in college, we survived on bottle of beer from 10.23 pm to 4.09 am.
Her name was Margie. After a lot of pleading, begging, persuading, crying, she gave me her number. I swear women with a 0726 number have a problem. I called her on Monday, she never picked. I called her on a Tuesday she never picked, but texted me she was in class. At Strathmore. Now Strathmore girls used to behave like you must have an IQ of 300, invent a means of communication to Jupiter, be in the Forbes magazines, have the snobbishness of a Briton, the generosity of drug baron and attend to her whims at will, all the time.
Don’t know if they still think that the sun revolves around them. (Full disclosure:I finally got the best from Strath, beautiful, humble and human). Now Margie, in typical Strathmore version played hard to get. So one day I asked my boy Plato to call her, given he speaks clean, unaccented English. Mine has some Kisii tingle to it. Here is how the call went on loud speaker:
PLATO: Hey Maggie, how is your evening?
MARGIE: I’m fine, who I’m I talking to?
PLATO: MMMH..Sila, we met at Club Soundd and you gave me your num…
PLATO: Would you like to join us at the Norfolk…
MARGIE:ooh, you work there?
Plato never saw that coming and basically, I never saw Margie and will never know what happened to her. May be she has a kid now. Possibly married. Or not. I have forgotten her face. May be she moved abroad. Or in an abusive relationship. I will never know. But I will always remember her with that line “ooh, you work at the Norfolk?”
It never occurred to me that I didn’t look like someone who could not afford a cup of tea. While perpetually broke, certainly, save for Caramel, I have always been in a position to afford a woman anything she wants, as long as it is not a car, an iPhone and a laptop. I can’t afford a car. I can’t buy a phone that other men will contact her with. No, that is against Mau Mau’s mission to liberate us. And certainly not a laptop, for she might use to Skype with his ex in the UK. Women are always loyal to the other nigger, not the one they are shagging. It is their default nature. So you only buy her expendable things, food (she will poop that), beer (she will pee that) and what else? Not much.
But I digress.
To b e continued on Thursday-the useless bit about music.