Ever seen a woman so flawlessly beautiful, you immediately start looking for flaws in her if only to humanize her. Anything! Bad breath. Nakuru stained teeth. Meru accent. A decidedly uncool Facebook name such as Shiks Kapienga Msupuest. May be she has a child. Or she burps in your presence. Or she sneezes so hard, some mucus pours out of her nostrils, runs over on the upper roof of her lip, and she doesn’t have a handkerchief, you have to pass her a serviette. Better still, if there is no serviette, she has to use the inner part of her blouse to wipe it out. Anything!
That is the kind of woman who was sitting across me, this past Saturday. So beautiful, it was a dream. You want to cast her in a movie and no matter how shitty the script is, it will be one of the most memorable movies ever made since man invented fire.
She had no makeup on. Natural air. Slightly light-skin, though a shade darker than Victoria Rubadiri. Her hair so perfectly coiffured, and rolled backwards. She had proportionate cheeks, with the slightest hint of dimples. Eyes, slightly darker and red, making her tremendously desirable. Her dress covered her to her collar bones, but her breasts teemed with erotic promise, as they pointed at me. There is something very powerful about a good red dress on a beautiful woman.
Of course, the usual silly manly questions crossed my mind. To wit: there is a bastard tired with her, who takes three hours to reply to her messages.’ Or more crudely, ‘someone bangs this raw’. Who is her gynecologist? Never mind, these questions constantly buffet the minds of men, whether it is a matatu tout or your bespectacled boss in a suit in a corner office.
“Are the seats taken?” asked Paul, my boy.
The beautiful woman looked up, with a slight smile, partly inviting, and partly being human and a good Nairobian woman. She looked at her friend, who hesitated slightly before telling us, we can take them.
She was having Red Ice, that schooled Black Ice. A woman taking Red Ice implicitly tells you that she has some slight class, or she has learned her lessons from Black Ice. I took the seat directly opposite her and our eyes locked for three seconds. Nothing registered.
I looked at her friend. Not so beautiful, but tolerable. She was pimply, that means she had daddy issues. She was slightly overweight, that means she had an attitude problem. She had not so becoming weave, which means she was drinking Snapp. She was actually drinking Snapp. She wore specs, that means she cut that inadvertent look of a snob that made her all the more spooky.
Paul ordered a White Cap, that silly beer that is only famous because urban legend has it that Kibaki used to drink it. Never before has a drink been endorsed by an unsubstantiated rumour of a snooty president who used to call part of his electorate chicken poop on national television. EABL has never seen the need to advertise White Cap. So many Kibaki wannabes out here bro. Over-advertised and under-advertised things have one thing in common: they are all shitty. But whatever Paul lacks in the choice of the beer, he makes it up for being a good wingman. Terrific is how you would describe him.
I wear many hats. This evening, I chose to have Tusker Lite. That one beer than emasculated men in this city than Njoki Chege’s nonsensical articles. Men who are piqued by Njoki Chege probably take Tusker Lite. But this evening I want to look the cool guy. I’m clean shaven, I have a super watch with a fake gold coat and my visiting cousin had lent me his iPhone for the evening. So I feel like the typical ‘doing-well’ guy who will attract any woman in a club. Besides, we are loaded and it is January, when t ables in this popular spot along Kimathi Street have one beer per person and Del Montes. So to impress we order three beers each and order two for the ladies, who hesitate but accept them. This is Nairobi after all; women never turn down free booze. We know the rules.
As soon I pay for the beer, Paul’s ever alert brain is activated. For one he knows I am not seeking any political office this city. So my generosity has some strings attached to it. I want the beautiful woman. So Paul has to play the wingman, lest the chubby friend cock-blocks me. That is what chubby girls with beautiful friends do all the time. In the human eco-system of nightclubs, that is their role.
So, as the drinks were being laid on the table, I was rehearsing the best opening line in my head. Paul, being Jeng, he learnt how to flatter women at his mother’s knee. I hear him, complimenting the wooden bracelet on Ms Chubby’s neck. He delivered the compliment with his profound bass, commenting on its authenticity and Afro-whateverness. It is a simple, cheap bracelet is what it is. But she feigns some polite, ‘thank you’.
The woman across me was so beautiful and I was deliberately eyeballing her, as she pretended to be on her phone. Probably laughing at some foolish joke shared by one of the stupid Whatsapp group she is in. Boy, she was so gorgeous, if I had my way with her I will consider my job on earth done. Chubby girls hate it when their more attractive girls are told the truth. It is the same when a woman openly leans to your ear and whispers that your friend is hot or funnier. We hate it.
Paul was already having a generic conversation with her friend and dropping compliments like Moses Kuria dropping ethnic slurs on social media. Paul was in his element. Ten minutes into their conversation, and there was an air of familiarity, you would think they grew up together, or went to college together. So far, I had not exchanged a word with the most beautiful woman in the world.
She fished something out of her handbag. It was leather, and had class written all over it.
“Is that leather?” I asked with a serious face.
“Pure!” she said smiling. Women are so vain and that was a clue that she is so vain and I can flatter my way to her… you know what!
“Looks like a good, pricey bag,” I said trying to get her talk to me. By the way I don’t know a good bag from a bad one. She smiled.
“Could you tell me where you got it, I might want to buy my sister one?”
In the meantime I noticed her friend was a Chelsea fan. She involuntarily shouted Costa’s name after the oldest 26-year old man in the world who is the striker of Chelsea scored the second goal against Newcastle.
I asked her, “You a Chelsea fan?”
“Off course,” she said in what sounded like the best voice I have heard since I was in Form III. She said it with a certain level of pride that all women who love soccer nowadays possess. They know that is the easiest way to gaining respect from a man.
I asked her beautiful friend what team she supports.
“Arsenal, but don’t laugh at me, we get beaten every day,” she said, getting defensive, even though I could tell that was a rehearsed line. She looked the type who might accompany you to the club and insist that she is a fan, only because she is a possessive freak. I ordered another drink for her and congratulated her on supporting the best team on earth.
She rose to go to the loos, and my bad! guess what she was sitting on? I will skip the curvaceous hips-all wasps in the word have nothing on her-and describe her bum. I could sell my five-acre piece of ancestral land to take to Mauritius on holiday. If I live like a pauper afterwards, I would have accomplished everything in life. She stood at about 5’9, her legs so soft and tender like the inner layers of a banana plant stalk. Her floral dress, drew her bottom, you would think it was factory-tailored for her. I figured that she had specifically stood to display her goodies to me. Well played. Be blessed.
Since I had to stand to let her go, I took time to look at her from behind, as her friend eyeballed me. Paul, didn’t pay much attention, but trust me he had seen everything that had to be seen. Her friend made a harmless remark that I’m badly behaved for openly gawking at her friend’s behind. I noticed all men in the club were badly behaved as they trained their eyes on her. I can swear if she chose to become a socialite, she will put Huddah, Risper, Corazon, Cheruto aka Chettle and all the would be socialites for the next ten years out of business.
When she was coming back, I rose to go to the loos so as I could meet her on the way and rain compliments on her ears. Things that I could not say in the presence of her girl friend who would text her surreptitiously that knows me from Kitale, and I gave her cousin gonorrhea back in 2002, just but to discourage her.
As I bumped into her, I flatter her,
“Why lie, you the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes on. Believe you me. You have a body that can advertise everything on earth…” she waved her hand, and smiled courteously, more for the drinks that I had bought than the clichés that she hears every day. I went to the gents, texted Paul asking him what the plan was. And like a good wing man, he had it figured out.
I get back and I find that he has convinced them that we should go have fish at Kosewe, before coming back for our drinks. I wonder why these two ladies are so free like that and what they were doing in the club in the first place, now that we had hijacked their evening. We called the waiter we know and order her to keep the unopened drinks for us, briefly; we go grab some quick meal. We cross the street to Kosewe.
Now, I first went to Kosewe in 2008. Fish went for about Ksh 280. Seven years later it is Sh 700, inching towards 1,000. Ms Chubby ordered chicken. My queen ordered coconut fish, which unfortunately was not available. She settled for ordinary fish stew. Paul went for goat meat. And I settled for roast fish. We took our seats by the wall and we were served. I noticed she went for White ugali, which means she is not diabetic or she has class. I cared less what the rest were having. I noticed that Paul was engaging Ms Chubby, who I had since learned that her name is Veronica, one of the ugliest name a human being has ever been given. My queen equally had terrible name. Ever heard a beautiful chick called Asenath?
I could hear that they were talking about the merits and demerits of university courses. Paul was distracting her as much as possible and it was time for me to engage Asenath. Boy, Asenath tore into the fish with such dexterity, and chewed her food so slowly, in such a nice way; she was the picture of perfection. Hitherto, I was engaging her casually and her answers were short and brief to the point. But she had noticed that I was the tallest person she had ever met. So she asked me,
“What’s your height?”
“Can you be more specific, what height?”
“Aaah, really?” she asked in that Nairobian fashion.
“Do you play or used to play basketball?”
“I used to. I still do, twice a month.” I told her. Never mind, I have never stepped into a basketball court and I know as much about basketball as I know marine science. But she bought it, hook, line and sinker.
I asked her the tallest man, she had ever dated. Incidentally, she had never dated a tall man.
“Mmmh, the tallest was probably 5’8, I’m always taller than them,”
“Kwani ni wan ngapi?”
“Go away, you want to know too much.”
I turned the fish the other side and tore a slice and raised it towards her mouth. She opened her small, round mouth and took it.
“I wish, I would have taken the roast one…”
“Kwani, how is it?” she cut a piece and delicately passed it to me.
Paul who was now talking about insurance with Veronica, looked my way and asked,
“Na mmefika aje hiyo part?”
Vero, chimed, “eeish, you guys have moved so fast…”
“We were meant to be…” I said, confidently.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself…” she warned in what sounded like a genuine warning.
Given fish tests the same whether boiled, raw, roasted, fried, I didn’t know what to say about her piece of fish I was currently chewing. As the live band was getting noisy, it was time to exit. As we walked back to the club, opposite the road to finish our drinks, I got a chance to walk next to her and I made some good comments on how our heights perfectly match.
I noticed Paul was keeping a safe distance, giving me room to throw in as many lines as possible. And in her, I had a good audience. Back in the club, we got three seats and I offered to stand. An hour later, the two ladies had loosened up. Paul took Veronica to the dance floor and they were getting it on like they had been dating forever. Veronica was actually a good dancer. Asenath asked my hand in dancing. Now, I can’t dance. But she pulled me towards the small space in between the seats. I tried to dance, but she realized that she can convince a lawn mower to dance faster than teach me how to make moves. She let me go.
There was young man dancing nearby. I saw the man’s perverted intentions, as he made a move on her, and 10 minutes they were dancing. My beautiful queen was professional at first. But somewhere after some Radio and Weasel song, and Sura Yako, she was rubbing her behind on the boy. It is like she had not taken my two beers and dinner, all worth Sh 1,200 and two shots of some creamy stuff that made me poorer by a further Sh 500. I pulled the man aside and howled in his ears,
“Unajua ni mimi nimebuy huyu dame drinks,” I was holding his hand menacingly.
Paul looked at me. Shook his head. Came to me and told me, seeking to know what the issue was. I realised that I was being a prick and the kid had peed on himself and I told the kid, I’m just pranking him. She looked at me wondering when was the last time she saw a tall man who is unequivocally possessive like me.
“I can’t be doing all this and you are not even making a move on that chick, behave.”
“Let us change the club. We go out of town,” I offered.
“How far are you? If there is no progress, even if you went together to the moon and you have not asked her out, we will be wasting more money. Remember we are almost Sh 4,000 poorer,” Paul said, almost kicking me on the balls.
I checked her out, she was now giving the man her number. My psyche had died. By the way I had not established who she was exactly. But certainly she was either a student or what? She didn’t look the spoiled type. Though she was too casual and free for a woman of her age, beauty and class.
Anyway considering Paul’s sacrifice, I had to move expeditiously. Sure Paul came with a plan and asked where the girls would love to party. Trust people with no money or not capable of funding the night out to go for the most exclusive place. They settled for club in Westlands, where you pay Ksh 1,000 to get in. Off, we went and now I became more deliberate. I went for the juiciest line and flattered her until she was laughing drunkenly. I was making some headway.
Paul was happy as now he had now married Veronica. I could hear them talk about plans to buy a house in Syokimau. Asenath was now behaving herself well and accorded me all the attention. All the men in the table, were eyeing her and I sat there gloating, hoping some Freddie, does not show up, and she rises, hugs him and tells me,
“My boyfriend, we gotta go.”
It has happened to me. Not once. Twice. But, I learnt, with money in Nairobi, no chick is unreachable.
To be continued.
For the night Paul played his role perfectly. And in the next post I will tell you what makes a good wing man.