If you are a man, one of the uglier truths you have to contend with is that one of your friends will buy or acquire a car before you do. The way life is structured, it is always the arseholes, guys full of themselves (read sh*t) who get a ride before you do.
You never realise how stupid, competitive and randy a man can be until he acquires his first car. First he assumes a position of power. Then he gets horny and feels entitled to all the women he never had a chance to sleep with when he was a broke, unremarkable man. Now that he owns a car, he assumes that every other male friend who does not own a car should be his pimp and errand boy. In exchange for the women he wants and the favour, he occasionally drops you home, buys you beer and if reasonable (they rarely are, he may let you have the car to go visit your crush in Embakasi). A tyipical Friday call goes like…
“Hey yo! Silo, whatsapp! I have a ride, si utafute mabinti hapo ukam tukamate madrinks huku…”
Because you are broke, the sound of free drinks jolts into action. You scroll through your phone, looking for turn-up squad, like…
Sheila…No, last time she threw up in front of dignitaries, when she could not handle her drinks.
Anne…Oh no, once high she dances like she is auditioning for a Vybez Kartel video.
Ruth…Besides her anachronistic name, she is a bore.
You scroll some more until you settle for Barbara, Victoria and another one with an unlikely name such as Shawna. All of them are available of course. Thank heavens for turn-up squad- the women ever so available, even on a random, mid-month Monday, granted drinks will flow. Better still, they crossed that sexual threshold of caring about the body count; they can sleep with any man, anywhere, anyhow.
So you turn up in town. You ask your boy, where in town it is appropriate for the night out. Because such men have no sense of style, they will choose Tribeka. Or if they went to Maseno or Moi University, they have no sense of choice, class or taste, they will pick any new club along Moi Avenue, that is will be full by 5.30 p.m. (Guys have your kid bros and cuzos go attend University of Nairobi, Strathmore or USIU).
Anyway, you settle for Tribeka, and take some seats next to the balcony at about 6.33 p.m. The ladies are all fresh and clean, straight from the bathroom, one even has some soap foam in her left ear, you help her wipe it out.
By the time your friend with a car calls you that he is around, you have thrown the first round with the only Sh 1,000 you had, thankful that no chick went for shots. Or Amarula (oh, by the way I gather that according to the latest Kenya Gazette,Roberto’s Amarula is the new Ratchet’s anthem)
He is looking for parking, you have to go down and help him bribe some Kisii watchman so that he can park his Subaru, or any starter car that young men buy these days. You park the car and go up. He says ‘hi’ to the girls, takes a hug from one and takes a seat next to Shawna, who inspects his watch and hair cut and you notice she broaches herself to him, beating Victoria and Barbara, to the bastard. But you know your boy Richard’s taste, he will certainly pick Victoria. He always liked them lighter. But since he is a fool, he will spend his first 30 minutes updating sh*t on Instagram and Facebook. You are growing impatient, but he has a ride and he will take his time. When he feels like, he will dictate all of you around like his dogs and bitches because he is buying the drinks. There is no abusive relationship in this world like the one where you are being bought drinks in exchange for small favours.
The fool, will decide to buy a few more rounds and join the conversation from time to time. The din from the nearby speaker, makes any discernible conversation impossible. Talking over loud music in a night club is another reminder of our failure at thinking as human beings. Often, it futile The fool knows you are his subjects, so he will go back to Instagram and Facebook to see how many likes he has garnered since his last post 17 minutes ago and spend 23 more minutes.
You will have to put up with his asinine behaviour. He can’t even make a move because he knows he has a ride, and he will get his way. You silently wish that Nairobi women sometimes didn’t give in too easily to men just because the man bought beer and he owns a car and lives in a one bedroom apartment in South B. But hey!
There is no reasonable talk that will happen in that evening. You will be keeping vigil, having small talk with the girls, who by now will be bored out of their nose rings and totally distracted by the horny guys with disgusting grins in the next table. It is not their faulty at all.
As it happens, in your next coincidental visit to the gents,the foolish car owner will ask you a brief bio of all the turn squad.He wants to bag or is it shag the sexiest. You obligingly give him all the details he wants. Because he has a car. Not that he is necessarily handsome. Not that he is any clever. If anything, he is ugly, has a potbelly, and calculus tormented him in the Math class. But with a car and money, he has erased any doubts of his low IQ and his nonsensical paunch from his head, he thinks he is the sexiest gift to all women in Nairobi. You loathe his guts.
When you go back, he calls his other friend drinking in another club. The friend drives a better car, a Prado, that means he is a monumental arsehole, equally entitled. The friend arrives with another unremarkable, forgettable man. Without so much as a preamble, they charm themselves to the ladies in the table. The ladies notice (somehow turn-up squad can detect real money from the colour and texture of cuff-links) and they run to the bathroom for some more sprucing and come back, well-powdered, to audition themselves. Tonight, you have done your job. You realise that throughout their forays tonight, the two men just arrived have not been lucky to get some cheap lay. They look the type who pass by Koinange St (in 2015), where they only bump into tired watchmen sipping under-brewed tea, sneezing into the night and one call girl, too old to be in the street. Then they go to Hurlingham, where they are lucky to find some commercial sex worker who is intoxicated, she should fire herself from the job. But tonight, they have seen the ladies and by the alcohol the women are soaking, the men automatically know, it is turn up squad. And that is when they all do away with you.
It is 12.37 a.m, the La Liga match you have been following is long over and there are a couple of replays in various screens. You don’t want to watch a replay of Arsenal and Man U, those goals by Sanchez were disrespectful. You turn to watch the screen airing National Geographic and at this point of the slow night, they are airing something about the slowest snails in Amazon Forest.
The men are getting cozy with women, it is like you don’t exist. They are squeezing in the limited space to dance to some Radio and Weasel song banging from the speakers. Guys are copulating in the name of dancing in the club. You endure the sweating, the sins, the demons, because you have to satisfy the ego of your friends because they own damn cars. Life!
Since they are fools, they can’t cut to the chase, owing to their obvious lack of seductive charm, they have to make sure the women are as drunk as possible. You hate it. Presently, they have squandered like Sh 9,000 and counting. They buy you another drink. Another hour and you are bored out of your teeth. You tell your friend you want to go. They all debate and the women ask you their annoying and profoundly fake,
“Are you OK? Silas?”
The men ask you why you acting like the wettest blanket, you tell them, you fine, you just wanna go home. You walk down with your boy. He wants to drop you in your apartment in Donholm, but no man who recently bought a car drops friends in Donholm. No.
South B? Yes. South C? Yes. Langata? Yes. Thika Road? Mmmmh, may be up to Roysambu. Past Roysambu? NO! Eastlands? Hell NOOOOO.
So he opts to take you to a taxi and offers to pay the Sh 800 to the taxi guy. After bargaining to the point of abusing the taxi guy,he grudgingly accepts Sh 800.
Now thing with taxi guys, they can be arseholes, when they notice that you are man and cab fare was paid for you. So given the insult from the friend-and the taxi guy, being an elderly Kikuyu man-is not impressed. He will drive at his pace, not talking to you. When he gets to your apartment, that is tucked in some corner, in the midst of 23 other apartments, he is impatient as shi* as you direct him,
“Hiyo, apartment next, ah ah ah!, hiyo ingine, ….songa hiyo next…”
He gets more impatient, and erupts,
“Kwani haujui kwako?”, you want to insult him, but you think twice and get off, go to your house. Counting losses. You have only drunk Sh 3 bottles, worth Sh 690. And you spent Sh 1,000 on the ladies who all left with the men.
This is for men who do not own car, being misused by men who own a car.
If a man without car, resist the temptation of free ride and free booze. Don’t be their pimp
Free drinks come at a cost. And great inconvenience. Beware.