So I’ve had a lot of confrontations with different groups of women in my life. From the mellow to the straight ghetto. So on this particular day, my pal( who also happens to host whack parties) rings me and tells me we can have drinks at his digz. I had some chumz so I buzz some other pal and pull strings to get mamiz to come through. At around 7 we hook up in tao. We go to our joint at Madukha for burger-samosa and juice. Amazingly, this comes at an amazing 100bob (or baab for the peri-urban). We chill and carry out surveys of the different species of females roaming the city. One of our high school pals shows up and jumps into the plot. At this point it was evident the struggle for broads would be real so we were just hoping that by the time we were getting to the locale he would have blacked out. After procuring our poisons for the night, we had to chill for the mamiz to prepare themselves(they live at central police station) and look all glamorous for the night that was about to ensue. All this time I was laying dibs on the fair skinned chic with curves in all the right places other than her face that I had not seen. It was around 9.30 by this time so I was starting to think this was going to be one major kebab-fest. Punda si punde, ni punda the broads show up. And yes, the mami was there. So we head to koja to get javs and get on our way to Kabete. At this point my mojo just like development in Africa was taking its time to show up, (At least that’s what me sitting next to my boy signified).
At around 10:15 we had checked into the hotspot. It didn’t take much time for us to start boozing and opening our hearts and arms to accommodate each other. All this while, the mami of the house was busy preparing a meal for the crew. Someone (not me of course) brought up the smart idea of lighting a doobie just in case the food was unbearable. We lit one which was eventually going to get things rolling for the night. For the sake of anonymity and people’s cv’s I will use codenames from lingua-hispanica. Rodrigo had come with his side dish, Maria. Without knowledge of the situation that was going to unfold, I had invited Roberta just in case the scoop wasn’t cooperative. Things got off to a smooth start and as soon as the food(that was surprisingly good) was done away with, we chose to indulge in an entertaining game of spin the bottle. The broads were a bit shy but after a few shots of life from our bottle they eased up. A few things happened and I was lucky things were going my way. Then, hell alighted from a jav and gave me a phone call. I gladly went to pick Roberta up but when I got to the stage, she had Paloma with her. (Paloma happens to be the estranged girlfriend to Rodrigo). I gave him a heads up of what was coming his way because Paloma had a history of Oscars,(the dramas she created were not to be compared to any). At first it was all good because Rodrigo didn’t even show up in the living room until later on in the night. The game continued with ease and my turn came. I was dared to make out with the fair skinned chic.This was not stage managed just to be clear. And just as I was about to plant my blessed lips on this damsel, the God-forsaken Paloma brought in Roberta, so I had to switch tact and let her swallow me alive. This turned out to be a good thing since my fair skinned Rosalia was now more interested in me. I was playing my cards right. Then Rodrigo had to mess things up. From nowhere, we just saw him burst out of the house, Rosalia in tow and Diego(our third pal) following suit. They rushed down the steps and go all the way to the gate. Rodrigo is throwing a tantrum saying he wanted to go home, Paloma shedding tears for the love of her life and Diego. Well let’s just say Diego was being Diego. At this point there were six mamiz in the house and two were on my case, I couldn’t think of anything better than a three-way arm wrestling. Then this is where the she-wolf rose. Paloma storms into the house making frantic calls to her other lover to come pick her up. This is where Alejandro (the owner of the crib) made a fatal mistake. He gives the ninja directions to the crib, even pointing out the door. He came to regret it later because that was the end of our night. I was foreseeing what was going to happen so I was rushing my mojo at this point. Roberta was tipsy so I pulled a guerrilla move and rushed Rosalia to the balcony before Roberta realized what hit her. The next ten minutes are blank because I was busy trying to consolidate the points I had lost. I walked back into the room and Roberta, like the angel she was, sat on papi’s lap. I will write this slow so that I can not drench my keyboard in tears. I was almost carrying Roberta to our rave point when the she-wolf grasped her from my claws and rushed with her down the steps. Before I could calm my groin down and jump over to Rosalia, she followed suit. At this point I was so confused I didn’t know whether Rodrigo had shaved his pubes on the sink or Roberta had pumped milk out of her chesticles and served it as Amarula. So I just sat there for a cool 15 minutes because only cool people can sit for so long without a care in the world. By the time I realized we had been jacked by a chic, everyone was in their own zone retracing their steps. By the end of the night, it was unanimously decided that Alejandro and Rodrigo were to carry responsibility for the events of the night. The bright part was that I got half the cake which I ate with greed. I have ever since been against any group clamouring for the empowerment of women or any minority group( She was picked up by a pointie).
So, I hear stories of guys who thought they had landed the perfect chick until they get to some point and realize they had got some ratchet or Size 8’s clone. Personally that has never happened to me until recently. It took me hours of agony and resources to sit myself down and write this post. I’ll start from where I met the “queen of my night” or just a few minutes before that. I was in westie running some errands or as most people call it nowadays, hustling. In the process of looking for a dollar I had the urge to stack myself. I know of a nice oriental place in Westie where they serve all manner of delicacies. On this particular day I had settled for pan-fried matumbo with onion strips, teargas, ugali and managu. This I was planning while on my stroll to the joint. Just before I could reach the door, I bump into this lady that I had met at some bash some weeks prior to that. We exchange pleasantries and being the gentleman that I am, I openly told her she was blocking me from reaching Canaan. So out of her willingness to waste time, she offered to accompany me for lunch. At first I was like, “You don’t have to. I’m a slow eater, i’ll waste your time.” But the chick was adamant, all she said was, “I insist!” So like Samson, I gave in to her demands. So we get there, Atieno walks up to me and winks knowing today I had scored. The chick told me she’d had lunch already so I didn’t bother asking whether she’d cram her stomach with extra food which was not necessary. All the while she was cringing her nose as if to say,” Nigga, you brought ghetto to the west.” The plate comes just as I had imagined it, half filled with ugali, an eighth with managu and the rest with soup you can barely find and matumbo.
This is where I made my first mistake. The mistake goes like this, ” You can have a bite, it’s good.” Those words must have unleashed the barbarian in her because she went on to eat half my food and drink half my glass of unpaid for water. All this while I was cursing thinking I had to ditch her fast or things would spiral down from there. I pay for the meal with a heavy hand, even forgetting to tip the ever loyal Atieno. We head out and along the way she notices an ice cream shop. I tried all techniques to get to the other side of the road, even volunteering to push an already moving vehicle. From my tone you can guess I failed in my endeavours and had to cough up more chumz for this English speaking madam. By this time I had settled on introducing her to The 1 who had been silent until later on in the day. As she was busy licking the last dribbles from the ice cream tin, my pal invited me for a party. Knowing this ninja had had the worst parties in town, I gladly accepted to go to piss this chick off. On this day I had the luck of having a full tank car at my disposal, but it wasn’t mine of course. She tagged along all my errands for the better part of the afternoon and evening. So we drove off to the crib which was just a few minutes away from the place we were at. The moment I get to the guys parking lot I realize, this isn’t going to be one of his usually whack parties. The number of girls that had already turned up, was overwhelming and funny enough he’d bought drinks. I later found out he was only hosting the party for another pal. So we get in and I immediately duck and join my pals for storoz. The chick was hot, but I had a bad feeling about her wanting to hang around me so bad. After a few drinks and acquainting myself with potential chipos, I hook up with her. She tells me how, she doesn’t feel the bash and wants to go somewhere quiet. From this point it is the one that took over. We head over to the balcony and now I can hear about her tough day and horrible make-up artist she went to from Paris. All this while my hand was trying to overcome the barrier that was her tight jeans. I eventually get past it and the rest is history. We get back to the party and she has one too many and blacks out. I take her to the car to come about and go back to the party to go about my agenda. At around 1am, I’ve had enough of the samples and decide it’s time to head out. I duck all my subjects and go to the car. By this time she’d come to so I volunteered to drive her home thinking this one must be from Runda with all this Paris talk. “So where do you live?”. There was a pause, then the answer came. “Along Mombasa road.” That was close to my place to I thought the gods were working overtime this time around. I drove off thinking, I knew a few good estos along M-road. So we drive past Capital centre and I’m thinking, maybe it’s Diamond Park. We get to the Airtel offices junction and I start to slow down but she says it’s just a short distance away. I think, it may be Imara Daima. We go past that junction and at this point I start thinking maybe she lives in Coast and just wants me to drive her home. So we get to the Cabanas junction and she tells me to turn. We drive into Pipleline estate and head towards some clubs. I’m thinking, shit! she wants me to buy her booze and we are from drinking? The bouncers took away all my fears. One of them just came to us when she stepped out of the car and was like,” Umechelewa kazi. Enda ubadilishe na upande stage!” (You are late for work. Get changed and get on that stage!). So she invited me in for a private show which I got for free. When I was leaving at around 4 am, she was like,” Si utanitafuta?” (You’ll look for me?) I just nodded thinking,”Nitakutafuta tufanye nini? Uniambie nikulipe?” (Look for you for what? So that you ask for payment?) So that fateful night I learnt even even fireflies glitter.
Today I’ve taken a break from all the drugs that have been abusing me from my late teenage years and I’ve decided to take a serious look at my environment and made plenty of observations. First and foremost, is Imported Nairobians. Who is an imported Nairobian you may ask. These are the peeps who came to Nairobi simply because circumstances forced them ( Read school). These are the people who wear combat gumboots to class. For those of you who grew up in incubators, a gumboot is the ancestor of the modern day crocs and condom shoes. There is no problem with gumboots, but combat gumboots? Who are you? Idi Amin’s twin sister? I’m not the orthodox fashion guru but I know a thing or two about looking good. And combat boots or in this case gumboots only look good in series. Condom shoes aren’t good either, whether it’s the Salama looking like guy shoes or the Sure looking feminine shoes. The wooden shoes ladies wear are in this category as well. Just because we can tell you are stamping in from a kilometre away doesn’t mean you are wearing heels. No! Those things you get from your carpenter and masquerade as heels do not cut the mark. If wearing heels is a must, go to Engarasha and get yourself a pair. And when you do, do a dry run before leaving the house. Those mamis that gully creep and ride bicycles anytime they wear heels should be sentenced to a fortnight in Luthuli to learn how to operate in these objects of desire. And unless you get laid in those shoes, they don’t have to be so Spartacus-like with spikes all over.
The sisal many chicks have taken to putting on their heads. I know taking care of hair is tough business considering I have afro kinky hair(ndengu) but sisal, really? To make matters worse, these crop of human beings go as far as getting coloured sisal. Those that have managed to find a bearing in the city go for the more familiar horse tails. These come in different shades other than grey. I’m not a chronic or habitual hater as my post may suggest but I have a soft spot for identifying flaws and odd things. What’s my problem with this breed of hair? It stinks and looks like an eagle’s nest after a few weeks. Unless you have a rich parent(s), boyfriend or have the financial means, desist from this sinful trend. You are being tricked and you’ll end up in hell and the hair will be used to fuel the sulphur. It is a simple way of making life difficult for any guy trying to get brain. We shall fight for our right and that starts with ridding our city of weaves. You’d rather go bald if you have nothing to do with your hair. The things this product does to you is not fair even if you hate life. The sides of your head look like a set of Mandingo pubes and the worst of all is false impression. Chicks hide so many things under those things. If it’s not funny looking eyes ( no offence to my cross-eyed friends), it’s a scar she got while she was busy trying to shoplift for the given concealment product. With the rising confidence in our judicial systems we,(as the Anti-Weave Movement) will file a petition to make weaves illegal in this part of the country(Excluding Rongai, Syokimau,Ngong,Kahawa et al).
What annoys a native Nairobian such as I the most is the lexicology of this breed. This simply means their language is to die for. I mean to literally die to save the language from these terrorists. I’m conducting a research to find the origin of the phrase “nayo”. The use of this word took Nairobi by storm but true Nairobians stuck to their vocab. This word doesn’t make sense and anybody found using it within the borders of Nairobi should be smacked with a bible to drive the gospel home. Words are tools of communication and when misused they can make a people look out of place. That word is the origin of these girls that wear skirts with plits then go chill at Psys and expect to get laid or the guys that buy napoleon( and I’m not referring to Chatelle) and borrow a bottle of Oudemeester to look classy. When you come to Nairobi maintain your own or do as the Nairobians do. But coming here and putting x’s instead of s in words will not be taken lightly. X is only used when rating movies, marking a spot or referring to something you left in the past. I am not a regionalist or in line with our current constitution, a countist. I am just a person who wants the city to maintain its status as the City of the Stars. I may have offended a few persons in this blog but I am doing it for a greater cause. You’ll hate me now but repect me when Konza city fails to kick off and people who moved to Syokimau and Kitengela to be closer to Kenya’s silicon valley try moving back to the city.
Authentic or synthetic?
As Jim walked into the pub you could see he was a walking star. Not in the sense of being a celebrity but rather in his appearance. Nails well done, hair at golf course height and pants tighter than a hose fitted to a tap. “What the hell happened to you chap?” is all that ran through our minds. This was the modern man. The meterosexual. A new breed of men who were in touch with their feminine side. Groomed himself like a cat and walked like a one too. This begged the question, who is an authentic man and who’s synthetic? Most men, at least most of the authentic one’s that are left, believe that God created Adam. Not that they love being all bushy and sweaty but at least one should maintain the slightest bit of masculinity. In most cases, there is a very thin line between meterosexuality and crossing over to the other side. I have completely nothing against this group of men just to be clear.
On the contrary, I believe men should be presentable and well groomed. We can do this from the confines of our bathrooms or for the liberal, living room. A trip to the salon shouldn’t be treated as an invite by our feminine counterparts to join them in their haven. Certainly no man wants to be at a barber shop and the wife is reminding him of the unfixed bulb or broken tile in the bathroom. Meterosexuals are the kind of men who would sit back and wait for a tow track to tow his vitz because it ran out of fuel. They are afraid of getting their hands dirty. An occasional greasy hand isn’t a bad sight, it shows you remain true to who you are; biologically at least. A friend once told me God created man and woman created the gentleman. This idea has since been rooted in my mind. At times I think to myself, aren’t we misplacing our values and priorities? Whenever ladies see one of those modern Herculean men or simply the modern day Tyrese, they go ballistics. They don’t react in an equal manner when they see Michael Bolton or Neil Harris. This shows that as much as women are hygienic and well groomed they don’t want us to compete with them. The little experience I have had with ladies has given me the impression that they want a masculine figure around them. A few days ago, I had the opportunity to eavesdrop my way into a conversation. My friends and I had come from lunch and some guy just blurted out, “I don’t understand how four guys can have lunch together! I’d only have lunch with a guy if the situation found me at home.” This statement rang in my head.
I don’t mind having lunch with the boys at any restaurant. In guy time, lunch time is the time you get to check chics out. You can freely criticize that peach-like behind, praise those lovely melons or ogle at that diva in jeans sewn to her skin. Narrate how you had to fix the broken photocopier with no know-how just to please the secretary and lost your tie in the process. Basic things that a man can take pride in. That is an authentic man having lunch. A synthetic man would rather talk about his new pants, hair-do or number 234 nail polish with the girls. A man should spend time with the ladies but to an extent that does not compromise his manhood. I wouldn’t be propagating hate speech when I say,they make the work done by Dedan Kimathi,George Washington,Samora Machel and the likes seem fruitless. If these men had manicured nails or hairstyles they couldn’t afford to mess up, I probably wouldn’t be writing this. I’d be scouting for my fourth or third wife in the valleys of Lambwe(not that I would mind that of course). I want to be the man that changes a flat tyre in the blazing sun,the dad that can teach his son how to do it and the grandfather that remembers how he used to do it.
Meterosexual men aren’t really lesser men but I’m just saying they are giving the first man a bad name(whether it’s the ape,Adam or Gikuyu). A business man can be well groomed without having their nails done in the salon. When a lady says she wants a presentable man she doesn’t mean she wants herself plastered on a masculine figure. You can be a clean and still be a man. A trip to the beauty palour will just serve as an erosional process. Authentic men are now becoming extinct. The number of men we are losing to the other side is at an all-time high and action should be taken immediately. Otherwise, professions that are not keen on aesthetics will vanish. I will be responsible for the formation of a movement that will seek to save man. It is not a task for the faint hearted. It will require men who can say no being shaved around beautiful ladies for the more masculine barber shop, with two ladies that everyone wants to get touched by. It will need men who can eat at any diner or open air restaurant, instead of the fancy eating joints. Men who will learn how to fix a broke pocket even if involves breaking plenty of sweat glands. This is a race to save humanity. It may get boring (some don’t want to chip their nails) but it’s a worthwhile course. Let us save the authentic man. Let us go back to barber shops!
Hands where I can see them