It was a calm afternoon. Just after the handshake. As such, political podiums were quiet, twitter was boring, Murkomen’s mouth was closed and I had just muted Miguna’s mentions. I choose to mention Miguna because I voted for him as Nairobi governor but he hadn’t delivered anything even after having like 2 hours every morning to campaign on NTV.
Who watched the Nairobi gubernatorial debate on KTN? I did. We won.
I am in the office by 6 am because I am headed out of town for a while, and with the following week being a tumultuous one, I have to clear up a thing or two because there is a high probability that the only thing that I can wake on the following morning is my junk. Haha
The head, (upper one) will be too heavy.
I sit at the window facing Upper Hill. The UAP tower is still lit and as lights break and the parking downstairs starts to fill, I start writing an email to one of our suppliers…
I delete that…
I delete that too…
Good morning Monica,
I keep that because it kills two birds with the same stone. I write several other emails, finish up on some reports and after what looks like a few minutes, I look at my wristwatch only to notice that it’s a few minutes to 8.
Slaves will start streaming in any time from now. I tell myself. More like think to myself. I make myself a cup of coffee and head back to my office. I take out the office Bluetooth speakers and start listening to Tarrus Riley softly.
Clocking in starts and as soon as it hits 12 noon, I hand over everything I had scheduled for the day to one of my colleagues and head out. I have a black leather backpack, black sunglasses, a heavy wallet, my pride and of course some smooth lines I keep going over and over in my head.
I call D and S, my crime buddies and since our ride doesn’t leave till 2:30, I proceed to Igiza lounge where I have a meeting scheduled with a prospective business partner. She is already there and as I make my way to her table I notice some famous faces.
Ugly famous faces. TV lighting will lie to you.
Her eyes are glued to her iPad which means she doesn’t notice my entrance or the subsequent procession to her table. I make her out because of the locks. They stand out. This is because they are well kept, authentic and as real as our foreign debt. The edges are brownish. Not brown but a shade of gold. She has hived off 17 of them from her left side like someone hives off public land for individual gain but hers is calculated, immaculate and precise.
I can make out that she is reading an article on Forbes.
She looks up and smiles.
She then proceeds to stand up to give me a hug. Being small bodied, she disappears into my broad chest. I have known her for more than 8 years. At one time, I had a crush on her but she said she needed to get her shit in order before we could discuss my infatuation.
That’s what she called it. An infatuation… A short-lived desire… A thrill that would blow over in a few weeks or days… A senseless fascination… Back then, I didn’t know what it meant but I knew it wasn’t anything positive. Haha, she killed me.
But Karma is a bitch.
Tables turned, she started crushing on me but I had so much on my plate that even picking up her calls became too much of an ask. Her texts went un-replied but she got over it after several months, some tears, late night apologies, and another guy.
We, however, ironed out our differences like adults and here we are discussing a prospective business partnership.
The meeting takes 45 minutes and immediately we are done, she dials an Uber which takes me to Syokimau. She could have driven me there but she has a meeting at Capital Center at 1300 hours. I find my two comrades waiting for me and 5 hours later, the SGR spits us at Miritini.
The ride is overrated. Just like the handshake.
It’s 7:30 when Tim picks up from the station. We are famished and by the time we get to CBD, the town is just getting up. Okadas are stopping at club entrances ferrying people to spend their non-existent cash as they play their little role in paying the national debt.
Compared to the dump of a City center we survive in, this part of the country is clean and manicured just like its governor’s beard. The breeze is reassuring but the heat on the mainland is immense to us city dwellers. As soon as we alight at Casablanca, our foreheads are wringing. Our lady companions don’t need a shower coz they already wet… haha
We can tell they are from the Capital because they take more selfies than the alcohol on their table. Their dresses are brief but those of the locals are flimsier. We are the only ones who order for cold beers and cold keringet bottles.
The night begins with Cynthia. That’s how her lanyard reads. She serves us some food as we wait for our orders to arrive.
I am a bit drunk. I have rolled down the window and the boombox is just behind me. We have switched off the taxi’s stereo as we prefer to listen to our own music. We are headed to Diani. Conjugal Visit by Spice and Vybz Kartel is loudly playing on as the taxi speeds down the Likoni Ukunda road.
As soon as we settle in, she notices me. I say she does because she is sitting behind me and the only person with whom they have a direct contact is D. He keeps smiling at me trying to send me a signal but Busy Signal has already taken the airwaves.
Then he takes my seat and I take his and upon looking up, I meet the deepest dimples I have met as yet. She is light. She has a head wrap, a white T-shirt, and clear glasses. She is the only girl at a table with 5 guys.
She is looking directly at me and our eyes meet. The gaze lasts a full second, enough for each of us to take in the face of the other. We stare at each other for some more seconds and being a guy not into losing staring battles, she blushes and looks down, smiling. I laugh and everyone at our table breaks out in laughter. They were watching me watching her.
One of the chics in the next table stands up, takes her drink in her hand and starts dancing. She doesn’t spill a single drop despite the obvious distress the drink is in. She is slim, tall, dark and she is wearing a blue dress as tall as she is. It is elastic though. I know this because she lifts it almost all up as she goes down. She is looking directly at us as she does these seductive moves.
She flowed with the music effortlessly. It’s as if she was drunk on the beats. Her body consumed the lyrics, her soul fueled by it and her moves were evidence of this. Her joints were well oiled and in as much as she was generally looking towards us, she couldn’t really see us. We watch in awe as she entertains us. Once in a while, her table mate joins her and they put one hell of a show for us. We feast on the combination of melanin and yellow.
She keeps looking towards me pointing at the dancer as if to insinuate that I should join in.
I have two left feet. I whisper to her. I am sure she can’t hear me but she should be able to read my lips. She smiles and blushes. She then covers her face with her palms. That’s too fluid for me not to blush. I don’t blush often but when she does that I can’t help it.
I stand up to go to the washroom and her eyes follow me. I motion her to follow her eyes but she shakes her head and points to the guy to her immediate left.
He is the one supposed to hit those ‘things’ that night.
I laugh, do my business in the washroom and head back to my table. I look at her and see myself on the dancefloor…
It is wall to wall with people dancing to the deafening club music. There’s no room for any other soul but somehow when she and I hit it, space magically comes. The music is all early two thousand’s but we’re dancing like it’s modern, twisting, whirling, spiraling, holding hands as we change sides. We’re all grins, we look like idiots and we don’t care.
Inside we’re just horny and happy, happy and more alive than we can ever be anywhere outside this establishment. I feel the part of me that’s really me come out to play, to feel the vibe of the music and let my body go free as I enjoy hers.
Her waist is slim and my hands find themselves holding it every too often. Her navel is bare, so is her lower abdomen and the absence of an ounce of fat makes it convenient to bend her over as I grind on her to raunchy beats. Every single minute is brilliance… immeasurable dazzling feelings of togetherness suspended in time.
The dancers around us move like water transformed by music, flowing in graceful arcs, limbs in constant motion, painting a picture sound alone can never achieve. Sweaty, panting, laughing, bodies rubbing on each other… They bring a wordless interpretation of the exotic music, in a way the drunk audience can understand no matter what language they speak. In that way, their dance isn’t simply movement, but the most honest form of communication I know.
Then I feel her lips on mine…
“Buda, we need to go…”
It is D.
I take a final gulp of my drink and take my jacket from the seat’s backrest. As I open the cab door, I feel a hand on my shoulder only to turn back and find the waitress who served us drinks. She hands over a receipt with a phone number written at the back.
“It’s from the girl in a head wrap…” She says and walks back.
I stare at the piece of paper again, smile and mumble a thank you to 001.