Issa birthday…

This time not a party but a gathering of friends to drink, eat some ribs and waste away the afternoon. That’s what Willy says when I call him. We had a bottle of whiskey we were supposed to gobble down over the holidays but because of work commitments and impromptu meetings we couldn’t.

I ended up drinking the bottle with another friend.

So, we are supposed to link up and chase down the Scotch over a Manchester City game but because the game is at 2030 hours and he doesn’t want to sleep out, he suggests I meet him at his place for an afternoon of ribs and laughter.

The birthday is for one of his boys.

I am trying to finalize the Middle East story but my mind seems to have gone on a creative holiday. On the tv is Rise of the foot soldiers. It’s paused since I thought I could take a break and write a paragraph or two. I am the kind of person who will wake up at 1 am and start writing because an idea flashed through my head.

I have had to pause movies several times, on numerous occasions to write and ended up with amazing scripts…

Do you remember this piece…?

To mark their 3 years anniversary, she had pierced her tongue.  There’s this thing about that pierced tongue; especially when she opened her mouth to speak. The way the silver barbell glowed on the surface of her tongue made him shiver every time.

Anytime she kissed him, he let his tongue feel the smooth and cold nature of that silver barbel. His head always went crazy every time it felt the barbell’s cold nature on its surface. When they started out, immediately after the piercing, he always slithered in bed because of the thrill and some type of fear as her lips took him into her. As time progressed, he got used to it and looked forward to every interaction between the two. He wouldn’t trade the piercing for anything.

It was written after watching a certain presenter on Kiss TV.

So you get my drift. I hoped pausing Rise of the foot soldiers would ignite something. It didn’t.

I get in the shower, dress up and leave the house. As I lock up, I notice our landlord is almost completing two other houses he has been building for a while. They are 80% done and the rate at which he is doing it raises questions about my purpose somewhere from within my head. When everyone is complaining about how hard January is, this ninja continues to construct flats. Surprisingly, when I greet him, we strike a conversation on how hot the sun is, which in Kuyu translates to the messed up nature of the economy.

After leaving my keys with Sue, I am knocking on Willy’s door twenty minutes later. It’s a hot afternoon so the door has to remain open because the fan ain’t doing shit. The house is well kept and I can sense a feminine touch. He hasn’t always been the neat type. Maybe umama imemuingia nowadays. I don’t ask because the only response I will get is either a profanity or a deflection.

The whiskey rolls, the ugali follows, the music is well controlled and after two or three hours, everyone seems to be high. Other than me… I have my glass on my seat’s armrest and a MacBook on my lap. I am trying to write about my wedding. A story I have titled Vows… I don’t know why I choose to write about weddings but I think it has something to do with Paul’s wedding that I attended last weekend.

It was a glamorous event. Hosted in 45, this is Githurai for those who are not aware, I Ubered from the house and took a d-tour through Ndenderu, Ruaka, Runda, some slum, Roysambu, Zimmerman, Thika Road and finally the land of opportunities. This driver fleeced me. Ati we were trying to avoid traffic. How?

Anyway, Paul looked the happiest I had seen him in a looong time. Don’t get me wrong, it had been several years since I saw him but his grin, enthusiasm and laughter all illustrated to a happiness and contentment that emanated from the girl by his side, a girl he would call his wife before sunset that day.

Githurai was hot but the bride was hotter. Paul, if you read this, all the best bro. I wish you limitless happiness and I hope through your marriage, those of us who haven’t tied the knot yet will see an example and a hope that not all marriages end up on a deathbed.

We had then linked up with some of my boys and headed to Java, Garden City. The reason we chose this hangout over any other was because of a waitress called Ann. I had been to this Joint previously and Ann was the main reason I tried to convince everyone to spend the afternoon there. They weren’t disappointed.

Then there is this other Ann… This one works in my local joint as a waitress. She is as beautiful.  I am sure it’s not my drunkenness because I have seen her sober twice. She has these dimples that look like they were chiselled into her cheeks. They are deep just like her voice. Her laughter is the sound of Fanta in a Coca-Cola ad. She smells of freshly brewed coffee only muskier and sweeter.

Both don’t remind me of my ex though.

Vows comes out clearly and at around 2100hrs, someone, from nowhere, takes a sip of his whiskey, and while dancing to Lil Wayne blurts out that we should go to town.

Blurred decisions…

Fifteen minutes later, the Uber drops us at the Buruburu stage and I follow the guys to Sabina. How the decision to end up here was arrived at, I have no idea. Maybe the cab guy did. I could ask him but he has already left.

I have never been here before.

Haha, in case you are wondering why I haven’t been to Sabina before, ask Willy. He has been there so many times that he has represented me and several of our villagers through his numerous visits. Anyway, I didn’t grow up on Loita street, and I went to University West of Civilization which I never had opportunities to explore this shithole city.

I have read about Sabina joy before… These are Biko’s words about the establishment…

You might know Sabina Joy as Karumaindo. It’s legendary, a mythological train that tirelessly keeps chugging and coughing decades of lustful notoriety. Karumaindo has been there since God was a teenager. It’s ideally a whorehouse, but if you are of the more decent disposition you will call it a bar. Everybody who has been in this town longer than a week has, at least, heard one urban lore about Karumaindo. It’s revered for its licentiousness; it’s total lack of sympathy to the naïve or the urban-virgins. Depending on whom you ask, it’s the den of thieves and the spot in town where Jezebel hangs her bra. Karumaindo swallows the innocent and spits them out baptised in the roguish ways of Nairobi. Although you might be with people you are always alone at Karumaindo because the quest for the pleasures of the flesh is a journey pursued alone.

Willy is leading the pack and I am the one walking behind everyone else. I am not nervous or anything like that but I know that such kinds of chill spots aren’t for the faint-hearted. We are patted down by burly looking security guards several times and after what seems like an eternity, we are ushered into Immorality Headquarters.

There are girls everywhere… The last time I saw so many girls was during a high school funky in Mecca – a long time ago. The only difference is that back then, they were chasing after your heart, here, the only thing they are interested in is your wallet and what’s between your legs. In that order…

In Jackson’s words, there are fat girls, slim girls, light girls, dark girls, pretty girls, girls with faces only a mother can love, girls with faces that can fit at Brew Bistro, girls in heels and girls in sandals, girls with long weave, bald girls, girls with talons for toes, dusty-footed girls, red eyed girls, girls with red lips, smiling girls, scowling girls, girls with teeth from Nakuru, girls with breasts that can asphyxiate you, girls with chests so flat you can shoot pool on them…then iron your shirt off them…

We look for a seat (which isn’t a simple fete) and miraculously manage to get a couch whose previous occupants have had enough of bargaining and are headed upstairs to warm some bed. Sitting down, we make an order for some beers which should be brought in doubles, and pay in advance (I hate this shit).

Directly opposite us, there is a balding Indian guy and a girl who isn’t anything more than 21. His right hand is holding onto a bottle of Tusker Lite and his left hand has disappeared into the flimsy, red excuse of a skirt the girl is wearing. It’s dotted or something and because of how short it is, anyone interested in looking can see that the hand is on her left cheek. She keeps staring in our direction.

She might be pretty. In this hell, no one can really tell. I like my girls light, this way they can compensate for the darkness in my complexion and my soul. She looks light and here, you take everything at face value. There’s nothing as skin-deep beauty. What you see is what you assume to be real.

Willy keeps eyeing her and I can tell because everyone who can see her seems to be interested in the show she is putting up. At one time she lifts the excuse of a skirt she is wearing and Patel’s hand slips in between her legs. What is this? A sex show? It’s advertisement.

I look away. I was brought up right. When my eyes find their way back to the table (they can’t help it) the tiny girl is sitting on Patel’s lap dancing to a song from the Islands. The skirt, being umbrella-like, is above her waist and we are treated to a 3 minutes show of seeing what we can’t touch unless we are willing to pay for it.

Willy: Nataka ule manzi.

Me: Ngoja nikuendee…

When the guy stands up to leave, I walk over to her, but I don’t do it like normal guys do, I walk behind the couch and lean over into her ears…

“Do you see that guy over there?” I asked her pointing to my boy.


“The one in glasses?”

“Yea. I see him.”

“He wants you.”

She turns back, and facing me she says…

“If he does, mwambie ajilete…”

Her English is faultless. Something inside me questions why she is in this dingy.

I move back to the table and ask Willy to join her.

After some minutes of deliberations, Willy walks over to where I have seated hands me his iPhone, his wallet and summons the girl, who picks up her purse, her guarana and follows him to a destination I am not sure where.

Sabina is packed. The couches are full of men sipping drinks directly from dark brown bottles and ladies of the night by their side, eyes roaming around, sipping from green bottles or cans. All girls are in flimsy skirts or even shorter dresses. The traffic from the rooms upstairs needs traffic control.

I am startled when someone sits on my lap. I notice the red skirt first.

“Beste yako hajanilipa.” She says immediately she gets my attention.

“Haha ulikuwa unamuuzia nini?” I ask her laughing

“Mutura… hehe.” She says laughing out loud. She has a naughty sense of humour.

“Mutura costs 10 bob.” I tell her holding a 10 shillings coin in my palm.

“Kwenda.” She playfully slaps my hand away after taking the ten shillings.

“Can we go now?”

“No. Tonight I am not interested in going anywhere with you or anyone else.”

“I will give you a discount.”

Before I respond, Steppin by Konshens starts playing and she playfully pulls me up and starts dancing on my groin. Someone starts responding to the moves which prompt me to sit my ass down before I find myself upstairs.

“Kuja twende..” She keeps insisting.

One of my guys tells me that he will go with her if I am not interested and I give him the go ahead. Unfortunately, some hawk-eyed man agrees to go with her before my friend can get a chance to share the fruit with Willy.

Immediately she is gone another chic comes over and asks me to make space for her.

“Umekuwa na usiku poa?” I ask her.

“Haijakuwa mbaya.” She responds without looking at me. Her dress has ridden up her thighs which are quite the contrast to red skirt.

“Umefanya kila kitu ulikuwa unataka?”

The question seems to evoke something in her because she turns to face me.

“Nimekunywa sana but sijato*bwa bado…”

I hadn’t seen that one coming. The implication of the answer was that she hadn’t made any money yet but she was interested in making some of me. Immediately I said I wasn’t interested, she blurts out that she is going home.

Moments later, someone is holding her hand leading her upstairs. I guess that’s home.

When we got in, the price had been 800 (500 for a girl and 300 for a room) but by the time we were leaving, girls were retailing at 200.

Willy gets one more and we call it a night.


The authorKen

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