In a whacky world, where to start from

Feel free to share 🙂
= 1308

I slip into a dark green trouser, pull a white t-shirt out of my case, throw a crisp white shirt I’ve only worn twice (during my graduation and during a meeting that I was meant to impress, I lost the deal anyway) over it, round a black tie and throw a light grey official coat over all these. I now look like the chairman of Ummoinner Sacco, only betrayed by lack of a big protruding belly, otherwise known as kitambi ya pesa. You must know there are three categories of bellies: kitambi ya pesa, kitambi ya shida na kitambi ya njaro. Minus the belly, I much resemble a guy who sells insurance to matatus. But again I am exempted because my shoes are okay. They’re two months old and show no signs of struggle from walking around town hustling for insurance deals.

I comb my hair just like a normal dude would, apply Arimi’s on my face and arms, slip into my black leather shoes and matching socks and leave the house. My neighbour, Mose, sees my tie dangling as I bend to get my shoes right. He has never seen me dressed to kill or in a tie before. He greets me ‘niaje fadhee.’

From that kind of greeting you can easily know he is boy wa mtaa. Them youths who love peace. He does. He has a wife and a small boy. The missus is super pretty and has these sharp eyes that can burn anyone. Every time I see her I want to pull her into my crib and shag her. It took me time to discover I am a sex addict until I read this post yesterday, and had to come into terms with the reality of the situation and how deep engraved in my DNA it is. And for the first time ever I decided to have thoughts of seeking help to deal with it.  You realize that when you’re addicted to sex no woman can ever quench your cookie jar. No matter how many women you’ll bed, peace and settling are never forthcoming to stay. It only takes a few hours of sex to ease the pressure, only to realize that after that your hunger for another honey pot just got refueled.

I leave that problem at that. And as I learnt from addictions, the first step is to accept that you have a problem. Openly, I do so for my own good. At least I owe the people who look up to me a better life, especially Elsie who has only me to look up to. I am looking for a shrink to help me deal with my shit.

On the 10-minute long stretch to the bus stop, my mind wallows in a lot of thoughts. Lately, my life has been invaded by overwhelming laziness, stress and unsolicited advice. Ooh, plus too much social media. It reached a point where friends tag me on posts on Kilimani Mums and Dads timeline. That is how you know your life is fucked up. If you ever find yourself being tagged in comments and posts of Kilimani  Mums and Dads, just know your life is becoming worthless in a way.

But thanks to the books I have been reading while that period whipped me. Sometimes all it takes is a small line from a good book to get your energy levels refueled. And this book, which I have been reading for ages, the things which I wish I knew when I was 20, did turn my horniness for success back on. I took that long because I am the kind of person who can read 10 books altogether. A month ago, I promised to walk away from the slothfulness I was indulged in and become a man. I had degenerated to something lesser that could be branded as a lazy douche bag. Okay, an asshole to be precise.

Added to these books, one thing that gets me on my feet is the house rent. Like at the moment I haven’t honoured my dues.  I promised my agent to pay on 10th, which is approaching quite fast.

I take a seat at mathe’s place and take tea with four mandazis. It is the last place someone in a tie is expected to be found. But I am a frequent client so I don’t give a fudge at all. I only take my 30 bob worth breakfast and catch a bus to town. There are no words to explain what I am feeling during this hour long journey. Nothing tickles or annoys my fancy. I only see figures of people who sit near me, those who alight and those who again take that seat. I only manage to see one face. A face of a fully grown woman with very thick thighs and a huge behind that sprawls over to my seat making me feel that my space is being intruded and that I am not getting services commensurate to my bus fare.

She is beautiful. To this, I let it slide. I squeeze close enough to feel her thickness. I love women who are well endowed with big body parts. I want to even lie on her chest. I just feign sleep and let my head rest on her right shoulder. I feel her head move. I wait to see what happens next.  Nothing. She doesn’t budge at all. I let myself be comfortable, take my phone out and see what the world outside there looks like.

I land in town thirty minutes before Fiona shows up. Just like most people who are not lunatics, I camp at Kencom waiting for her. For the first time, I don’t get offended waiting up for someone. I get busy with my phone, minding my own little business. Many people walk by, and my interest stays on women.  In this town, some women are so beautiful. A while back, when I didn’t know much about women, I avoided coming to town. I used to see stunningly beautiful women that my self-esteem melted away at their torrid hotness. Men, have you ever had that problem? Feeling completely useless when you see a very beautiful woman but you can’t perk up courage to ask her out or take her home?

Nothing makes me to change my mind. Every woman that passes by looks like I can bed her if I wanted so it doesn’t bother me. I am quite bothered by extra beautiful women because then I have to pack twice the courage I am used to to just arrest their attention. I don’t like going to that extent often. Sometimes you find it is someone’s wife or just a bitch that might kill you in your sleep and run away with your belongings. I used to prefer ‘eating’ older women to younger ones of my age but I realized I was destroying many marriages. There is no joy or bliss in doing so, only that I am simply attracted to older women. I still am. But I stopped shagging people’s wives. I envisioned that one day I might get caught and my life won’t be the same again.

Fiona shows up. Now, Fiona is a short lady, dark and doesn’t pack any weight that can push a table across the room. But I suppose she’s older than I am only that she doesn’t know. She is #teamnatural with her hair, tying a small clothe around her head to keep the hair together. She’s wearing a pair of blue jeans, a red top (if I am not wrong) and a black coat that doesn’t go beyond her waistline. I don’t remember the colour of her shoes, but she has a grey or so coloured handbag by her right hand.

We hug gently, exchange a few pleasantries. It is good to realize that nowadays many young people don’t know how to interact. Striking up conversations or keeping up on is one of the hardest thing. Conversations only last seconds and people get back to their phones, connecting with people who are far away and disconnecting with the ones who are close. Isn’t it funny?

We walk straight to Hilton Hotel. The doorman welcomes us warmly as we pass through the security check and head straight to the reception. At the reception a number of men who seem to have an Indian originality occupy the round couch at the centre of the floor.  My right hand is in my pocket and my head is high as I walk through. I see some of them look at me.

At the counter we approach the man at the centre. Well, he has a very black suit, a bit oversize. As you’ll realize, men working in many of these big hotels wear oversize suits. At least this has been my experience in many of my trips around the world. His head is shaven bald, he is burly, in a good way and looks like his life is not bad at all. Even if it was you wouldn’t know. His job requires constant smiles. It is a job that requires you of pretense even during tough times.

We engage him a little bit. And finally ask him if we could see the manager.

“What is it about?” He asks.

I explain to him. I figure out that being able to work here he must be of a smart caliber to understand my lingo. He does when I do.

“That is much better if you went to the sales team. You’ll receive great help there,” he responds.

“No, I want to see the manager,” is all I want to tell him and stamp my feet in protest. Understanding how the world works, we take the offer and go upstairs where the ‘soldier’ directs us to the sales team in almost the extreme end of the first floor on the right. Here, a sizable office sits, hidden away in a corner from the main entryways. There are four individuals in here behind their desks.  The set-up, which I really loathe as it allows for prevalent office gossip, reminds me of my previous work place where you had no privacy. If you hated someone, there was no way you couldn’t see the scorn in their eyes every time you looked up.

Hellen welcomes us. We sit across her desk and I take the mantle of explaining our objective there. She is quick to think we’re here to book space for our events and sorts.

“I am sorry, I think you’ve not understood my point. All we’re looking for is support in exchange for a service,” I interject. I then tear down my proposal so that she gets it clearly.

“Okay, then I think you can send us the outline of your proposal and the exact needs and how you want us to work together. We shall discuss is with the board and see if that is possible,” she ends. I can tell that there is a heap of make up on that face of hers. It is completely evident and I think she overrates make up. It makes her look like a clown. But she is not in bad shape.

She hands me her card and we thank her profusely for the time. As we descend the staircase, we talk in English. But somehow we agree that we might  get a better deal from smaller establishments.  That is how we end up in Sizzling Grill. We meet the manager whose name is Ndung’u. now Ndung’u doesn’t seem like a person who is interested with the details of whatever is under our sleeve but he says that they need our services. But then he directs us to Roasters house where the HR is.

He doesn’t look like someone who lies. He is just humble and cooperative.

Again we descend the stairs. We agree that if we go direct to Roasters House we might wear our creative energy early as the place is a bit far.  We manage to go to a few other hotels and clubs. I realize one thing when we approach clubs and request to talk to their managers, we’re informed that no superior is around. I can see lies in their eyes and on their lips as they suggest we come later.

If I had a gun, I’d hold the necks of these soldiers against the wall, train it on their ribs so hard and in a threatening, guttural voice thunder, “I swear I’ll kill you right now if you don’t tell me where the bloody manager is.” These are things I only see in movies, now that I am watching 24 intensely. I’d have done something like that if I had a gun, I am pretty rough when I detect liars. I can just shoot their feet off just for fun so that they can understand what kind of power I have in my hand.

We only manage to get a contact at the Golden Crown club.  Many of the clubs thought we were from the government and that we were there to take someone down to the station with us. I damn look like a government officer when I am in tie and a mean smile.

At the Apple Green Restaurant, we find the manager who keeps us waiting for more than half an hour.  He is conducting interviews for new waitresses. When we show up, the many waitresses doing their work show horror in their eyes. I can see some of them swallow heavy saliva. Anyway we wait patiently as if nothing is wrong.  I pull a chair and get my ass on it. Fiona does the same. By the way I have realized that Fiona is so rough on your tongue.  It is so dry. Why can’t we give our daughters smoother names such as Viola? You note the difference?

We end up with a contact.  It is not bad getting a contact, but you can always get a contact for the wrong person who might not be in a position to understand the kind of service you’re offering them. But we appreciate and walk away.

We go across and end up in African Nazarene University.  We request to speak with the Dean. The admissions are ongoing, we’re told, and it is impossible to interact with him now. I insist on a contact to which the receptionist gives us a general email. Such emails could land anywhere and someone not authoritative enough will  ignore them. You see how unfair the world is?

We observe the same trend at Zetech University. We don’t pick any contact. At KCB Kencom,  the number of people waiting in line are so many that we give up easily.  We could do something better with the time.

Somehow we end up at the HR’s office down at Roasters. The office is hidden upstairs in the building opposite which hosts another hotel. Here, we find a young man called Dennis. What a pleasure to interact with such a young person. Of all the places we go, I finally get a feeling that we might be able to land a gig here. He takes time to understand us. When he does, he appreciates what we’re doing (which I am not gonna let out of the bag till it kicks off). He assures us of his support when he presents the idea to the board. He gives us the email so that we can wire him the fine details of our project.

We walk out with wide grins.

Later on we peek into Sarova Stanley in town. I have never been here before but I have been to the Sarova Panafric a number of times. We discover that whatever info we’re receiving can be mined from their online database so we save ourselves the trouble and call it a day. It is around half past two.

I have to go and see my younger sister who is having symptoms that suggest two things at once- malaria and pregnancy. Just like a mother, having been around a number of women for a while, I can easily differentiate pregnancy from malaria. In this case I already know it is a pregnancy but she thinks she can fool me. I am a fool,  that is what she thinks of me.

I hope into a bus going my way. I open my mail and sieve through. I then read Bikozulu’s wounds post. It is the post that makes me discover that all along my sex desires are nothing but a deeply entrenched addiction that needs some saviour I never had before. I enjoy reading the story because it is nicely written.

I then wonder where I start from.

 

Mzangila Snr

(The supreme hunter in captivity)

where shall we go we who wander in this wasteland in search of better selves?

Use Facebook to Comment on this Post

Related Posts:

About Mzangila

Mentor, media consultant, photographer, editor, poet, writer, and counselor.

Check Also

The life that I never asked for

Post Views = 351The following happens between 7.48 pm to 12.19pm. Events occur in real …

An Open letter to Vera Sidika

Post Views = 1228Until recently, I had never seen Vera Sidika’s photos because I don’t …

Leave a Reply

Be the First to Comment!

Connect with:



avatar
  Subscribe  
Notify of