Being honest can sometimes get you killed. So people tend to hide behind mirrors of dishonesty to protect themselves from looking less virile or even from things unknown. A few years ago people were less paranoid, and did just more than just ask questions, not because they had less developed prefrontal nerves as psychology would argue- do and think later, but because they just didn’t have excuses to avoid undertaking something.
So a few days I went to visit a friend of mine. He is my hommie and we schooled together from the elementary school. And we got talking, mostly about women and kids because we are well endowed on the subject. He is a few years older than me and been with a number of women before he finally got tired of them. So he is just there. People who are just there have seen shit, lots of shit. And the best they can do is just watch things from a distance and amid silence say to others ‘you don’t know shit kid.’
Tom is the kind of guy the women need in order to stay relevant. I don’t know if that makes sense. Well, he knows how to treat a woman (I know because his women have told me so quite often). He is gentle and manly. But as we talk he is on a sabbatical from women and anything that looks or sounds close. And he has a kid, with one of the women who is barely 7; a year less than my Elsie.
When Tom and I meet it is like a reconnaissance of two men who just resuscitated from a life threatening world of women. All our lives have been built on who screwed who, or how many cookies you have been served. And we would laugh about it, narrating our most memorable moments and those chicks that moved our life from mother earth to Bro Ocholla’s cloud nine, though nowadays it is difficult to broach over such subjects because we are just there, tired of women and watching our small bros learn shit.
Later on we would then chit chat about our kids, how they are doing and fairly how their future looks like. What else do fathers talk about? Their kids, right? And their women. And how the women are crazy, locking them out of their homes or crushing on the couch in your own home.
You just came home at 1am from somewhere you can’t recall vividly. You knock, and she opens the door. She is there in front of you, wearing a face of a lioness.
Woman: Where were mpaka saa hii? Unatoka wapi?
You: Can’t I just have peace even in my own home?
Woman: You talking of peace! Not until you tell me where you’ve been.
You: I was having my usual at Whispers.
Woman: You don’t even drink you fool.
You: Yes I do.
Woman: No you don’t.
You: Yes I do
Woman: No you don’t.
You: Yes I do.
Woman: No you don’t.
You: Yes I do. And you don’t know.
Woman: Have you been with another woman out there? I know you are lying.
You: Why does it have to be another woman? Can’t a man have time with buddies somewhere and talk into the night?
Woman: Because you don’t drink and I called all your boys. They said they haven’t seen you.
You: You don’t know all of them. Do you know Kevo?
Woman: The rowdy bastard who is always on heat?
You: I know you don’t know Tom.
Woman: Yes, that son of a bitch who keeps changing women like lingerie. Is that what he teaches you?
You: It is 1 am for heaven’s sake and I’m tired. I am going to sleep now.
Woman: No you are not! Not in my bed. You’ll be sleeping on the coach till you learn to tell me the truth. I didn’t get married to be waiting for a jerk like you till past midnight.
Just like that, you sleep on the coach because your wife said so.
Blogging is about vanity and it can only get worse. And this is where my honesty might kill or crucify me. I am not going to protect myself from anything, but going to champion for my virility, just like any virtuous dude would do.
Through my African eyes, I always look at some ladies and wonder what it would be like if were kicking it together, you know. And I look at them with lust, undressing them with my eyes and devouring them to tiny bits. It is a trait I have developed of late, whereby I must always bend the neck to look twice. I have to confirm every little view for purposes I do not understand.
A few days ago I would strut across the streets and corridors of the varsity straight face, focused and very concerned with my own business. My neck had no problems, thus no need for the numerous massages that I source for nowadays. I was a good boy then. Even now I am because I am tired with women, not what they have. Things changed on the way. New friends have infected with me with a disorder of lust.
I have been in a situation. Yes, a situation. There is this woman, fully grown with full hips and boobs firm as lion of Judah. I mean she is fine. She is a definition of what you can simply call a true African woman. Her ass is as solid as steamy steak hanging precariously from a branch. Her chest, just like two ripe mangoes, ready to be harvested and munched immediately.
This woman knows the value of her body. She covers herself well, like she got a pot of gold that miners need not to know. But the curves are well revealed even in that state. The skirts are never tight, but her lovely body stunningly comes flowing out like it is a river of crystal clear ice down the slope of Mt. Kenya. Her chocolate complexion reminds of how honey tastes. And then her intelligence, it oozes effortlessly.
This lady happens to be my lecturer. I am having a crush on her like Cinderella. So now Karma is no bitch, Karma is a sign of luck. I just look at her lips and everything else changes. I am feigning courage to go and open up to her, even though that might land me on a suspension. But as they say, it is far much good to live one day as a lion than live a million days as a coward.
Tom’s piece of advice.
‘ Yoh, (he always wants to sound badass) don’t screw this up man. You gotta do what a man gotta do, right? Just drop it like a bombshell and make things happen.’
So I gonna live.
Wish me luck.