Disclaimer- blogging is all about vanity. Furthermore, it is an art that needs to be appreciated. The blog respects its readers, but art is borderless. The works depicted here are that of art, and should not be taken with high-level seriousness unless they are. This post is nothing near PG but it can be.
There is Izo, Jojy, another George, Czar and I inside the car. As always, Czar is the driver. Others are just rookies who’ll land us into a ditch in the first 10 seconds on the driver’s seat. Czar and one Jojy are at the front, the rest of us at the back seat on this Friday night, and we are headed to Carnival Simba Saloon. There is a Rhumba night there.
Not that we’re all sincere fans of rhumba but because we love fun. Plus we will be able to see this musician. Again, it is a social function where you can hook up with someone. You can grab some bum and squeeze it at the dance floor.
From where we live, Waithaka-somewhere on your way to Kikuyu, is around an hour to Carnival. Using the southern bypass will only take us around thirty minutes. But we opted to hit the city and then catch up with the rest later. As you all know, there has never been any pleasure getting to a function early. You might get bored. Actually, you get bored. You can drink the whole bar as you wait. By the time people turn up you are simply inebriated to recognize what is going on.
So we drive through Ngong Road. Ngong road is crappy. It is around 7.30 pm and there is traffic bottleneck. All the cars that the city had swallowed that morning are now swarming out like excretion. We branch off to Yaya and down Hurlingam, the traffic on this road eases as we cruise down Valley Road. From here you can now smell the city’s now offloaded streets.
The city is lit and it looks like it is built on shimmering crystals. Nairobi’s nightlife keeps improving. Years ago, only hookers, thugs, and street urchins used to crawl at night. A few clubs and bars would also be reaping from the customers that were looking to have fun and those drowning their dolefulness by their bottles. The final lot was that of lodgings and its clients who took hookers off the streets for a fling. Ephemeral flings in exchange for cash. And these men would get back into their trousers and drive home to their wives. Like nothing happened.
By the way, there is this thing with hookers. Professional hookers do not kiss. They can blow your D, and other things but the kiss is something they don’t share with clients, the only thing that is virgin in them is their lips. They belong to one guy, a guy who they love. Hell, you didn’t know floozies got boyfriends! They are human beings who also have emotions and can fall in love like anybody else. So if they ever buss their client, it is because he is a very special client. The one she can do anything for. They one she may want to fall in love with. Yeah, at long last if they find someone who is good enough and has money, they get off the street life. They settle and get a straight life.
This was around 2013. The city was still new to me. I knew much of the uptown, it is where I used to twiddle my thumbs a few times and sometimes even work. In 2012 I had worked with a few insurance companies- Invesco and Xplico and had walked into the deep thighs of the city tracking down clients. Selling insurance covers was the worst kind of job I ever handled in my life. So during this night, I hardly recognized some of those streets.
Some streets were somehow full. More and more nightlife enthusiasts were arriving in town. The good thing with these streets at night is that they are not flooded. You can park anywhere easily because no mean guy with a rungu from Kanjo City is going to cause ballyhoo. There is no one hurrying to work that will step on your expensive shoe. Couples are standing along the popular streets, others are sashaying along the streets to their destinations.
At around 9, we leave the city for Carnival with some of the guys in the car tipsy. While they are feeling like the just landed on cloud nine, I feel normally bored. There is this thing that booze does to you that you laugh even at your own attires. At times you can stare at your shoes for minutes and then burst into laughter. I just don’t know what it does. I have some energy drink on my hand in a long can. On the other hand I have some apple drink in a smaller can. Only the driver and I are sober. And we chat our way slowly in our mother tongue. The other guys keep laughing.
We pull up to Carnival’s upper parking lot at around 10pm. There are a few other cars. It actually looks empty. We go in. The good thing is that our three guys are now better, the booze had just a minimal effect which did not last the next thirty minutes we drove.
Inside there were a few people scattered here and there. Actually, we had the whole dance floor to ourselves. It is the only day we’d ever had the dance floor to ourselves. Judging by the attendees, the whole thing was dullsville. Either the musician had lost his flavor or the event was not marketed adequately. He took to the mike and sang passionately. At that time I was not a big fan of rhumba. So I cared little who he was. I keep forgetting the name, though from the talk he was a popular guy.
Then there was this white chic, or is it woman. I could tell she was in her mid-thirties, with a long flawless hair that was tied at the back in a single stroke. She wore black high heels, some nice fitting pants, a blouse and a coat. She had her blouse tucked in. She had this shape and colour that made her stand out. She wasn’t completely white, but rather like the white Congolese. And she swayed herself around with the rhythm, she was a good dancer. Men, and I mean men who had her by their fingers because of their hefty wallets, asked to dance with her, moving from one to another like the things we see the whites do in movies. From somewhere in the dark corner of the restaurant, I watched with jealousy.
Besides me was Anne Ngugi, the huge woman who used to be Ktn News anchor sometimes back. She was with her husband. When I looked into her eyes, she looked troubled. Like life’s miseries had ridden her life and were now driving her to hell. So unhappy was she that I wanted to ask her- ‘woman, what in the whole world would make a beautiful woman like you that unhappy?’ okay, she was like 40+ and the glitter was leaving her, so that would be flattery. I didn’t because I don’t talk shit to people who at that time have bottles by their side. Plus her miraba nne hubby was there. He could easily break my jaws and I would be hospitalized for days. And on my bed a tag would be hanging, reading- nil by mouth. That would be the end of me. I’m Kisii. My first love is food. So you understand what nil by mouth would mean to me- a heart break and death.
That thing really kept me disturbed. What in the whole world would make her that lugubrious. It is my nature. Something small can really alter my mood. I guess it is my altruism. I love seeing people look happy. For a celeb to be unhappy is like Nick Minaj getting robbed of her fake ass and becoming a beggar in the streets. According to the commons, where I belong, being a celeb means having everything right. It means happiness. It means high life, influence, joy, wealth, and most of all a full filled life. But at that moment, she looked like any low life. Sad, and bored. It is what humanity boils down to. We face the same problems, on a different notch.
Anyway, our musician wandered off after one hour. So by 11 pm the show was over and Carnival was full of lassitude. Chairs looked at each other with languor. The bars were empty. The lights were faint. The waiters who had expected a busy day wore dejection as their second face. The few people who had come left while shaking their heads in disappointment. We were in that lot.
‘Bado ni mapema. Si tuvuke tao tutafute mazuri uko?’ Izo, who had just become unimaginably sober suggested. Everyone seemed to agree. Czar chauffeured downtown. The night was still early.
In the next few minutes we trickled into Club Tribeka. The Nairobi’s famous. The city’s emerald. Every kith and kin went to Tribeka because that’s where Nairobi’ finest hang out. On this night we wanted to hang out with the finest. Damn me! I was still a tyro at some of these things. It was my first time in Tribeka. I had no idea what to expect.
It was small, lit up and packed to the passages. It was steamy and soon everyone whizzed into the crowd leaving me alone. I found a table and booked myself two sodas. I hated the fact that I had no fresh air to myself, all I could use was sweat, liquor and sweaty sprays. It was like a den of a smelly smorgasbord.
Some chic on the stage, a small stage, with a booty short and a loose blouse shook her ass vigorously. She danced alone. She had that stage by herself. She had all the attention of anyone who cared. The likes of me who had nothing better to do. She would leave the stage occasionally to replace her make-up that was being washed down by the heat and sweat in the club. Maybe she feared letting us see her real face. She knew she had a nice booty and boobs, and dancing skills. So to compliment all that, make up had to come in like a handler, or a wingman. She danced alone so that no one could get close enough to touch her face and discover it was full of disgusting acne. Those were my thoughts.
Izo was up there behind her ass as she grinded on his groin. He was there pumping to her ass in rhythm. One thing I noticed is that she never allowed anyone to touch her ass. She could dance with you so long as you didn’t touch her. In that darkness, I saw Ogutu Wakimani. He was just becoming a celeb, as a comedian on Churchill show. He was just another frame like all men.
I did manage to steal a kiss in that shadowy darkness as we headed out. It was half past midnight. We drove in silence. We were exhausted I guess.
Around Yaya, we drove a long whores whore paraded for a pick up. And there was this big one, bold and very thighlicious. She looked experienced. When I looked at her, she pretty much looked like somebody’s wife. Or the streets had made her wiser. She was collected, and confident. Like she knew what she was doing. As we came by her Izo shouted- ‘iyo yako unauza ngapi?’
‘Italingana unataka ya gapi.’ Right there she talked like a Kuyu, she was.
‘ingia apa ndani unipee kama nimekaa.’ She looked into the car, she saw five young spoiled brats who rarely understood what life portended. She said to Czar. ‘Toka, ntakupatia tu apa nje.’ we all burst into laughter as someone slapped her ass. Her miniskirt flipped up and there was her black knicker inviting danger. She had a full, fleshy thing that could easily send a man crazy.
We drove around into the inner streets of Yaya. And somewhere along Woods Avenue, there were even more expensive whores. Very pretty and hot. And then there was this floozy that got dropped off quite fast. She had her knickers down and her ass out with her mini up her stomach. It was obvious that she had sex in the car because everything was misplaced and she was trying to get it back.
There comes a time in a man’s life when he has to remove a woman’s knickers. Knickers are the custodians of her womanhood and symbol of her power. As a man, there is no bigger achievement than when getting a woman’s knickers off. To appreciate the full nakedness of a woman, you have to remove her knickers. It is a moment of gallant conquest. You’ll look down into her eyes as you remove it, and there she is, looking weak and submissive to you. It is a moment that every man dreams of because it is the only time you will have overpowered a woman, had her by your palms, and she, at your mercy. A moment of sheer greatness, like the last stanza of a love song. You yank them from her legs and toss them over. At that moment, she remains helplessly yours.
I’m past the 2k mark.
Let’s meet on Wednesday.
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