There I was sitting at the bar counter. I was on my third brown and the liquid gold was proving it’s money’s worth. Never mind it was smack in the middle of Tuesday and the place was as empty as a priests condom drawer.
Tuesdays are my worst. You see other than work I have to squeeze in three hours at the end of the day to attend class. I hate class. So normally I leave early hoping to make it on time. This particular day elements of the universe had conspired against me. The brilliant matatu driver decided that in addition to his driving course he had also qualified for jam evasive manoeuvres. His antics found us stuck in a gridlock. With no where to go much like a hooker finding out their mark is gay. It was frustrating.
So anyway five hours later class is over and I’m just getting into the CBD. I head down past ambassador take Tom Mboya and make hasty steps towards my stage. I get there and there are no mats and the lines there are longer than my dryspell. My blood is already begging for some alcohol and I heed its call. I retrace my steps and go down the road to moi avenue and take the entire stretch down all the way to NHC building. Now here lies one of Nairobi’s little known secrets. A joint that sells cold tusker at Ksh 150 every single day. Here everyday is happy hour. So there I am downing my third and my phone lights up.
I’m feeling slightly inebriated and my moods are elevated. I open up the message and some lass wants to find out where I am. I think to myself that maybe the traffic was a blessing after all. I might just end my dryspell. Talk of blessings dabo dabo portion. Enthusiastically I explain my location but the distance doesn’t seem quite appealing to her – well until I mention the prospect of a few black ice and the deal is sealed.
I order one more brown and make my way away from the counter and find a cosy little spot. I pour the brew into my glass and watch as the head forms. I derive so much pleasure from having the cold gold froth make its way down my throat. It feels like angels are massaging my oesophagus with their tiny angelic fingers. A few minutes she calls and alerts me of her arrival. For your first time the place could be confusing. So I go to the entrance to meet her.
I stumble over a loose carpet fitting and stop to straighten myself out. I look around hoping no one thinks I’m drunk. No one notices. The few guys around are engrossed in conversation or face buried in their phones trying to convince a lass over for some black ice. I feel iris with all the luck that’s coming my way now. I see her at the entrance. She’s all official with a dark black skirt that ends at the knees. A white chiffon blouse and a black blazer. Damn she’s hot.
I don’t stop to think why she’s never paid interest in me until now. You know what they say? If it ain’t broke… Exactly. This was working for me so I wasn’t going to fix it. We have that weird first hugshake. You know when you stretch out your hand and she goes for a hug then you go for a hug and she stretches her hand? We smile foolishly and I lead her to the table. Pull up a seat for her going the whole nine yards. I complement her dress. I say something objective. I don’t want her to think I think she’s beautiful I want her to think I think she’s hot. Beautiful doesn’t get you laid hot does – write that down.
The waiter comes over. I must admit the service here is impeccable. He asks what the lady will have. I’m expecting her to say black ice. She doesn’t. She asks for passion juice. The look on my face – priceless. I make a joke and ask if she’s pregnant then I laugh. She laughs then says yes. My evening couldn’t get worse. The dryspell makes me think that a pregnant girl is an advantage – she couldn’t possibly get pregnant again. It must have been the froth. I wipe the silly smile off my face and ask again. She’s dead serious. She reaches into her bag and pulls out test results. She’s 100% pregnant. I’m 100% outta there. Okay we left together I wasn’t gonna leave a pregnant girl alone. But last time we ever spoke. I really hope I get better Tuesdays