My mother didn’t raise me to date men

Beautiful-white-sandy-beach-980x380You might wonder why I write about all these dingy joints and my escapades under the influence, there’s really only one answer – that’s my life (for now). Of course I’d want to write about exotic resorts with white sand beaches stretching across into the horizon. How I lay my head on some Eiderdown Pillow with kitu 300 thread count (What is a thread count?) on a bed that faces a window that overlooks the deep blue calm ocean. Walking down to the bar in a silk bathrobe and slip ons with my family crest embroidered in gold thread. Sipping some expensive whisky in a crystal glass with precisely three perfectly symettrical ice cubes. Talk about all the important people I’m meeting and give a sneak peek of the latest thing I am working on. Have important people call me and have the audacity to ignore their calls and write about it – how does the prince of saudi call me at 10P.M, doesnt he have people that tell him about time zones (I imagine I’d rant). But all in due time, for now I am perfectly happy penning down my experiences.

In unrelated news, Japan have invented an upskirt with LED lights. Basicaly it lights up your thighs, like a runway. Maybe the Japanese men were having trouble deciphering what  their young ladies wanted. This skirt throws all doubt through the window, it lights up the way for you so it no longer has to be a dark affair. I imagine how such skirts would be taken in Kenya. They’d probably be a favorite of hooker’s along the streets. They’d have all these fancy designs with some even adjusting the lights to read “special offer”. We’d have hookers looking like Mpesa sign boards all over the CBD. They’d use it like a bargaining tool:

“Unataka niwake color gani? Blue utaongeza mia.”

“Kwa nini?”

“Unajua inatumia battery mingi”

If that’s your kind of thing you’d have more things to worry about other than std’s. You’d worry about being electrocuted during the process. What if your hand went up the skirt and touched some loose wire and a jolt of electricity shot up your hands paralysing you on the spot. Someone would have to come with a piece of wood to disentangle you. Maybe even they’d have secret recording devices just to record how many times the skirt came off. This would prove crucial to pimps – they’d have their own hooker mileage. Again,  a bargaining tool.

“Customer mimi niko tu na 35 leo, kuja uconfirm” one would say if they saw you interested in the competition.

Then we’d have the usual ratchet club who’d decide that LED lit up skirts are way cooler than USA leggings. Ironically, these leggings can also trace their origin to some Asian country – what’s it with these people and weird   cultures. From hunting, killing and eating dogs to flag branded clothing. Have you ever notices how we don’t have a Kenyan flag branded legging? How about a Korean one? Just the USA. Here’s my logic behind this. The USA is a super power, most men are powerless in the face of a voluptuous derrière; get it? But then come  to think of it why would anyone put the most powerful nation on the earth’s flag as a garment to hug their buttocks? There must be some profound subliminal kiss my ass message. These flags have been eating booty like groceries. Now only if I could  say the wearers had such profound and deep reasoning. (I read a tweet where someone wanted the POTUS during his visit to take away all those girls back to his country. There must be a legal loophole somewhere – he should be able to claim ownership.)

But I love them (read tolerate). They make going to the clubs a little bearable and give me something to write about. Like this one time I was leaving the office at around 7 P.M. I get into a mat and we’re waiting for it to fill up – I couldn’t care less at this point I was tired and wanted to get home. We’re sitting at the stage as the conductor tries to coerce this young crowd of about 8 that they should ride in his bus. They are holding supermarket branded paper bags each with a can of alcohol (someone didn’t ask for I.D). They are rowdy. For whatever reason they decide to get in and they fill up most of the seats. There conversation revolves around what number of beer can they are having and who shook their ass to what song on who’s groin. Discretion to them is non existent; they talk about an upcoming party where X’s crush would be coming. X blushes and sips from her can spilling kidogo guaranna on her USA pants. Y quickly gets a handkerchief out and wipes off the spill giving her tips on how to score the crush. I tried minding my own business, but how could I when they were making their business my business. Then they start comparing their drinking prowess – one claims their affinity to Kingfisher and my heart almost sinks. She went on and on how red wine is the best and I wanted to slap her in the face telling her kingfisher is not red wine. It’s not even a wine, it’s food coloured second generation liquor that should’ve graced the dry earth together with the likes of vodka flavored methanol. I don’t because Y gets to it before me – at least she knows kingfisher isn’t wine and vouches for cellar cask. Alas there’s hope for the lost generation. All this time one of them had been silent and I realized she was eying me. She had a black can with gold outlines – a Guinness. There’s something scary about a girl that can drink that beer – they might not be independent but they are definitely strong. She’s the kind to grab your collar with one hand and hit you hard with the other. She’ll watch you recoil in shock and then start screaming asking you to hit her if you can. She will then drag you home and proceed to violently abuse you before demanding coitus. If she drinks Guinness you’re not the man in that
relationship. I looked away like the little girl I am – after all my mother didn’t raise me to date men.

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