As Fuck – The evolution of measurement.

There’s a certain thrill you get when you go after the forbidden fruit, the seductive temptress, the fire in your loins, the creme of the crop, the married woman. It’s exhilarating – or so I hear. But so is sky diving, jumping out of a plane from 20,000 feet with a man on your back and a blend of polyester materials that should hold you up when you pull the cord. If things go wrong you could die, in both instances – that’s the only thing they have in common.

I’m not going to talk about married women or sky diving I just wanted a catchy intro to get you hooked. It’s like my pick up line, the one chance a writer has to get his foot in the door. Did it work?

Let me talk about fucks. Yes, people fucks. But not in the way you think, did I hear a sigh of relief from a prude? I’ve realized that a fuck has become the SI unit of virtually everything. It’s mind boggling. I haven’t gotten over the fact how fast we’ve replaced metres, kilograms, and kilometres per hour. Heck, fucks now even are a measure of the immeasurable like; hilariousness, anger, sexual desire, interest and a whole plethora of things I couldn’t exhaust even if I was a subaru muffler.

It’s a Saturday and you’re thirsty. You know that Nairobi weekend thirst that demands for a pint and some nyama? So you head out the crib and find your way to the local. Here the place is full and Ken Wa Maria is on full blast competing with the adjacent pub blaring Tony Nyadundo. It’s weird how even with a street lined with bars till infinity you will always go to one bar – that’s unspoken loyalty, the kind of loyalty girlfriends crave for. Quenching your thirst at a different watering hole is tantamount to cheating. It’s easier to get away with dipping your you know what inside someone else’s you know what. Those fat bartenders are unforgiving, should you stray your tusker will always have the habit of coming warm. Your table will be deserted and you’ll find trouble summoning even the young waitresses in training, they will avoid you like the plague. You will wish you never went to another bar and it will take a little bit of charm and a whole lot of flirting to get back your status. You will have to lie how her curves hypnotize when she sways and how you love the way she holds the bottle opener.

‘Eh kwani leo uko na date?’ You’ll ask her, insinuating she has dressed rather impressively. She will smile and sooner or later get to talking. She will warn you about the rival pub and offer unsolicited rumors that they water down their drinks. You will be back in her good books. Your drinks will come cold and she’ll occasionally throw in some cleavage when  she serves your drinks.

You will be waiting for the game to start and you’ll get a message. It will read ‘Hey, I’m bored as fuck.’ You don’t pay much attention to it but then you get to thinking. What does bored as fuck mean? Last time you checked fucks aren’t the least bit boring. You’ll be tempted to ask about their bedroom affairs and send them links to tantric sex guides. You’ll want to introduce them to that chic in the hood everyone knows dishes it out better than a multi choice satellite. The one even your mother warned you about. You’re twenty something but your mother still warned you about her – girls don’t be that girl. You will refrain from any of these and invite them over for a kanyama and a pint.

It’s not even long before someone else’s texts:

‘Niaje man leo wapi?’
‘Nawatch game apa local come ivi’
‘Iza man joh I’m tired as fuck.’

There it is again. Tired as fuck. But this kind of makes sense because if you were doing it right you should be tired right? Remember somebody saying they were tired? They had a heavy accent influenced by some central local dialect. They had an accent so heavy it needed to watch it’s weight. I guess that audio sums it up pretty neatly. She was tired as fuck – you snigger at the thought and at least appreciate the proper use of the term before ignoring the text. Some of these guys nowadays want you to court them for drinks. No one has time for that so let the tired bum sleep.

The game hasn’t even started and a drunk damsel takes a sit next to you. She eyes your phone cautiously then you then your drink then she summons the waitress.  She asks for two drinks and one of what you’re having and she loudly asks if you think Giroud will score. You tell her you have a better chance of scoring with her and she gives you a look. It’s a weird look like it’s full of contempt doused in awe and humor and a tinge of yeah that might happen. The conversation is casual browsing politics and football and then she makes a balsy move and asks for your number. You save it in her phone and two minutes later she texts ‘I’m horny as fuck.’ There it is again, in the right context though you think to yourself. You slyly smile and send a smiley. You know you wouldn’t touch her with a ten foot pole but you let the idea dance around in your mind. What might happen? You might go to her place some flats deep in pipeline where you’ll dodge puddles of soapy water and pass through throngs of hawkers selling their wares. She will fumble with the keys in her pockets before coming to a halt in front of a large green building. She’ll open the door and you’ll find the corridor poorly lit with water dripping from the floors above. Everyone has done their laundry and the air is humid and you end up thinking yo yourself how the whole place is stuffy above as fuck. You go up the stairs flight after flight landing on the seventh floor weaving through black water containers strewn along the path way until you reach a door you assume is hers. She lets you in and it has the characteristic net on the door way,  a pink lacy one, and inside is a  television that’s large as fuck and an even humongous home theater and black couches. You end up in her room and proceed to get tired as fuck.

You’ll leave the scene amidst requests for an encore and start walking home. You will realize just how deep you were in the hood and after it takes you twenty minutes to find a road you are familiar with, realize how she lives far as fuck. Then you wonder how fucks measure distance, you entertain a naughty thought and for a brief moment almost think of turning back. You don’t and head back home. But not before peeing by the roadside next to a wall that has the sign ‘No Dumping’. The smell has the putrid smell of ammonia but you notice nothing smells like shit. You guess people took the no dumping seriously.

You come back to reality and she’s dancing right in front of you. She probably thought you’ve had too much and you’re zoning out. She comes over and as she gives you a lap dance suggests that you’re drunk as fuck. You brush it off and down the remaining of your froth. Giroud still didn’t score and she’s adamant to go home with you. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom and leave. You know you might end up sick as fuck. She looks like a hotbed of vibrant bacteria. You get home and sleep. Three weeks later your dryspell has hit hard as fuck and you remember the damsel and guess what? You’re mad at yourself. Not just mad but mad as fuck!

P.S I know this story was funny as… ah never mind.

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