Her face was a waterfall of tears. Two cascading rivers hitting hard on her cheeks. The funny thing was that her make up didn’t run, she must use the expensive kind. The kind that’s water proof and fool proof. Yes fool proof. I know you think I mean full but let me explain. Guys now are getting smarter, they are tired of taking home Tyra Banks and waking up next to Tyler Perry. So for dates they suggest these water intensive activities in the hopes of washing out any make up. At first it was smart but soon enough they caught on.
“Imagine Stacy, that fool pelekad me swimo.”
“Ati swimo? Kwani he thought the make up would toka?”
“Heh even if they were sins hizi blood of Jesus haiwezi toa ata.”
I was passing and she was blocking the way her hands in her face. She was what you’d call a hot mess. I don’t know what a hot mess is or if there’s cold ones. But if I had to describe one it would be her. She had on a jumpsuit it was beige and had flowers dancing around it sparingly. Her shoes, which I noticed as I was looking down to avoid eye contact were heels. Brown ones, suede, and had some frilly things hanging around the ankles. Even behind her wet teary face I could tell she had taken time to do her make up. Her eyebrows were what most people would call ‘on fleek’ and she didn’t look like the fake Nike brand ambassador. Her hair was short but twisted into little round locks. Part of it was dyed reddish and the rest was a hue of copper brown. Her fingers weren’t too slender but her nails were well manicured and the polish looked like a galaxy a million miles away. It was different colors blended together forming beautiful abstracts on her nails. This did not look like something a Stacy would pull of in ten minutes sitting on her bed watching La Cuervo Sabuni Ni Omo on Bamba TV.
Standing directly opposite her was someone I assumed was her friend. She was grasping her by the shoulders asking her why she was crying. She didn’t seem to have much luck though as the lady just shook her head and kept the tears flowing. Her friend seemed agitated. She had that air about her, the kind when a friend has more than they can handle and makes a fool of themselves. Guess the make up wasn’t really fool proof hehe. She seemed ready to slap some sense into her. But the decorum at that joint doesn’t allow for violence. Besides there’s something about kicking a friend when they’re already down – don’t. So she stood there awkwardly patting her hair like you would a baby you don’t like but whose mother is right there. You say nice things about that baby like how it doesn’t cry haphazardly. You can’t say it’s cute because it’s not – but society says they’re no ugly babies so you go with it doesn’t cry haphazardly. Amidst her sobs she started murmuring. At first it was gibberish muffled out by the music then it got distinct. Like a warriors chant. Gaining confidence with each syllable. She was saying all men were shit. She was getting vindictive. I wanted to chime in and act smooth and say not all men are shit some are just shitty and it’s not the same thing. You see being shitty means you’re like shit you’re just not shit. Shitty men will buy you drinks and when you don’t go home with them refuse to pay your cab ride home. But they will be sleek about it saying theyre staying for more drinks and meeting up with more friends. Men that are shit will let you get drunk on your on money then take you home and still not pay your cab fare in the morning. But telling this to a drunk woman at 12 AM might land you in trouble.
Drunk women are national disasters or should be declared the same. They’ve cost the economy more than the Eurobond, goldenberg and NYS have combined. As a matter of fact let’s throw in Anglo-leasing too. But not all drunk women just the ones that don’t buy their own drinks. Yes, men around the world feel obligated to buy women drinks. This drains their savings and as you all know investment is directly proportionate to savings. You can’t invest what you don’t have. Collectively, according to asstistics (the larger the bun the higher the number of drinks) men spend over 8.1 billion shillings per annum buying drinks for ladies. Now that’s 80 billion in ten years. That’s approximately four superhighway constructions. That’s tax money the government realized it’s losing out on so did the unthinkable and increased exise duty on alcohol making it more expensive. So now we have less infrastructure, men get less drunk and alcohol is expensive. See? National disaster.
I tried making myself small (er) to pass between them without having to excuse myself. It seemed to work until one of them tapped me on the shoulder and in a voice that wasn’t a scream and wasn’t too subtle said
“You’re what’s wrong with men.”
I don’t know what that was supposed to mean. Okay I’m not tall dark and handsome so maybe that’s what she meant. That I’m the kind of men she has to deal with, men that are not her type. Men that are short (pun intended) of Prince charming. I didn’t know what to say to her so I just stood there, drunk and hazy and stared at her wet face. I was going to take the brunt on behalf of men. I was going to be a man about it actually and say sorry. Then I thought that maybe that wasn’t it. Men have a pretty bad track record like forgetting anniversaries. So maybe it’s anniversaries, maybe I forgot her anniversary. How could I, this must’ve been the second year we didn’t meet. But I was just there standing, staring at her then at her friend then at the bathroom that I really needed to go to.
There’s so many things wrong with me that I don’t think the Kenyan man should take blame for. Maybe she meant the fact that I don’t have a car to ferry girls like her – drunk and crying – home. I mean thays such a big failure on my part. Every kenyan man should have a car for such situations. Maybe it was my uncooperative bladder that had me going to the bathroom. Maybe that was it. I mean how can we spend quality time shouting over the music getting to know just how loud our voices can get if I’m always getting up to go to the bathroom? So I guess I had to apologize for my bladder. But wait… could it be? No it couldn’t. Maybe I looked like her cat and no man needs to look like a woman’s cat. It reminds then just how lonely they might really be and they start missing there cat and wanting you but not really wanting you because they’re missing their cat.
At this point a female bouncer had found her way to the scene. You know these women, they do their hair and some apply makeup after hitting the gym then put on black shirts with black coats and black trousers with black shoes and stare you down as you enter the premise. She looked at the crying girl and let out a cynical sigh heavy with contempt. Women don’t cry. She looked at her friend, tall and slender patting her down telling her it’s not her fault. Then she turned to look at me. I wasn’t there. Maybe she saw the bathroom door close. In her eyes there was a lot of (okay I don’t know I didn’t look into them). But if I was being blamed for being what’s wrong with men I didn’t want to be what’s wrong with her men – if she dated them. I can’t be the reason her fellow woman is crying while I’m smiling silly drunk in the lobby unapologetic pacing up and down almost peeing myself. If her hands reached out to grab me I would’ve actually relived myself on the spot. Then me and the crying girl would have something in common. So I ran, into the bathroom, relieved myself and walked out like I didn’t know any of them – which I really didn’t. The bouncer moved out of the way and I could feel the crying girls glare on my back as I walked back to my table. I was waiting for her to point at me and say “Him! That’s him. Get him.” But she didn’t. Maybe after all I wasn’t what’s wrong with all men. But then again what if am?