Meet Bob

There’s a conversation probably happening right now in a two bedroom apartment along Ngong’ road. There’s a guy in a vest and cargo shorts, with large brown sandals; sitting on the edge of the couch with his hands on his head looking down at the plush black and white carpet. A tattoo on his left arm, tribal. A thick gold chain around his neck and reeking of after shave. The television is on; the sounds of MTV quietly playing in the background.  An obscure serenade to the unfolding debacle.

Standing in front of him is a woman. Medium height. Lithe and chocolaty skin. Her skin looks like a cup of drinking chocolate with two scoops not one. She has a stocking, a brown one, on her head. They always have a stocking on their head. She is wearing black yoga pants and is barefoot. A promotional white t-shirt is hanging on her shoulders suspended at her chest by her perky bosom. In her hand is a phone. By the way she is holding it, it is not hers. One hand is akimbo and she is tapping her left foot. That way her body is heaving and her chest is bouncing. She uses the phone to point at the guy.

“Bob, who is Stacey?”

The guys are always Bob. Or Brian but mostly Kevin. There’s the off chance you’ll get a Phillip but rarely.

“What are you talking about babe?”

She will throw the phone at his face. He will duck and it will hit the couch, bounce of it and land face up on the plush carpet revealing a picture of a much taller girl. Much lighter. Only half a scoop of drinking chocolate on this one. More petite and a less heavy bosom but just as perky. Naked and smiling posing for the camera with her hands holding her shoulders such that, her chest is out but her soft mounds are covered by her elbows. Bob will look at the phone and look up at the girl. Who is probably called Joan. A Joan might wear stockings on her head and black yoga pants and walk barefoot and put her hand akimbo when confronting a Bob, Kevin or a Brian. He will slowly reach for the phone and act as if he is digesting the picture. Like he is lactose intolerant and the picture is a glass of milk. Then he will nod his head and for effect throw the phone back down.

“I don’t know.” He will say.

Joan will get infuriated. Her nostrils will flare. She will take a deep breath and in a calm voice she will ask again, pointing at the phone on the floor.

“Who is Stacey?”

“Babe, I told you I don’t know.”

“Then why do you have her pictures on your phone?”

“It was sent by Mwas. That guy from the office we drink with. We are in this Whatsapp group.”

It’s always a Mwas who sends these pictures. A single guy who hits on bartenders at joints. He is loud but not obnoxious. Favors t-shirts, jeans and sneakers. Has a rugged beard and mostly bald. Does something fancy like IT or animation. Girls love him. But he just hasn’t settled. You’ll find him out of town on weekends taking his car for a spin with a damsel and chomain nyama and downing beers. His potbelly is on its second trimester. So he might start running and going to the gym but give up after the third month. After all mwanaume ni kitambi.

Joan will throw her hands up in the air. Run her fingers through the stocking or over it and start rubbing her temple. She will pace the length of the living room and let out a sigh of frustration. She will grit her teeth and open her mouth to speak.

“Bob. Bob. Bob! You must think I’m stupid eh?” she will say “You think I am one of those girls eh?”

She will then reach on the ground and pick up the phone. Bob’s face will change. He will realize what a stupid move it was to throw it back down. She will put the phone so close to Bob’s face he could almost smell Stacey’s nakedness.

“Tell me Bob, hii Whatsapp group inaitwa Stacey? Kwani uko pekee yako kwa hii group?”

Bob will realize he has been cornered. He can’t lie anymore. He is probably reeling from the effects of downing two and a half bottles of Jameson with Mwas and a quick session at Stacey’s in the wee hours when they wobbled their drunk selves into a cab. So he will look down and stare at the carpet. Murmur something under his breathe.

“Look babe, I’m sorry. It just happened. I can’t stop her from sending me pictures.”

“You can’t stop her from sending you pictures?” She will mimic. “You can’t stop her from also downloading them yes? What else can’t you stop Bob? Driving to her place and cheating on me? I’m done.”

Bob will want to stop Joan from leaving. But he won’t. God knows he had always wanted to dump her. He just didn’t have the balls. So now Joan will leave. Right after smashing the television, scratching his car, throwing his clothes outside the window and calling Stacey giving her a piece, no, her whole mind. Then she will leave, find her own place.

So I read yesterday that Whatsapp, with the help of a hacker, have developed an end to end encryption. What this means is that the government won’t be able to snoop on your messages. You can send your videos, pictures and raunchy texts and not worry about it. As a matter of fact, even Whatsapp staff won’t be able to read your messages. In the words of a person I really don’t know you can now shower with the bathroom door closed.

whatsapp encoding podt

Disclaimer: Only the government and hackers cannot access the data you send over the network. If you’re dumb enough to leave your phone lying around, someone will read your messages. You could end up like Bob. Dumped, needs a television, paint job and laundry done.


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