I’m talking about BMW’s again

I’m on my sixth maybe eighth beer and it’s raining. I’ve just lost a multi bet and mpesa is behaving like a group of campus girls that just came for the drinks and free food. You know those. Usually a group of three to six. Just as loud as the colors they are wearing and attitudes that smell better than the putrid concoction of deo,  cheap cologne and sweat that’s hanging around them like adolescent boys.

I’m getting to that point where my left foot thinks it’s right. A dangerous point. You’d not want to get to this point in the am. You’ll do all sorts of things including texting your ex, telling them you made a mistake and confessing to a non existent crush on mama mboga. Worse still if it’s Sunday, you’ll walk into a church and straight to the priest and confidently ask for a double of alter wine. Then proceed to the sisters and introduce yourself. They’ll call you a sinner but you’ll insist your name is John or Matthew or Pius but admit to liking Cena. But just a harmless crush. You like your Cena’s female, big hipped and petite. And named Celia or Jane or Mary.

I get a text from my cousin. She wants to know if we’re on for the next day. I had forgotten about it. I’m supposed to tag along for a BMW run to Naivasha. I’m thinking I should spin a story. But being drunk I’d spin it out of control. I’d probably talk about being abducted by spaceships to their alien. I simply say sure. Make a mental note to get a pair of Mara moja on my way home. Mara moja can cure anything. From a hangover to unemployment. I am not shitting you. Take two pills and apply for a job. You’ll get one Mara moja. I get two more beers, light a quick cig then head home.

The last time I tagged along for a run with them I learnt one thing. BMW is a car that loves the owner back. It’s not abusive like the Subaru. Which always takes, takes and never gives. It’s not subject to hateful tirades from a columnist. You can comfortably drive your BMW to a basement parking in Roysambu. And it can be blue. And you can be a woman that loves shisha and Jameson. And you can have internet access and be a dimwit. Also they look expensive. Like that girl in PR. Feels high maintenance. Until you ask her out and she’s surprisingly down to earth. Will easily trade the carpaccio at Caramel for a shawarma at Adam’s. That’s a beamer for you. Looks, feels expensive. Might be. But it really isn’t. It’s debatable. Mostly between me and my bank account.

Come Sunday morning; a  shower, Mara moja pill and a banana later I’m out to the rendezvous. The sun is still flirting with the clouds. Trying to get it to spread it’s legs. But the clouds are being prudesque. Waiting for the right moment. Probably a wedding. A honeymoon bed. Sam Smith playing in the background. A Mr tall dark and handsome.

Sunday mornings are a bit lazy. It’s worse when the weather is gray. So getting a ride to the rendezvous took ten minutes. It didn’t help that the driver saw it fit to go picking up everything along the way from semi drunk guys, church dressed ladies and bad habits. My phone started ringing. It was my cousin. At that time, roads are lonely. They are a wine bottle away from calling ex girlfriends and telling them they miss them. They need hugs. They need to be told they are beautiful. It’s not you it’s them, you’ll tell the road. Anyway, she had already arrived. Found out it was really the roads fault it was lonely. So she calls me. I felt sorry for the road. I really did. Might call it the next time I’m hammered.

You know when someone is waiting for you but they don’t want it to look like they’re rushing you so they ask where you are in a polite way? Then they follow up with a text. Then another call. Send a drone. File a missing persons report. Delete your number. Say fuck it. Send a smoke signal. And finally they beat the drums? And you want to pull a Cena on the driver and comandeer his vehicle and just drive yourself. But you don’t because he’s playing Rose Muhando. Who’s ironically singing Nibebe. And you blame her for your woes. And just as you’re about to lose it. Say fuck it. Jump out and run the rest of the way. You find yourself there and you answer the phone with a smug look. Not saying much just “I’m here” hanging up and walking with a spring, winter and even summer in your step.

We head out to the Shell in Lavington. I’m in the backseat with my nephews. They’re cool peoples. They probably take their milk chilled and chew on their carrots like cigars. Bad ass. I actually try to fit in with them. Seek their approval. Mad peer pressure you guy. Six was a good year. Mercy Masika is playing on the radio. Something about her voice. It’s different from the person. Her voice you want to take out and buy a drink. Take it for shopping by it a little black dress and a pair of heels. Then take it out for blankets and wine and show it off. Then take it home. Take off the LBD. And…  It’s not my fault Mercy. It’s just that siwezi jizuia. Next time make your voice wear a bui bui. Hehe. Anyway it’s sexy in a Christian way. If that’s a thing.

At Shell there’s other BMW owners. The first I see is a pristine white X5. I swear it winks at me. We pull up and she winks at me. Jokes aside. One of those head lamps wink. I want to wink back. Maybe signal her to meet me at the back. But here I’m Alladin and she’s Jasmine. Actually wrong analogy. Alladin had a magic carpet. Here I’m Abu, the monkey. So I brush it off. Must be the Mara moja. There’s something off with that medicine. It can’t be that efficient. Shit could cure world hunger given the chance.

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Anyway. The good guys at Shell. And by good guys I mean the yellow yellow lady in a white Shell blouse that was taking pictures of the cars and putting stickers on their gas doors. Are they called gas doors? Were giving the chaps 2K worth of free fuel. They even had a register and stuff. A list of cars getting the ngata. It was high school funky all over again. Some legit shit. Only thing missing was drivers saying “Present teacher.”

Now you might think you’ve seen it all but you haven’t heard it all. When the cars started streaming in, you could hear the stares on peoples’ faces. Hear me out. You can actually hear stares. And this time it’s not the Mara moja. You know when you see a face and it’s just saying Damn! Or shiiiiiiiiet! Or where can I get one of those. But mostly who do these guys think they are. Jealousy. In its greenest. Anyway, so you could hear the stares from when the silver grey 5 series to the rowdy 3 series with custom exhausts sitting on rims bigger than a Luo man’s ego drove in. Then came the bikes. I know nothing about bikes. Except they’re cool. Cooler than a cigarette. Though both can kill you. And they treated the show like top management at a tier 3 bank. Too soon?

If you think a car gets you points with the ladies you should try a bike. Their noisy mufflers  woke up the leafy surburb from its slumber. They have this dangerous air about them. They tempt you to flirt with speed.  Same goes for ladies. Bikes get you guy points.  God knows we love ladies that can ride. The downside to being a biker would be all that gear they wear. Something about safety that’s boring. Cave men didn’t have helmets. Or fireproof overalls. And they invented fire. And lived in rocks. Or around rocks. And they survived. Okay, maybe they didn’t. So helmets are not such a bad idea. But its bound to get pretty hot under all that gear. Why do they do it? They love it. Plus nothing says adrenaline junky like cruising at 160 with a fire proof overall as the only protection against the hot black tarmac.

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There was a quick brief. Multiple selfies, as usual. Then the trip started. But back to the brief. The plan was simple. A smooth ride to Naivasha. No shenanigans. Just a convoy on the highway. Observing traffic rules. Boring. Then there was the part about flashing other BMW car owners along the way. I was lucky on this one; I hadn’t worn a bra. But cars can be dirty. Not literally but damn. Flashing? Or maybe they’re cheap? They should just make the damn call. Or text. Or send a please call me. Or at least get a drink first. Oh and by the way speaking of drink, coke stopped by as well. Hooked the guys up with sodas. Because if you’re going to taste the open road in a beamer it might as well taste like a coke right?
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Last time I almost wet myself in a 5 series on steroids. Driver found it funny power sliding and accelerating to way over 200 with me in the backseat. It’s scary. And exhilarating. And you get turned on. Maybe it was the black leather seats and the smell of burning rubber. But to be fair I had been warned. And I had peed earlier. This time round I rode in its less evil, more  pretty and more or less the same age sister. A five series with no modifications. So no fancy exhaust. Or extreme power. Or turbo chargers. Or paddle shifts. Just comfortable black leather chairs. Nice sound system. And a crew of urban young guys discussing beer and women and cars. Other cars. Like their car didn’t have feelings. They talked about the car in front of us. A blue 3 series on steroids as well. With a carbon fiber hood and trunk. Sounded like it escaped from the national park. Had a ferocious roar. But caged in a convoy. Driving within the limits. You could almost hear the car cuss under its breath. It kind of felt that the law ought to be tweaked for cars like BMW’s.

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It’s a given, driving a BMW will get you noticed.  Riding one even more. With a few stops along the way we finally got to Naivasha. Where some fun events had been planned. If you had asked me, most of the fun was in the cars on the roads. Until I tried some of the events and what do you know? Fun.

With nyama and good music on heavy rotation. Fun people around. And being surrounded by the world’s best cars it was definitely a weekend worth writing about. Oh by the way, clouds gave in kitambo. Next time you see her she’ll be heavy with child. Or rain. But mostly rain.

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