It’s a Friday evening and fate decides that its time you bump into some of your college mates somewhere in upper hill. They are doing good judging by their demeanor and overall appearance. They have on sir Henrys suits, Tom Ford shoes and ties from Italy- Wall Street kind of dressing. Classic men if you ask me. You cuss your god for allowing such a thing to happen at a time when your shoes are so dusty and have taken another angle with the acrid smell of sweat emanating from the depths of your body notwithstanding. You could have used some deodorant in the morning had it not been so scarce that you spare for ‘special’ occasions.
They drag you to a fancy upmarket eatery and offer to shoulder the bills because you look somewhat disturbed and disillusioned by their presence and your surroundings. The look on your face is now into a thousand shades of unreadable emotions. You chose the cheapest meal, that which you can pronounce right. You don’t want any more embarrassment any way.
They talk of big meetings and projects they are currently pursing. Most of them have businesses and are entrepreneurs as they call themselves these days. You don’t have anything to say so you just sit there taking in notes like some kind of P.A. it’s not your type of conversation any way. You only thrive in discussions that involve mama mboga escapades, the latest chang’aa dens or tricks to ace boda boda trade.
They get engrossed in their conversation over the ever rising stock exchange rates and the trips they can’t wait to take come December. You just sit there consuming space and oxygen not relating to anything they say. Once in a while one of them looks at your to get your opinion and suck you into the discussion but soon forgets your existence and again get sucked in on a topic on the current war in Syria and how Kenya is without doubt turning into Greece. You don’t have much to say and excuse yourself to visit the wash rooms. You wonder what they think of you and your lack of knowledge on the current status coo. While at it in the loo, you give yourself a couple of chest thumps to reassure yourself that you are still the ‘it’ man, but there is a tiny voice deep within that says otherwise.
You return to the table only to find one of them discussing how he is about to propose to a girl with a budget spiraling to the environs of two million Kenyan shillings and over. You transition into a daze as you calculate what that amount could do to you and your entire clan; it could buy vaccine for your favorite cow Zawadi that gave birth last week , buy your old lady some fertilizer for her maize farm and your house would have the luxury of donning some seats. It could spin your life around in the blink of an eye to say the least. You have no girlfriend so you also device a tact to woe one. These Nairobi girls are difficult. They want someone who’s got something in the bank, you mumble to yourself. That’s when it hits you that the only account you got is an M-Pesa account and that is because it’s free to open. You also can’t remember the last time you received or sent any cash.
They suggest visiting the club to unwind and know you can’t deny because you are just 27 and if they remember right you were one of the party freaks back in the day; which is not so long ago. You hastily oblige but walk behind them like their bodyguard to the preferred location. In that uptown club, music is blaring from humongous speakers as sweet smelling, well-endowed women and girls dance to the rhythm of turn down for what by Dj Snake ft. Lil Jon. The only thing you can do is fantasize about an encounter with one of them. You are too broke to fall in love anyway. You are roared back to life when two of your ‘friends’ suggest buying a round for everyone and then everyone has to sort their bill afterwards. You sit there and wonder what on earth pulled you in. In your pockets there is just enough to get you back to your almost empty house in the heart of Kariobangi. It’s also getting rather late, so you hope the bus fare won’t be hiked. You utter profanities hoping your assailants *read tout* would do no such thing. That fact leads you into hoping that some hood rats don’t decide to wipe your house clean.
They suggest you take pictures for some memories but the state of your Huawei ideos does not think so. The scratches and bruises it has can’t be displayed to the elite public in your company at the moment. In the first selfie, you look so lost and without doubt the odd one out so you opt to be the ‘camera man’ insisting that the photos would look better since you are an “experienced” photographer.
It’s time to leave, you bid each other farewell and exchange rather incomprehensible pleasantries as everyone other than you hope into four wheelers and roar them to life as they take off to their respective destinations. Your face remains glued to the ground and hands in your pocket as you trace your way to the bus stop somewhere in downtown. You walk without looking back; the way a man does after urinating by the road side.
thatgirlsitawa 