This is not the way I am supposed to do this. I get that. This is not how I do things. I hope you get that. The objective here is not charm or flair or form. I don’t want to waste your time. I’m just going to start.
I woke up this morning with nothing to do. The only thing I know for certain is that I love having nothing to do. I am like a modern-day Diogenes (look him up) except perhaps I prefer my clothes on my body and I spend too much time on TikTok appreciating just how good God has gotten at creating baddies. Speaking of, my buddy J— called me the other day asking for tips on how to get rid of a one-night stand. Like I know everything, which I do. Except, is it weird that I have never had a one-night stand? To be clear, I am not having a one-night stand, today.
The problem with one-night stands is that you can hardly stand the person after the night. Over the weekend I was descending Thompson’s Falls in Nyahururu and I heard someone motion over his friend, on the edge of a particularly steep stone. They were wearing that cap with an elongated head that only men of a certain age from central Kenya could pull off. “Wanguku! Come hapa, uone views.” I have resolute self-esteem but let’s agree—I don’t think I was the view. Or maybe I was. I imagined moaning the name Wanguku in bed. Not me of course. I would never sleep with a Wanguku. And then he even did the accent, that slurpy wasapere accent where the “n” is silent and the “g” slaps against the roof of the mouth violently to sound a hard “g” and the mouth settles into an ominous “u” shape. Wagukuuu.
Where was I? Ah, yes. J— needed a BDU—a Body Disposal Unit, because he had picked God knows who from God knows where and done God knows what… Anyway, the person had decided to make breakfast and proceed to start a six-season Netflix true crime series. That should have been enough foreboding because wueh? ! True crime? And ati she kept pausing and rewinding to appreciate the art. Ngai. Each episode was 51 minutes—minus credits. She watches the credits too because “these are the people that make things happen and me nafeel wako underrated baybeee .”
She was on episode three when he called. Facts. Ukweli. By the time she would have finished the series, Nani would be vying for re-election. We decided she must go. Still, me I watch and I judge. Which is why I went over to his place to do some “work” but really just to make sure the girl left. I know I know. I am such a good friend. And I saw in the dustbin beer cans and a half-eaten KFC chicken and something plastic that was wrapped in a tissue which looked like a…why am I telling you this? Anyway, this was evidence of a night of debauchery which needed to be disposed of…and they were.
I think perhaps the reason I have not had a one-night stand is that I am very sceptical about human beings and their fleeting nature. I know how quickly a yes can turn into a no, and the awkward moment in between. There is also another reason, you see baddies TikTok everything, and I don’t want my house vlogged about—Get Ready with Me for a One Night Stand with a Cute Rastababy . #StrangerDanger? It’s not that I have anything to hide, it’s just that I have nothing to show. Plus, I am shy. What if Wanguku stumbles upon this video?
I have a hypothesis that because leadership is a mirror of the electorate—kioo-ngozi —then he, J— can borrow a lie from Nani or stretch the truth or tell her something has come up and she can’t stay. Really, she must go. Now J— is a very handsome hombre. I know because women say, “Aki si your friend is cute! Ako na mutu?’ when I go to ask for their numbers. Luckily, I have robust self-esteem and I know J— would never cook ugali mayai as good as me. Nobody can take that away from me.
Anyway, women also don’t appreciate ugali mayai (shame!) (explains why I remain unmarried) so that is another reason I do not do one-night stands, and if anyone here works at Isinya Poultry Feeds tell them I am available for a brand ambassadorial job. A full billboard image of my face and an egg in my mouth on Mombasa Rd and Ngong Rd. I even have a tagline: The Chic Magnet . Call me. Canvassing aside, I tell J— he is living the crazy life. La vida loca. Kwani huogopi?
It's not a great way to live life but my sojourns in the dystopia that is Nairobi relationships have taught me to live with a healthy suspicion of everyone. What’s that the Kisii say? Expecting people to treat you nice just because you are a good person is like expecting a bull not to attack you because you are vegetarian. In a matter as private as sex, it is public knowledge that consent has to be an outright yes. No “but everyone saw us leave the bar together.” No, if she didn’t want it why did she follow me home. No “lakini si she said yes kwa bar!” Maneno haya si mageni jijini, as Wiliam Shakespeare I believe once remarked.
People much wiser than me counsel that a drowning man will hold even a snake to stay alive. By the time you explain your side of the story, your name would be muddled, a taint on a white shirt, the one-point difference between an A and an A-. Suspicion, you see, is a short step from blame. And an accusation is just as bad as a conviction. You are not unbwogable. Err on the side of caution. Many men are rotting in jail for assumptions and ignorance. Until you visit a Kenyan prison, you may not appreciate how expensive freedom is. Anyone who says differently is selling you something.
Besides, with the way Nani’s economic policy—which can only be best described as “kuja tu hatuwezi kosana” —and the way said policy is baring its fangs, people are resorting to desperate means to stay alive, afloat, or awake. You can see where this is going.
People will watch you like they know what is about to happen. Like they’d known it even before it happened. Like they didn’t believe you didn’t know it too. The guilty are free, it’s the innocent who are wasting away in Kamiti. Na, what’s worse, one of these days you might pick up a Wambui “Bobo” only to undress them and find, lurking underneath the war paint splattered on her face, a Wanguku. Shauri yako.
