Two things happened last weekend that may as well change the course of Kenya as we know it. One is that Harambee Stars keeps winning. Two, I was in slutty shorts—a walking monument to the Kenyan masculinity crisis. More on that later. And three, my friend, Brand New, bought a, urm, brand new car, with a big engine, a mean spout and a rear that could put Vera Sidika into liquidation. Which is why I was in shorts.
I hate to be that guy, but my preening narcissism aside, not everyone can pull off shorts, but I can, which is why I was in them. In fact, mine were less shorts and more hoochie-daddy trunks. If you don’t know what that is, they are shorter than a miniskirt but longer than hotpants. In other words, on the menu, I was serving legs, and if you didn’t notice, your eyes are defective.
But this is not a story about shorts. I was in shorts because I was also riding shotgun in Brand New’s brand new car, and she needed a distraction, something gorgeous to wipe the eyesore that is Kenyan roads. We were going down south to Namanga or beyond, to officially “flag off” the car, a ribbon-cutting behaviour we have mimicked from our politburo. She insisted on driving herself, which is just as well because God forbid someone scratched our brand-new car, and I had to come out and argue with a Kenyan traffic officer because I didn’t have Sh50. Have you ever seen a man in shorts argue? It looks silly. You can’t declare war in shorts or deliver a eulogy in shorts. Heck, you can propose marriage naked but no one is going to agree to forsake all others for a man in shorts. Men in shorts are silly. And silly is the very worst thing a man can be. Not me, though.
Where was I? Oh yes. So we are driving down to Namanga or Arusha, whichever comes first, Brand New on the wheels, A—, E—, and K—, two women, three men. We like Brand New to drive because she is relaxed on the road, and forget that dreck about women and directions, she is actually a steady Eddie on the road. Any woman who drives as dope as she does won’t ever have trouble finding men. The other reason we prefer her to drive is, it’s her car, and kiss me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it Socrates who said loaning your car is like loaning your wife?
Now that you have the backstory, let’s engage a faster gear. We stop at Kitengela, known for its three seasons – hot, dusty, and flesh-eating mosquitoes. The only thing you do in Kitengela is arrive and leave. Which is precisely what we did, just after we had picked up K—, who has just moved to Kitengela, from Rongai no less, a sideways move, considering dust is constant in Rongai. All of us were in campus together, and really, there’s nothing better than seeing your friends grow from truculence to influence, the new adults in the room. We all know much about each other, some would even say too much, and if any of them were to go clinically insane, I’d organise a mafia-style drive-by hit on them, for the things they know about me are why gangs have a secrecy oath. Brand New is suffering from success, and she has money, seeing that she has taken care of the drinks, food, fuel…if she were to run for WhatsApp Group Admin, she’d have my vote. A— is the official DJ, and she likes what she likes. E— is the talker of the group, and brings up things that shouldn’t be brought up, like that some of us, back then, did things for each other, and to each other and sometimes…with each other, if you catch my drift. Will there be a chance of that happening in Arusha or Namanga, whichever comes first? I didn’t say yes, but I wasn’t saying no either. K— and I are bringing form and function, function is K— with his wallet, and form is me, with my aesthetics. This is the type of memory one should make an effort to create if one has the opportunity.
In Kitengela, as we picked up K—, we stopped for a while. And while we were waiting, a girl passed by, and I stopped her. She was hesitant at first, but one look at my shorts and her defenses dropped with all the resistance of a bead curtain. I said, Hi, join us. She said, But siwajui . I said, my name’s Eddy. That one there is A—, that’s E—, and the one driving is Brand New. She said, My name’s Dolly, then looked at my legs and bit her lower lip. I said, We are off to Namanga or Arusha, whichever comes first. You should come. She said, Ehh? I said, Yeah. We are three men, two women. You won’t pay for anything, and you get to sit with me, back left. She said, Eehh? Uko sure? Then looked at my legs and bit her lip again. Reader, she got into the car. The rest is none of your business.
That said, I understand, women, I really do. Brand New’s car had lumbar support, massage and heated seats. My legs were moist throughout, if you can get past the metaphor. So this is what success feels like? You know, in our superficial society, foolishness can sound like wisdom. And so what? People talk up a great game, but a big car makes a statement without you making a statement.
It wasn’t even my car, but Dolly said yes at the first chance of asking. And we still had space for one more person, Dolly’s bestie, if that’s what they still call them. I thought about it too, but no. If I were the man I was three weeks ago…she would see. I get it. Moyo imependa msichana, maisha inataka shangazi.
I am planning to loan the car from Brand New. Forget that schlock I said earlier. We all deserve good things, and I want to rough it up and show up a few minutes to a client meeting, and make sure they see me parking so when I ask for a certain amount of fee for work, they’ll be like, We get it. This isn’t negotiation. This is Trump’s Art of the Deal.
Have I also told you it can go from zero to 100km/h in seven seconds? “That sounds familiar,” my ex would say, but don’t mind her. This is a good car, and I am a good man with great legs. People like it, the car that is, and by association, they will like you for driving it. My reasons for owning it may belie my Christian upbringing, but this is why you get a big car: people don’t ask you silly questions. Like, “Umekuja kupick ama kudrop? ” Or, “Ndani kumejaa. Utapark nje? ” or “Kwani, you are not married?” Science says the bigger the car, the shorter the dress. Ladies know this, of course—this car rates highly in bpm (baddie per minute). Men even offer them rides, for free. The only cost is your dignity. And, if you can believe it, nobody will care that you are wearing shorts…the easier for them to be removed and—ama wacha tu.
