Mantalk: Not everyone wants a summer bunny’s money but...

They are coming. Who’s they? Them? Who’s them? The bunnies. Summer bunnies. The “I will marry you when I get back to Kenya.”

My summer bunny is white and has money. I know this because she told me. If you allow me to put my halo aside, I will also tell you that she is not leaving me. I was not meant for the struggle. Ever since the Kenyan dream died; I know of many young men whose idea of making it is getting a rich girl pregnant.

What was even the Kenyan dream? Go to primary school, make it to high school and become an entomologist as you fight off insects in your githeri, make it to university (which in my books are only two, thee Moi University and The University of Nairobi), and later on tarmac looking for a white collar job.

Eventually start out as an intern and rise through the ranks and get an office girlfriend who moves in with you after she discovered she is carrying belle. The rest is you looking for children's names in the Bible, while history gears to repeat itself. See, the Kenyan dream is a nightmare.
Me I want more. Not all of us get to make it out of the hood, but for those who do, they know what I am talking about. It’s not selling out, it’s buying in.

That’s what crosses my mind as I tick off the days to when I shall wear my tutu skirt to go and dance for my summer bunnie at JKIA. Shame is a mindset.

Look, men, today’s sermon is a bit out of pocket because it is something I have been thinking about for some time. Life is tough, and if you have a bunny who can save you, then I understand.
I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I already know the right place to take mine for nyama choma because this is top of the list of any bunny. And unlike my local vienyejis, I know she won’t mind splitting the bill, or, honestly, paying for it.

She will probably be speaking English of the nose, but thankfully back home in Kakamega, the villagers would be impressed that I got me a mzungu and we can finally jump into the next tax bracket. Look, we are not poor. Just financially off-peak.
 

People think every man with a white girl is just after her money. That’s not true. I am also after her inheritance. She is rich rich. She pays for everything. Plus, our conversations have colour, if you will ignore the metaphor.

I have come to discover Kenyan girls—a paragon of fecund pulchritudiny—are pretty boring conversationalists. Pretty, yes, but boring too. How many times can we surely talk about the clouds in Juja which are not really clouds but moshi ya bangi Njeri?

Sometimes you just want to talk about the state of the economy and the ramifications of craniosynostosis on the postmodernist theory of neocolonialism in--, sorry, have I lost you guys? See my point?
Plus, they are serious about their fun. Always wanting to try out new experiences. I mean, mine already asked me to check out the best camping spots for an out-of-town shindig and all that shebang. I once asked a Roysambu chic to accompany me for hiking and she told me Dedan Kimathi was not shot so that she could not enjoy her warm blankets.
Weak joke aside, I don’t know if you know this, but the ancestors say he who has not travelled thinks his mother is the best cook. With an acknowledgement that my privilege is showing, I would encourage you to be out there. Live. Leave, even. I grew up in Nairobi and Nairobi has this trip-hammer vim which can drive you insane with restlessness if you have no inner stabiliser.

In Nairobi, you can be lonely, like a caged animal, teetering slowly towards madness. I saw this meme-wisdom that was saying a long-distance relationship can work as long as you are the one in Nairobi. In jest, there is truth.
What’s also true is that Kenyans have a fixation with anything that is not local. Growing up, the dream was to leave this country and go abroad. It’s not for a want of trying, I asked my pay-giver if he could only assign me stories that cover diplomats. That is just between you and me.

It’s not the first time I have bought faulty electronics because the previous owner was white. Some months back, all that was required to force my hand and buy a TV without haggling was to read it advertised thus: “Sony, 65-inch TV for sale. Two months old. European owned.” Throw in ‘UN expatriate’ or ‘Diplomat’ or ‘Consular office’ (which I don’t even know what it means) and I’d even tip you, complete with the cursory “You have served your country well.”

The Mathematics is simple: expatriate = white person = good.
 

That is the logic I am using with my summer bunny. If she can take care of her electronics, what about me? I know my mother would shake her head with brio, wondering how I can bring home someone who cannot till the land or cook ugali or milk a cow, but mom, you don’t know her like I do. She is carrying.
You know what? My common-sense theory of life is simple: never marry for money, but go to where rich people are and marry for love. I have spotted a flower abroad. I want to pluck it because China’s debt is not catching me flatfooted.

Didn’t the president, in his visit to the country, say that he wants to be taking loans from Kenyans? If she asks me out, I only have two words for her. ‘I do.’ And if you ask me what I am doing, I also have two words for you. Hii imeenda.

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