He’s not on social media. No Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Whatsapp. Who the hell doesn’t have WhatsApp? If there was a comet about to hit Nairobi, it would probably find him knee-deep in whatever mysteries he does in that house of his. He’s probably a spy or into dark things like cults with red capes that make sacrifices on every full moon. Musee, I hope the rare times we meet, I’m not a prospectus sacrificial lamb. Doubt that can’t happen since I’m too sinful to be selected. I’d probably be laid down in that cave where their shenanigans happen and whatever they praise comes out and blatantly asks whether there wasn’t anyone else tastier. Talk about being friend-zoned.
Ironically, he’s the first person I met when I moved into my new place. Okay, technically the second but Njoro doesn’t count — coming to ask for a blunt after curfew. He even dared to knock on my door and went straight to the reason.
Bro, do you have some shush?
Man like Njoroge. He and his girlfriend are intriguing people! It’s a shame they recently moved out, but they were always out partying. It’s better for someone who needed a house more to come and take care of the place.
That’s the reason I don’t rate them as the first people I met. But that’s judging on who asks me. It’s not like I can go telling mum that the first guy I made friends with, we bonded over Mary Jane. Her bishop would be crawled out of church and right onto my forehead casting out demons. So intrusive. That’s a road I dare not take. More so because church and myself have been in a situationship. This is not due to my spirituality or religion, rather the ‘jamaas’ leading them.
Not naming names but the bishop has a walking question mark. You see it on top of his head as he periodically strolls shirtless on beaches in Malindi. He drives a Range with an entourage of bodyguards and rocks trimmed down Italian suits. Different women every month claiming to be working for the good of the church. Come shoot me. I can’t fathom him touching me let alone with holy water, it would probably scorch my forehead. The only thing we can talk about is money. To be specific where and how he gets it. With this recession, the rent is up the roof and I’m getting too old to still play cat and mouse with my landlord Paul.
Right across from my digs, is a lady. Thick-bodied, drop-dead gorgeous, just my type. Occasionally, we meet by the hallway. Being shy, I’ve never had the guts to say hello. Well, that and the gnawing thought at the back of my mind that my girlfriend would cut off my balls if she found me prying in other womens’ affairs (wink, wink). Thursdays through Sundays are always dramatic. For one, she’s loud when drunk. At night, she’ll be on her balcony and on phone cursing out a certain guy for asking for nudes and him not returning the favor. Now, I’m not one to judge but there’s this guy who’s always lurking in her place, in his late 40’s rocking a belly and speaks of a deal here and a deal there. He’s not always around which leads me to the diagnosis that womanz the side chick. I bet she knows.
Kids, the balcony is meant for Njoro’s friend, she puffs, you puff, and pass. Never air out your affairs. Some of us with big ears tend to catch fireflies where there are none. Shh!! She’s at it again, get some tea.
