Dirty Diana II

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For this to make sense, you need to understand something every woman knows. Your body is a marvelous thing. More than that, it is like your currency in this world. And most of all, it is a delicate thing. For Diana to have gone completely into the business of catering to the needs of gentlemen callers she had to decide what she wanted for herself. If she wanted to go back home and pick coffee, there was a price. If she wanted control over her life or boundless freedom, there was a price. She knew that the price varied in degree but its existence was unquestionable.

The thing is she said that if you wanted to make a living whoring, the greatest challenge is acknowledging the fact that there existed a real danger of ending up dead in a ditch somewhere in a godforsaken slum. A nice face is good, in the same way that a moustache is important to a teenager buying alcohol. You need good clothes to accentuate the face and these call for some significant monetary investment. Language classes are important; a Swahili accent is excellent at getting rid of any previous accent from the Mt. Kenya Region. It is also vital for one to polish up on their English so as to mask any deficiencies in formal education.

The internet is a wonderful tool because Diana learnt her etiquette and dining formalities from various websites. It is the proper thing to do because she was going to make a trophy out of herself. According to her there are only three types of women in this world; the wives, the daughters and the trophies. The wives work hard and they are very well worth their weight in gold, the daughters may find themselves in the will but neither of them gets the holiday to the Maldives. That is a reserve for the trophy because only they can facilitate a fantasy.

If you are going to be a whore you need to do it smart, not some Red light district drab, you want to be a queen. You want men to court you, send you gifts and buy you cars. If they pay, it makes them feel like they own you. Gentlemen callers are charmed to a stupor if you turn out to be as interesting as you are pretty. They will want to spoil you with material gifts as much as they would want to take you to bed. If you know how to listen they will want to cater to your every whim. Then you have control.  Nobody makes a queen pay for her cab fare or take her to a 30$ motel in town for a quickie.

I walked her back to the parking lot where she had her Lexus RX300 parked in some obscure corner. I watched as she loaded in the shopping and strapped her son onto the back seat. She gave me a parting shot that has been making cartwheels in my head for a month now,

“I never lied to myself since those days of living in that dingy slum packing meat for a meager wage. I still hold myself in that regard. I know that even the fanciest trophy woman is still a woman. That means sooner or later I’m going to be old and I shall need to switch careers. Open up a restaurant or something!”

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Dirty Diana

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Back when I used to live in Kahawa West, about six years ago, in a slum called Congo, I had a neighbour called Diana. Diana was not really my friend but rather the antagonist to my then budding romance with my wife. She worked at the meat packing plant but she used to run her own charade at the end of the week where she’d go clubbing and attend to some gentleman callers who would supplement her earnings from the meat packing job.

She vaguely used to remind me of Eddie Brit from the hit TV series Desperate Housewives. Every night as it was my routine I would go the communal bathroom to take a shower and brush my teeth since there was no way I was willing to queue in the morning. It was in this time that she would show up to hang her underwear or brush her teeth conveniently clad in a skimpy little nightdress. My girlfriend hated her guts and in many ways I understood why.

Anyways, last weekend I was strolling in a Thika road mall looking for an Xbox controller when I bumped into Diana with a baby stroller that contained a boy who was a spitting image of her. The boy who was about four years of age was addressed only in English and she had that freshness about her, you know, like most nouveau riche Kenyans do. The sort of freshness that comes from working in cool and dry environments away from direct sunlight. Diana was wearing a light blue dress that contrasted sharply with her hazelnut complexion. It had a long slit that exposed a scandalous amount of leg.

She offered to buy coffee and this was fine by me partly because she made it clear she was paying and partly because I needed to know the source of her new found well-being. Of course I was secretly hoping that there was scandal of National standards because there is no better thing than a scandal on a Thursday afternoon way before the media houses gets wind of it.

Honestly I was nervous, I did not know what to expect and I was really not in the mood to sit and talk over some overpriced coffee laxative. I took my seat full well knowing that if her story turned out to be windy and cliché; I would fake a headache or even menstrual cramps just to escape a boring story. I would rather have my nipples pierced than put up with an insufferable bore who feels it is her right to have my time because she is handling the tab in a restaurant.

Turned out, it was not a boring story. In fact far removed from that, it was narrated with such extravagant and meticulous detail that I wondered whether she was not making it up from a soap opera she had watched. This story was not made up…

 

Indulge!

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Anne Sexton lay great emphasis in her work about the purity of longing. Nothing is more clear in her statement that longing for something or someone is the greatest driver of all time. Take hunger for example, in the event that you are hungry, the very aroma of a meal you despise is an epic pleasure. In the state of hunger you could very well enjoy that meal you abhor and only live to talk about it later but never regret.

For a week now, I have been having what could best described as longing for an alcoholic beverage and or the effects such drink has on the mind. It was a constant tingling sensation at the foot of my soul that was gnawing at my very core robbing me of the equilibrium that is my life. I began by distracting myself, indulging in book reading and chess playing. A stunt which only served to increase my need to indulge after losing to the computer 15 games to none. I tried reading, and when I was physically incapable of doing that I listened to audio books. This itch was not going anywhere and after two days of these futile distractions I realized that the call for alcohol was anchored on the shores of my consciousness.

I have a pending order for copy that I have not yet scratched the surface of yet the client may demand for it at the end of this month. I wish I could blame it on writers block like most writers would but I was at a loss here. I stared at a blank word document for what could possibly be two hours on Saturday as I sampled J. Cole’s new album K.O.D. (which is not half bad by the way). I felt a terrible fear mushroom inside me as I sat there; it was not hot and furious as most fear comes to me. This was different, slow and cold. As I felt it, I realized it may very well had been there for a lot longer, crystallizing from the lack of the magic potion from which the words are drawn from my brain.

I toyed with the idea of calling several close friends so I could boost my morale and joggle my mind but I concluded I was not in the mood for it. My thoughts were not pleasant and I would have much preferred to be alone with them. My demons had come home to roost.

Fast Forward 24Hours later I am here in front of my computer punching away words as they are ejected from my head at the same speed corrupt Kenyan government officials are embezzling public funds into their Private accounts accounts.

Though no man can boast a truly peaceful life, in this moment I am especially ripe with peace. It seems a testament of the importance of alcohol for Jesus to have changed water into wine. Small wonder I am really okay with the fact that my female neighbour is making a rather noisy entry into her house in the proverbial walk of shame. It doesn’t matter that her hair tells it all, life is good. Cheers!

Only 9…

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My youngest cousin Gloria whom I am extremely fond of is now a teenager. This consequently makes me feel so old, like I should have life or death priorities like my peers. She has grown to be a smart witty young girl who is an independent thinker with the ability to draw humour from just about anything. I completely adore her partly because she is the only single individual in my extended family who strongly reminds me of my favourite grandmother. And partly because she reminds me of my sisters; there is so much of them in her.

My cousin used to tell me when she was younger that “I was not a Big person” which is direct translation from mother tongue to mean I was not yet a grown up. I can understand why, since we would play house together when I was in the mood or kickball in my mother’s backyard during my holidays in college. The other day she asked me how old I really was, and I had trouble answering that question.

” I have simpler tastes now like a comfortable couch or my woman’s bosom; those really are my drugs of choice.”

I have it on very good authority that I have the mental age of a nine year old with ADHD. It doesn’t bother me though because I have come to realize that the people who matter don’t mind and the people that mind do not matter. My age can only be described from a philosophical view because it injects the spice into such boring topics as age.

I am at age where most if not all my problems can be solved by a more cash. But at present I have no machinations to advance such interests if it involves infringing on the well-being of others. I know for certain what brand of whisky, vodka or beer I enjoy most but I could care less since I am on an alcohol boycott since January this year. I have simpler tastes now like a comfortable couch or my woman’s bosom; those really are my drugs of choice.

I travel as much as I can. I endure boring people and cherish new friendships. I have even been learning how to sketch and I am pretty decent at that. I have better problems than those I had in my early twenties; like people I admire needing that I love them as well and people I love demanding admiration. With me you either get love, respect or admiration never two of those things at once. I have at least attained the age to discern that about myself.

More than anything I have attained the subtle art of conversation that could be used in long stretches of idle chatter to glean blog-worthy information from an unsuspecting victim. I have a white friend from Florida who I met from an online mentorship program. We chat sometimes about this and that, he is really a safer option to talk to seeing as how men in this country gossip as much as if not more than women these days.

Sadly, I am still not an adult like most of my peers. How I envy the way most of them took to it like sailors to a brothel. But I don’t care about that, the only thing I want that money cannot buy is an old man in his sixties to play chess with and he can ramble about his age and mock my youth as I subject him to numbing defeats before he ranks to my skill…so Gloria sweety, I am only 9…

The Problem with Brian

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I am not one given to eavesdropping but the maker gave me a sharp pair of ears. Seriously, this is like a natural superpower, I should be included in the next Avengers franchise. Great power comes with great responsibility and that’s how I came to know so much about Brian and the havoc he has wrecked in his wake. I forgot to pack my headphones the last time I traveled; I braced for a session of gritting my teeth and spend a span bored and anxious without music to calm my nerves.

First of all Brian, your sister is somewhat scary, see in my world any female of her height with knockers that big is a potential hazard. Maybe that was a cheap shot but it is the truth besides I did not take it lightly her use of profanity in the presence of a minor. Which she did the entire journey from Eastern province to Nairobi. I rarely mind female banter but your sister and the scrawny little bird they were talking with bordered being an insufferable bore. The matchstick girl must have been one of your exes because I remember her futile attempts to mask her fondness for you by garnishing your asshole nature with pet peeves from your failed romance.

“I have met many a girl with her brand of daddy issues and trust me on this one, the only reason she put up with that is because she is evolving too.”

Had I not read the book Assholes by Aaron James I would have not dissected you as impartially as I do now. I am a practical man to the point of idiocy and that is a well-known fact. Maybe you too should have a glimpse at that book because it sheds light onto the many of your kind that have the world by it lapels forcing it to yield to their tyranny.

I picked up from the matchstick girl that she was never at liberty to enjoy any male company if it was not your own. Maybe she laid it on a little thick when she said that you blew a gasket when she told you that she was passing time waiting for you to show up on a date with a male friend from Uni. I have met many a girl with her brand of daddy issues and trust me on this one, the only reason she put up with that is because she is evolving too. One day when she turns 29 and she is in the house baking pastry for her husband while clad in a t-shirt only on a Sunday afternoon, she will hear a song on the radio that reminds her of you, and she will be ashamed to have ever known you.

Your sister on the other hand complained about you hiding her passport, in a bid to deter her from a work trip abroad (which I later learnt was China). What was that about? The funniest part was that she took you to the cops and filed a complaint. The cops in their wisdom saw the matching surnames and opted out of the charade and asked her to use other channels. In the course of my life I have been the victim of too many middle-class ego trips to feel much empathy for your sister. Government resources have better things to do is my overriding assumption here my brother.

Thankfully the matatu ride ended after about 2 hours and a lukewarm Red bull. The problem with Brian you ask? I do not claim to know despite how equally entertaining and dreadful it was hearing about him. But since all the truth in the world is held in stories, I think he is a classic asshole.

 

The Magic in You

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I have always wanted a typewriter, in the same fashion that most little boys want bicycles. Some of course want teddy bears and mascara and that is fine by me since my experience here. I am at a beautiful place in my life where most of my real problems can be solved by a wad of cash. And I do not mean temporary solutions, I mean permanent life-long solutions.

In the wake of the millennium I was a little over nine years old and my childhood fantasy then was to own a PlayStation. It was an all-consuming obsession that drove me to do depraved things that in retrospect I would never have engaged in just for a few hours of game play. My love affair with video games did in some ways override my natural instincts because in my teens I used to get more turned on by the thought of a game-pad controller in my hands more than I would be by a bare breasted bimbo.

It took my adulthood, several dead-end jobs and years of saving to attain a gaming console. I did not even buy a PlayStation this time, I bought an Xbox which was infinitely better and more prestigious to own in my opinion. My only problem with this is that it took me about thirteen years to attain this! What fascinates me is the fact that my motivation was in no way fractured during this time.

One of my favourite feelings in this life is buying something that I have always wanted and halfway through enjoying it realizing how much I enjoy the thing and its existence. I realized that there is a lot of power in not letting the toxic mixture of fear and laziness fuck with your goals, ambitions and productivity. Some many years of education are wasted on us yet nobody teaches us how to love ourselves or why this is an important life skill.

It matters not what you want, truth is you are never going to be 100% ready. Neither is it ever going to be the right time, and that is the point. Every moment is the right moment, so if you want it, you just have to do it. It matters not how many times you fail because ultimately nobody is keeping count and the beauty of life is that you can start over each morning.

Bloom yourself. I know this sounds corny and fruity in a way but self-love is like a feeling you have to carry around with you the rest of your life. Like your beating heart- it should never stop. I also think this school of through will ensure that the churches remain as open and accessible as the bar is. I know for certain that the greatest heartbreak I may have to endure is waking up at 75 and realizing that I never got my novel published or never took up that challenge to conquer The Kilimanjaro. Worse still; having my children crying themselves alone to sleep every night and I not knowing about it. All because I was to strung out on perfection and society-pleasing to live my life.

Florentina & My Fingers

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I christened her Florentina, because she was slim and light yet powerful and reliable- like a Russian woman. This cost me a little over 400USD about five years ago. Fact; happiness is expensive. My two week hiatus from this blog has really hammered that in. I took one of those Road to Damascus expeditions that I am not at liberty to disclose the exact nature of. However, I can say it was something intense that involved questioning my very existence. It explored the possibilities of who I am, what I could be and what I could be not. It was torture being away from my electronic gadgets and quite frankly my PC Florentina.

When my woman is not around my PC is the only ‘person’ I can tell about the things going on in my head because truth is everybody else is usually busy with someone else. When I switch her on I am a priority and I can uninhibitedly bother her with meaningless problems that most human beings would not want to hear. The problem with words is that words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish…and no man wants to fell like an idiot.

“I am just glad that I woke up today and the sun is perfect. I have enough English in my head to be understood, a name and a few people who want call it.”

I used to write poetry for the longest time ever. I  used to compartmentalize my feelings and let them out in squirts somewhat like those single independent women who are sometimes so pent up by emotion the could die from their depravity. It was a working relationship my demons and I because I used to feed them with emotion and on occasion they would blow up and send me a beautiful piece of word play that I would pen and edit in less than ten minutes.

As usual with talent, I took it for granted and most times I would do it as a pastime or mainly to relax. It was good because it saved me from the hook-up culture that has plagued my generation. I could not imagine burdening my soul with emotions collected from random meaningless sexual encounters with random women. In a course of three years spanning from 2008 to 2012 I collected some of my most inspired work in the form of poems as seen here.

The problem with the creative process is the level of misery attached to the process. Like whiskey, it burns your gullet and does evil things to an empty stomach but delivers an unmatched fizz to anyone who is brave enough to put up with the discomfort.

In a way, this is admittedly a form of rant that I deemed necessary. I just want to my loyal readers to know that I have spent days waiting for this moment. Searching my mind for a valid excuse for my absence; I am just glad that I woke up today and the sun is perfect. I have enough English in my head to be understood, a name and a few people who want call it. Let us begin there because, everything, in this moment you read this, everything is right in the world. God Bless you.