The evening starts young. Tight traffic snarl up is slowly easing up putting a grin on the faces of tired city dwellers. Folks walk past each other swiftly as if rushing to a MP who is giving out a handout. Men in checked shirts. Women with hefty handbags strapped under their armpits. Street urchins with bottles of glue hanging from the tip of their noses. Matatus hooting softly and women driving about in both small and big cars.
Yellow light of the setting sun hit the tips of the skyscrapers. The advertisement light at the neck of KICC arouses to the rhythm of the city at night. Clubs lining the city streets like rare shrubs in a forest come to life; booming music, neon lights blinking.
Your Friday is fulfilled at a poorly lit club. You can hardly tell white from red. Perhaps it is all the blue and red and green lights. Perhaps it is the ear splitting hip hop music. Perhaps it is Dej Loaf’s smooth voice and equally hoarse voice of Young Thug. The waiter, like an heavenly princess, walks up to you even before you settle and you pretend not to fancy her yellow thick thighs. She arouses lust in you. You look away at a guy caressing his woman at a corner.You all order a cold tusker each.
The plans are brewed within the span of the bottle of the golden drink. Your evening is put in order under the blast of the 6 foot 7 foot Lil Wayne hit amidst all the glamorous ladies sipping tentatively from tall glasses with necks. Immediately, you can read the unspoken cues. You take a prolonged sip and struggle to hide the squirm forming on your face.
Hardly an hour later, you all find yourselves almost a mile away from the CBD. You are all, the four of you, walking earnestly besides a racing traffic. Your voices are on top with everyone trying to thrust a point forth. You are recalling a moment in the past when you went out on a drinking spree; those sweet moments that exclusively exist in the past. And live there for ever.
The manila tented lobby welcomes you warmly with blinking blue lights and crazy Kenyan music. The music that is all about women and sex and death and money and anything in between. The humongous screens are displaying a stale football match and a referee just got stoned by a furious fan in a green jersey. Some more others are a home of the jungle stories.
As you enter, the aroma of roast meat and beer and sweat is apparent. It is a mixture that do not actually mix. The place is packed and abuzz. Women are chuckling, men are squirming over short glasses of vodka in their grab, waiters are rushing up and down with trays of junks of roast beef and ugali. A handful drunk fellows are wobbling to the Mapepo song.
You enter looking confused and out of place. A waiter approaches you and before she shows you to your table you order a kilo of fried beef. Yeah, for the four of you. A very tall bottle of The Famous Grouse scotch is placed before you. It is taller than the night before you. It is even taller than Sossion whose voice is clearer than the thud of the judges hummer.
The night is about to get thick.
You struggle to pour the drink into your glass and it comes out reluctantly as if it is threatened by your thirst. The golden glow of the surface of the liquid as it flows grows a deep yearning in you. You gulp down the little that is in the glass and look around as if you just entered the place. For the first time you realize that there are thick women in almost all the tables. Women oppressed by layers of make up and bushy weaves or is it wicks? (Those two never get to you).
A woman thicker than everyone in the lobby comes towards your table. The high heeled stilettos make her walk painfully and with caution. She is the kind of woman you have always dreamt of. Her thighs are luring and exciting. Your heart enters a quick beating phase. The drink knots up your stomach and you take a quick gulp.
In a magical voice, she asks you if she can settle at your table and before she finishes, the tone of her sultry voice hits your member to a start. A Humming bird whistles in your head. You tell her it is okay. In fact, she needed not ask. The guys give you that look that says you are the shit. You look away at one of the screens where Hyenas are fighting over a carcass to hide the grin on your face.
You take a sip. Your body is on fire yet the ice cold drink is not working. Instead it catalyzes the heat and the hum of the bird you always loved. The bare thighs are staring straight at your member through your watery eyes. You steal quick glances at the juicy legs and grunt. You ask God to save you from the looming temptation. That you may not fall but triumph. That you may trudge on in this world full of evil. But then again the woman is letting you have the look. You make an assumption that she might as well let you have the healing touch.
The thick thighs quiver as the woman snaps and orders a cold Snap. You sit beside her as if unaware of her presence. As if you could assume her strong waft of cologne or the bushy reddish hair or busty hips. Or even the short skirt that is overly revealing. You sit tight in your stool while you struggle not to look directly her way even let the drink force you to tell her that you like the yellow thighs. You sit in contemplation on how to navigate the situation.
Then without knowing you say hi. She throws you that bewitching smile and sure as Friday follows Saturday you get bewitched. You buy her a drink . You ask her why she is drinking all alone. She says she likes it that way. You tell her you are single. She chuckles like a bitch. You chuckle.
In your head the bird hums on.
The guys excuse themselves and slip away one after the other until you are alone with the witch. As she speaks in a polite soft voice that tenderizes your heart, you fight with the imaginations that keeps showing you how it would be if you took her home with you. How the chuckle would tear your clothes off. She tells you she likes hip hop, particularly Meek Mill. You smile and tell her you like hip hop too, particularly Nicki Minaj. You both laugh like two silly kids.
The talk goes on. You take charge trying as much as possible to drive it towards the fulfillment of your lust. She flows along submissively as if she is water and you are the slope. You lose yourself to her shallow conversation. The music blasts on in support.
You wonder how many drinks is going to make her say the magical words. You wonder what she is wondering about concerning you. Drinks keep coming. The conversation keeps going. The night keeps getting thick. The Humming birds keep singing.
Then you move closer. She doesn’t recede. You grab her waist and ask her to dance with you. You like her body anyway. She budges and you walk hand in hand like a couple. You hold her tight against your body as you dance slowly. She dances so smoothly. You feel her fresh breath close to you and the mint in it grips you. perhaps it is the lure from the whiskey in your breath.
Suddenly she shakes you vigorously. You look at her inquisitively. She shouts something over the music but you don’t hear. She points behind you and as you turn, you meet a hard blow that throws you sprawling. Successive blows follow before you regain your stability.
Your guys deliver you from the beating and the guy is thrown out by a bouncer. The damages are visible. Your nose is bleeding. The thick woman is nowhere to be seen. Your wallet and phone have gone away. You cuss. You mourn. You drink. You mutter. You stutter out hoping the Humming birds would offer you solace.