Recently, my childhood friend, Abuya Abuya, who says that his name is so sweet you have to say it twice, invited me to a party in Nairobi’s Donholm Estate. It was a party to celebrate one of his girlfriend’s friend, Eva, for graduating with some online degree in applied biometric nutrition. Yes, such courses exist.
I swear, getting to Eastlands is practically a full-time job. By the time I was hitting Outer ring Road, my cousin had changed her Facebook profile picture six times, while her relationship status had miraculously gone from single to married. To its complicated. Then, to in a relationship, before it finally winded back to single. Phew! Si some people have energy!
Eva’s party was nothing I expected. For starters, there was no ‘food’. By that I mean there was no chicken and ugali. Trust the luhya in me! Instead, there was vegetable fried rice and sijui garden salad. Kwani anafikiria sisi ni sungura (she thinks we’re rabbits), I had mumbled off. Every opportunity Eva got, she couldn’t stop yapping about nutritional ingredients found in githeri, mokimo and African indigenous vegetables.
I swear listening to her, I almost became the first luhya vegetarian. Me thinks though Eva was taking this nutrition thing too far. I mean, never in the history of luhya-dom has a descendant of his Great, Your Worship Nabongo Mumia ever been served salad disguised as a ‘food’. I’m sure my ancestors are turning and spitting in their graves just at the thought of this. Luckily though, Eva was generous enough to provide enough alcohol to literally power my village’s economy.
I arrived at the party in my significantly thirstier and naturally aspirated, horizontally opposed four-cylinder engine assembled piece of scrap metal jalopy that poked a huge pot hole in my bank account. Parking the jalopy at Eva’s crammed middle-class compound required the combined help of two watchmen, the caretaker, mama mboga and some random guy who was sun-bathing while puffing what smelled like weed. Interestingly, all of them were shouting conflicting instructions, I almost reversed into the nearby ka-kiosk.
As expected Eva’s party was full of her campus friends, and where they are comrades, trust me wickedness is never too far away. Most of them had two volumes in their mouth – loud and louder. I wasn’t sure if the loudness was inspired by the free alcohol and ‘food’, or due to the fact that the music was kinda dancehall-ish. But then again, who was I to judge comrades? Such was the night, where we were all allowed to be young, free and wild.
Moments after my arrival, I was busy irrigating my throat with fiery vodka brewed in Eastern Russia, when a certain lass approached me. She was throwing rusungu (that’s how grandma sarcastically calls English) you would think she is the one who is currently inventing the Queen’s language in some dingy basement laboratory back in campus.
She looked like a backup singer in some small-time village Ohangla band in downtown Kasipul Kabondo in Homa Bay County. Curiously, she seemed to have undergone some sort of skin bleaching and colour transformation, for she somewhat appeared to be getting lighter skin by the minute. It was as if someone tried to microwave her face – and almost succeeded. She came through with her plastic smile, microwaved skin, drunkard eyes, imperfectly aligned teeth, un-flowery legs and a chubby waist.
“You obviously must be new in campus, because we certainly haven’t met.” That was her first line. And just before I could respond that I was actually a form four-school dropout whose pursuit of happiness involved oiling the cleavage of my neighbour’s housemaid and stealing my mother’s chama money to buy drugs and cheap alcohol, she had continued.
Now determined to speak fluent Facebook with a twang and sparkling of royal elegance. Ooh! Dah! Nkt! How rude of me. By the way, I am Jackie. LOL. The pronunciation of her name was ridiculously followed by a raucous prostitute-like laughter. I wanted to ask her why she was laughing at her own name.
However, looking at her, I evidently came to the quick realisation why the gods created darkness and equally invented ridiculous-looking weaves. I wanted to ditch her company quick, fast and in a hurry. No offense, but her being seen with me, with all fairness was compromising my social status and opportunity to meet luscious campus divas. As I was planning to desert her misplaced aspirations on me, Abuya Abuya accompanied with the sexy Eva had luckily appeared. Apparently Eva wanted to introduce me to her friends.
There was Dee Dee, who surprisingly looked at me as if I was a psychopath who was going to abduct her, rape her and harvest her organs and sell them to some semi-naked witch in Kitui County. The combination of her personality was lethal. She had a bad temper and a horrible mouth. There was Kiki, who was rocking stilettos which in her drunkenness she claims were made out of Justin Timberlake. Then there was Shiko who secretly kept googling my ass. She wore a dress that said a free touchscreen Smartphone is all it takes to oil her cleavage. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a filter between her brain and mouth. It was interesting to hear the quality of ignorance in her voice.
Last but not least, there was Rukia Mapenzi, a freshly minted Mijikenda damsel carrying soulful eyes, a holy body and a sinful cleavage. She was ravishingly beautiful that in a way she didn’t look real. And though she exhibited a certain degree of intellectual laziness (read she was pedestrian in her thinking), she however perfectly fitted the bill of pleasuring my lust in the dark. As she gently massaged unadulterated rusungu with a sparkle of nice and sweet coastal kwa ngoma kamili, mwenzangu kaa kitako, nipe sikio, nami nikupe uhondo-like accent, I had looked at her with renewed interest. Side-chic material, perhaps, I wondered.