The Nairobi Guy

So this is the guy I would not want to grow up into; in like the next three years. I know that is not going to happen, not at all. Not in a long shot. But hell, I’m going to try.

Since am like 23 years and 30 something days old, in like 3 years, am going to be like 26 years and 30 something days old, and by then if I don’t have a kid yet, someone take it upon themselves to shoot me. (Tell my girlfriend I loved her, and whoever wants my shoes can have them already.)

He likes Nonini, but not Jua Kali.

There is a breed of guy that sprang up in Nairobi a couple of years ago, and that breed seems to be hooking up with exactly same breed of ladies- meaning that in a couple of good Kenyan years, there will rise a generation that none of us sane ones will think warrants the title “human”. It sends shivers down my spine (haven’t said that since prima) every time I think about it- and I know this must be closely tied to how much I enjoyed that second episode of The Event.

This guy wears American khaki, beige or green, and on weekends, maybe both. He thinks they are comfortable. I agree; I have reliable references.

He’s recently employed, and well, he loves it. By recent I mean the last one and a half year. He loves his job, hates the morning traffic, as well as the evening one. Wakes up early, works hard- you know, your regular Nairobi guy. Some might even call him lovable.

He listens to Classic 105 every morning, doesn’t think those to scallywags are chauvinistic, maybe just a little opinionated; and Nairobi women pour their hearts to them, so that must say something.

He loves rugby; he hasn’t always loved it and the first time he attended one of those events they hold at a nearly abandoned “gladiator arenas” on the fringes of this fine city, he really didn’t get why the ball was shaped so funny; I mean, didn’t they get that it would always bounce so awkward once it hit the ground? Well, he now gets the rules now, took a while but he’s there now. He bought himself a vuvuzela recently, more over the FIFA World Cup sham in South Africa than the Safaricom Sevens, though that’s where he learnt how to use it.

He got one of those Nakumatt cards, if only to stave off the mounting pressure from his girlfriend for him to quit Naivas and Tuskys. Java is his next challenge.

He started attending “blankets and wine” recently, and it always stomped him how they came up with that name; but now he does, a no brainer once you think about it. He wonders how fast the “open mic” and “I’m a blogger” fad will last in this God forsaken city; but that doesn’t bother him much, mostly because of the number of ladies who have made it a habit of attending these gigs. So he pops in once in a while, well, he does more than just pop in. In fact, he once thought of going up on stage and do a freestyle or something; but the nerves got the better of him. Plus him grabbing on a mic a, on a stage, with a couple of people clutch onto their drinks and try and understand a thing he just said, reminds him of those God forsaken rappers he has learnt to hate since he got his first pay cheque.

He’s started listening to Jill Scott, and he’s getting a little concerned.

He owns a couple of stocks. That’s what he does when nobody’s watching. Two reasons: Stocks are good anywhere in the world. That Embu girl working for Dyer & Blair always seems to enjoy his company- never mind that she’s a teller, with a CPA, and she probably treats everyone the same way.

He wants to get himself a Polo, or a Golf, but maybe in two years time, once that ka-jobo car loan goes through. He always wondered who ever took a loan to get a car, but now it makes so much more sense now- there is no price you can put on a man swinging his car keys as he chats up a damsel in distress- hey that’s a figure of speech- even I understand that you can’t chat up a damsel in distress. He’s heard about the fuel consumption, the German addiction to upward mobility- and who can blame them after the small Hitler debacle- I wanted to say mishap there, but that would just be plagiarism, and Dr. Mwaura is on my ass all day, like it’s a criminal offence.

He hates his rugby jersey, the colours of the flag aren’t arranged right, and though it might be “100% cotton” and “shouldn’t be hand washed”, he just can’t understand how nobody noticed that before they were printed.

He’s an Arsenal fan, which says a lot about him as a person, but when his Chelsea friends tell him that he should probably get some help for his condition, he claims that he’s too young to be seeing a shrink already. (The more perceptive ones get it and are probably rolling on the floor laughing already; or not; maybe just staring blankly at the screen wondering how anyone could think that was funny- considering the huge Arsenal demographic in Kenya.)

That’s the guy I don wanna be, but I know it will happen, so am enjoying the me I have right now, for like 3 years and 30 something days.

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