It has been quite a while. I have stayed away too long from my keyboard. I might have a myriad of reasons for doing so but they are just as lame as they come. Maybe it has been the office hassle, maybe it’s the hot chic who sits beside me every-time I am going home, maybe it’s the stress from this Waiguru issue (hehe) or maybe it’s because I have been too caught up in my own bullshit to remember my dates with my blog.
Anyway I am back. As I scribble this down the weather outside is chilly, the clouds seem to be in a bad mood; the sun isn’t coming out anytime soon but we got to work. Yes? From where I am sitting, I have a clear view of the Porsches, S class Mercs, the X series BMWs traversing along roads in Westlands and they are making me feel so poor. There’s the excuse that I am yet to reach there but we all know that’s just a load of crap. Have you ever felt so poor that the next place you found yourself was a Barclays bank outlet brandishing a gun ordering everyone to lie down on their stomachs? Hata mimi sijawahi.
You see, being pretty fresh out of campus, I probably am the youngest in the office. The work is cut out for me and I am expected to produce results just like everyone else who is a veteran around here. It’s pretty involving at times, the expectation being to be as twice productive as everyone else but I have this super productive personality that’s always keen on proving everyone else wrong. (sorry).
Apart from the early mornings and the not so frequent traffic, life is life. So this Saturday morning I board a matatu to town; you see, I go to work on Saturday up to 1 in the pm. I am being overworked… right? Saturdays for me are about observing people as they reel from Friday night hangovers and girls as they realize shit just went south; as they rush to buy those e pills from the chemist in the alley.
So this specific Saturday morning, I have my earphones on; no music playing – they are just meant to avoid conversations with nonsensical strangers who are too angry or frustrated about life to realize that we too have problems. I board a mini bus to Westi and since I am always one of the first people to alight, I always opt to sit at the very first seat near the door. But today is different. As I board the vehicle, I notice this chic; she’s cute; in a way. Chocolate. Not too much makeup. Her hair is neatly held with so many contours and I got to seat next to her.
With my “fisi” personality on overdrive, I head straight to where she is and sit down. I am tempted to stretch my hand and know who my fellow struggling Kenyan is but Nairobi chics are snobbish so I digress. I have dark sunglasses on so she can’t for sure see what I am staring at. She is in this extra short dress that’s more of a top dress and her chocolate thighs are out there for all the fisis to feast on. The animal inside me is struggling to be let loose and strike a conversation which will end up with a number but I fear being ignored so I put a lid on it.
She is in deep thought; probably wondering why this nigga sat next to her in the first place. Her hands are on her laps, her face directed towards the window probably wondering whether the pills in her clutch bag will work the miracle. She very well knows that raising up a kid, at 23, in Nairobi, living in a single room in Kinoo is no joke. But I believe she should have known better. If only she had gone to a kesha instead. Her eyes have these bugs on them, out rightly from the lack of sleep…
I am not one to judge but she seems to be lost. She’s in between a dream and the nasty feel of reality and she quite isn’t decided on whether she should wake up face the demons or just let the demons devour her spirit. Being young isn’t complete without the romps and being chipod but also it all comes down to being real and being in a position to look yourself in the mirror and recognize the person staring back in the morning…
I say hi and with this sweet smile, she acknowledges my greeting. I am in love! She stretches her hand and I hold on it a little while longer… Its soft, her fingers with well-trimmed nails, are small, I fear that they will melt and disappear in my hand. Just imagine me, and the whole bus looking for this girl’s fingers. It would be crazy. Yes? She turns to face me and I introduce myself. She says her name is Trina. A fake name definitely. On seeing the disbelief in my eyes she chucks out her id and you guessed right. It surely is her name. She’s 21. I am tempted to remove mine but I know if I do, she will say I am too young to be a sponsor. Hehe.
Small talk here and there and apparently she’s headed home after a night out with the ‘girls’… It’s sad that one of the girls had a beard. If that nigga could hear him being referred to as a girl he would reeeaally sob. I feel sorry for him. This is the kind of situation that a guy is in when he realizes that the cousin that he has found in his girlfriend’s house every Sunday afternoon has tasted the cookie. Sad, right?