“Find God, find yourself, then come find me.” I saw this quote as I was up and down the streets of this country. You see, this is not a quote you expect to see in Nairobi for so many reasons key among them being the inability of Nairobians to identify with a higher being other than Kanyari or the Kiunas. Don’t get me wrong here or misunderstand me. These are two sets of individuals trying to earn a living out of the desperation of others.
So I thought about that quote really seriously and realized I have a soft spot for God loving chics. Not those flashy girls that are paraded on our screens during Sunday televangelist shows; but a girl who can kneel in her room, alone and say something to God. A girl who can relate happening in life to some Bible significance is the epitome of awesomeness for me. One who knows a verse rather than Jesus wept will sweep me off in an instant.
To me they are a representation of Jesus you know; they are the ones that stand between this immoral world and the lake of Sulphur. I picture God being so fed up with Vera her defense forces, wanting to fold this piece of shit and throw it into the lake of sulphur but because of that one prayerful chic, God gets second thoughts.
The quote, was a male voice giving conditions about the first thing a girl should possess before she even thought of being with him. Real classy; she had to find God, realize who she was before he could hold her hand in his wide palms.
Today’s guy has weird cravings when it comes to the quality of a woman he should be involved in his life. He wants a stripper, Jessica Pearson, Corazon, a village girl and Huddah mixed into a single concoction. The stripper is for the moves, Jessica for the brains, Corazon for the curves, Huddah for brown kids and the village girl for her naivety.
I had this friend who married this girl from Kiambu. We had met her on a Friday night out and him, being the smooth operator he was, went home with the curviest and cutest of them all. Her friend was okay, and having to abide by the bro-code, I had to keep her on her toes bearing in mind that she could have done better in a gym than in a dance floor in Westlands. If I may ask, why do super hot chics opt to keep so cold chics as friends? The many times I have met groupies there was always that one lady who was hotbed of hotness. She always had her beauty and all her friends’ combined.
So nights turned into days, Vera went to Dubai and back and before Huddah could figure her shit out, my friend and that hotbed got hitched. A small ceremony, the one that she moves in one item at a time before she declares that she hasn’t paid rent in three months and she has nowhere to stay. Being the gentleman he was, he said the words and that was that. I didn’t even know until one Saturday morning as I went to check on him after a crazy night out, I find this chic in his tshirt watching some Kardashian life story.
As I looked at her, I thought the alcohol from the previous night hadn’t completely worn off but I realized it was her… This nigga can’t be serious. I remember telling myself. She was fiiine; yes but she wasn’t the type to be wifed. Who would take Vera to his mum anyway? She was the kind that you took home for an action filled night and after you realized how overated these things can be, saved her boring name and that was that. On a boring Thursday afternoon you’d check on her, arrange to meet on Friday night for drinks and tapping later then that was that. I thought the guy had a guideline book for these things. Heck, he was always my reference point on issues women.
But here she was; a wife. I later enquired what had happened and he gave me some sorry story of how he had realized that life wasn’t waiting for his balding head to grow some hair and he had to put his affairs in order. I wanted to break the sad news that he had been lorried out but I saved the heartbreak for three drinks the next Friday.
Days passed and one day the guy came home to find just a stool in the middle of his sitting room. The house looked emptier than Jubilee promises and all he could hear was himself breathe. The house was immaculate – clean and all but all his stuff was gone. He rushed to his bedrooms, the kitchen; she had even carried the soap dish. He felt like crying but he ended up just laughing.
On calling me, I wanted to say sorry but instead I offered to buy him a drink. The ordeal was sad but what were we to do? Call NSIS to trace a bootyful chic with my friends’ stuff in Nairobi? I could picture her giving high 5s to her pals saying what a jackpot she had landed…
Nairobi girls are mean that way. If only he had considered a God fearing but not an ass bearing lady, maybe angeachiwa bathing towel ya kupanguzia machozi..!
So before you come running across the room to fold your pretty arms around me, you gotta know the spelling of Habakkuk.