We are not bad guys. Yes, that sounds defensive, but I can explain. We are men, you see, and that means we tend to do some stuff that proves we should not be left with the nuclear codes.
We are weak, you see, and to be honest, that’s why we are here at some club along Moi Avenue, looking for joy—the emotion, not the girl. “We” is K, O and M, and me. Me, I didn’t even want to come.
But This pub, ya Ambassaduer Hotel, is the perfect hunting ground for those Nairobi girls who need a favour, urgently. I greet the bartenders with a and they smile, strangely, while patting their pockets and checking for their wallets. even though I am indisposed with the Nairobi flu while K counsels that you can’t drink all day unless you start in the morning.
I am drinking a hot and I feel like a virgin in a maternity ward. It’s a sticky wicket, this It’s the devil’s cocktail: a concoction that has everything— honey, ginger, nails, the economy, snake ears, murima. Everything.
A brew that would put out of business an African witch. It’s a malady for whiners and wimps. The ladies are skimpily dressed—in miniskirts that leave nothing to your imagination.
A perfume that chokes you more than it embraces you. I am in a hood because you never know who you will meet in this place. I sit next to the exit door.
Yes, I am a coward. No, I don’t care what you think. I survey the room to see men of all ages.
White. Black. Old.
Young. Men with rings. Men with rings hidden in their breas.