I called your parents to tell them how you misbehaved when you left me. It’s one week now, and I still haven’t heard from you. Can’t you pick my calls please? Would you mind bringing back our son?
Fine, if you won’t, I’ll move on!
Here’s the plan — am helping fellow swains find sugar mummies in Kenya. They told me they had searched for years to no avail. I told them if they could only compensate me, I could do it in a week’s time. And once the money got into my pocket, I could show them places in Nairobi, or even around Kenya where sugar mummies loved hanging out.
We were curled up somewhere in town late last night. It had rained, so it was cold. I peeked at my wrist watch and it said it was 2am. Was still sipping my last bottle of Guinness before making the hookup.
When I mention 2am, I don’t mean there’s a curfew. Curfews are for the people of Lamu. What I mean is that we are all male, and we can leave when we feel parsimonious and unwilling to spend more money on drinks.
But during such hours, everything seams to move in a haste. It’s like the apocalypse has caught up with humanity, and we are the only people left in a pub imbibing beer. The rest have either perished, or turned into zombies.
You are in a table of 6 men. But there are women all around, after every quarter degree of turning your neck. But there’s this woman in her early 40s who wondered to the table of men (our table). Nobody seamed to care much, even though we had come to this place to look for sugar mummies. This is info that should not be apparent. Older women don’t behave like their young counterparts. What they loved when they were young is pretty different from what appeals to them in their present age.
So this woman had a nest-like hairdo, the type of hairstyle that looks like someone has carried an entire bush on their head. It was thick, bushy and black.
She’s the kind of woman who will come too close when talking to you; to the point of you smelling her breath. Her clothes scream wealth, and her decency cannot be compared with anything else. The only wrong thing about her is how she screams when she’s hi. Her shouting pierces through the thumbing music. Because the music is too loud and she’s also too high, engaging her into a conversation requires patience, why? Because you both have to repeat what you say.
But I hate the question of what I do with myself at 2am. What, this isn’t the right time to discuss careers. I would appreciate the topic of sex much more than careers or anything like that.
Then someone appears with a tray containing 3 more beers and a glass of water.
Please be advised, at this point, you look back at your watch, and it says 2.50am. If you can remember, you had 8 bottles, and it’s way over your limit. You diluted it with water inside your stomach, but it was not too much to overpower the alcohol content, so you’re literally drank.
What you do next is to settle your bill, tip the nice waiter who made sure your glass of ice cubes was always intact, then signal one of the boys with your left eye before leaving.
But the most tricky part of it is this; making your way through the gyrating crowd of merrymakers who dance to the music without much care to give you space. When you go through that crowd, you are literally going inside the scent of heavy cologne, perfumes, testosterone, progesterone, all mingled up into the crowd.
Then something tells you to change your course and head to the urinals first. On the way, you meet another girl in a long red dress, or is it maroon? You’re so drunk, 8 bottles of Guinness is just too much for you to be able to distinguish colors correctly. You say hi, and she responds with a smile because she finds you handsome. If you were not handsome, she wouldn’t have bothered.
So you get into the urinals, remove your penis and shoot the wall with a stream of something that looks like black tea. You’re so much relieved, so you start fumbling for the exit. Thankfully, there’s a big red sign on the door that says ‘EXIT’.
But the moment you close the door on your back, the lady in red is at you again. It’s like she was just waiting to pounce on you once more. You stop for a moment and say Hi again, pretending that you’re saying it for the first time. Then you proceed your way.
Inside the car, you try avoiding alcoblow fines, so you navigate your way through the back roads and the sleeping estates. Dogs bark, and occasionally, you meet cars being driven by chaps who are also speeding home. Then you get a call from one of the boys the moment you arrive home. The voice on the other end sounds enthusiastic, rather than disappointed of the fact that you left the ‘table of men’ unceremoniously.
He has some news to deliver; he’s telling you how she has managed to secure a conversation with a woman who appears to be wealthy. The woman has not disclosed her wealth status yet, however, going by the car she drives, she must have a fat paycheck. This is out of pure luck, because out of every 2 hookups you make, 1 will fail. But since your fellow chap has successfully secured a sugar mummy, you’re happy because you didn’t take their money for free, you actually earned it by successfully hooking them up. That’s how you learned the secret of trading Sugar mummies in Kenya.