Agent Provocateur

"Thirty...thirty one..thirty two...thirty..." I counted the seconds to midday as they passed by on my phone screen, wondering why bars did not bother to invest in a wall-clock. Perhaps to aid the drunk fellows in their 'disciplined' evening schedules as well as rescue the wife-battered patrons from peeing their pants by avoiding a constant reminder that they had broken curfew.

My 500 ml vodka bottle was almost empty and despite my joke of a financial status, voices in my head told me that I could afford another. You see, to say that life was not going according to plan for yours truly is a bit of an understatement. Just three days ago I had received a retrenchment notice from work, which was a polite way of saying that they were sorry it had taken them so long to find a computer software made by a ten year old Chinese which could do my work. Another sip of the good stuff reminded me that moving back to my parents' after I had made a grandiose walk-out pledging never to return was not the best idea, especially since my father was a barbarian who would see me dig pit latrines through concrete floors to earn a roof over my head. To cap it all off, my girlfriend had taken a break from our relationship - I had not quite grasped the concept, but my friends had some not so pleasant reasons for it that I'd rather not share. Poof! The vodka was gone and I suddenly wished that I salivated liquor.

Anyway, I was at Club Moscow in the middle of the day to sell my month old sweetheart of a smartphone. It had proved an unnecessary luxury and the depreciation phones were succumbing to nowadays coupled with my untimely loss of income made it a bad investment. Apparently, other sections of the city found wastage of money to be quite the pastime as I had found a buyer on OLX to take the phone off my hands for almost its worth when brand new. The chap was quite nice, and had even texted apologies for lateness and proceeded to send me money to buy drinks for myself as I waited for him. Apologies for probably thinking that I had been hitherto spending my own money, your naivety is adorable. The early bird had certainly caught the warm and no sooner had I started toying with the idea of increasing damage to my liver than he showed up....

He was quite tall, of lean build and overly dark complexion...donning a slim fitting suit that made him look like someone who would not be laid off a mediocre government job in a million years. He had that natural smug look that comes with fiddling with car keys in a bar just when the cute bartender Mwende came to take his order. Despite his creepy mustache, I envied everything about him. His breathe stank of fresh, cold bottles of Heineken, - and I kid you not, this fellow was living the Kenyan dream.
Lawi (as he quickly introduced himself) betrayed the remote hole he had crept out of as his accent and oratory skills reminded me of the infamous "Teach me English" tags in primary schools used to fix such situations regardless of the public shaming. From what I gathered, his had been a fast rise to wealth and he owed his fortunes to something greater than merit without a doubt. How else would a person without a college degree own a new shape Toyota Premio that started at the push of a button? How else would someone who could hardly construct a proper sentence in English don what seemed to be designer raiment from head to toe?  He was probably my age and quickly reminded me of the sense my father made in regretting spending a dime on school fees for a job he described as making tea in government offices. Anyway let me not delve into ironies of the failings of the current education system as well as the advantages of nepotism, witchcraft and human stupidity in modern times.

It was lunch time, he reckoned, and I deserved nyamachoma at the very least for deserting my work to deliver his phone. His referral of my formerly sweet phone (as I had deleted most things which endeared it to me for common decency) as his, probably made me less morose than assuming I was just another lucky bastard holding down a job in the cruel city of Nairobi. Skipping breakfast to make it in time for work had become a norm of mine but suddenly doing the name to save on my precious coins was threatening to send me to borderline starvation. It would explain why a silver tray serving of the most exquisite roast meat by a malnourished male butcher who gave me an envious glare made my eyes a bit watery.
Tell you what, drinking and making merry with this lad was far better than a night with my girlfriend when she had her usual 'headaches.' Quite like Kevo, intoxication was his truth syrup, only I enjoyed his stories more as lack of man boobs and a world of belly fat made for far less disgusting imagery. This was the man every boy in the slums of Kibera, suburbs of Buruburu and villages of Eldama-Ravine dreams of becoming, me included. He was a foreman, an assistant to a rich mogul in the city who derived all the niceties of working for a wealthy man who was too lazy to manage his own affairs. The job came with its perks - a car I'd get a vasectomy for, a rent free house I would gladly sell a kidney for and get this, a taste of the mzee's wife whenever he desired. Talk about managing the man's affairs! He proceeded to tell me how he and the lady of the house snuck around with none the wiser and engage in behavior only someone born of a virgin called Mary would pardon. At this point I took a huge gulp of the bitter vodka, chiefly because no amount of libation would wash away the envious breaking down in tears of a grown man in front of another man.


Having had enough of listening to the fairy tale life of a man who was in all aspects my better whilst going through hell in my life, I concluded the sale of the phone and asked to leave. "Stay a while longer man. Let the fool come along and buy us more drinks..sawa?..Waiter!" He called out at a volume that my wallet had never been authorized to. By now, you should know that I can resist a lot of temptations, but none that fizzles when it opens. Mwende came along with more beers, obviously confused as to how and why men always went out of their way to spoil me when drunk while treating her like trash. Quite the charmer I was. Yes. A jobless charmer who would soon be homeless and preaching on commuter buses for lunch money. God forbid!
I have always wondered why my life is full of theatrics, cliff hangers and despondency. Here I was, waiting for two people to get together and share their successes while my life was in shambles like a classic sucker. "Mzee!" Lawi stood up respectfully to welcome his boss. In a typical sheepish manner I stood up to this god-forsaken mzee that had no impact in my life whatsoever......or not!


"Kevo!" I blurted out, proceeding to give him the most thunderous handshake I had ever given a fellow human being before. Lawi just stood there, mouth agape, trembling like a twig in the winds of winter, trying to conjure up a miserable grin.
Well, well, well. Interesting... Small world.

A Fool and His Money

It is often said that if you want to know what God thinks about money, look at the people he gave it to. Of course, this is a quote for poor people with dead, unrealistic dreams, but hold that thought, lest I jump the gun.

I was earlier than usual at Moscow, our local club which operated day and night against the law leading many alcoholics to believe that there was a God after all. I sat at the farthest end, quarantined from the men in the establishment actually spending more than one hundred shillings. 

My feet wobbled as my two o'clock royally sauntered into the club, my face conjuring up a dreamy smile against my better judgement. He proceeded to indecently spank Mwende, the cute bartender, who quickly walked away, disgusted by the filthy pig. I smiled as I thought of the number of stitches I would have required had I amassed the nerve to do the same right in front of the club bouncers. Different strokes, I guess.

Kevo and I had already forged such a strong bond that people severally asked me whether we were related, a question I always answered in the affirmative, since people had an inclination to send their wandering minds to the gutter. 

Like a dog with a bone, Kevo immediately brought up the Chelsea-Liverpool game. You see, against all odds amidst suspicion of clear match-fixing and possibly witchcraft, Chelsea had lost in the slimmest of margins. Of course, Kevo, with the grace of a back alley prostitute, was quick to remind me how such minnows as ourselves had been billed up as competition was beyond him. I, on the other hand, took it on the chin, slipping my unpleasant rejoinders in the first of six Heinekens. Not long after, he ordered two kilos of roasted meat, and those who know me know that I would have happily taken photos of him urinating on my grandfather's grave at this point.

Half an hour in and I was wishing I was born a deaf mute. There are two things that I dislike about Kevo, first is that he never shuts his mouth, even whilst eating, he still finds a way to have words coming out of the same oversize mouth. Second, he loves over-sharing, not on relevant things like M-Pesa or ATM Pin numbers but on nonsense that makes you want to throw up in your mouth. No sane friend wants to hear about infidelity, family drama, life insecurities, dreams and aspirations. However, today, he brought on a distinctly intriguing subject. You see, Kevo was getting roped into gambling. He had recently joined Sportpesa, a mobile betting firm which had been milking money from him faster than a lavish divorcee, alcoholic ex-wife with sex addiction and an eating disorder.

He had apparently lost an amount I still can't bring myself to type for fear of breaking down and slitting my wrists. I could have sworn teardrops rolled down my eyes as I could not tell what made me more downcast, the fact that he had lost in a day what I make in a month or his ingenuity (unintended eye-roll) in making the bet. I could have told him the truth, which was, that him at his pygmy height getting struck by lightning, on a hot, sunny day in Nairobi's CBD was more probable than winning that bet. I however, chose to take the wiser path and assure him that he had lost by the tiniest of whiskers and his bet was borderline genius. Then it hit me, heaven had smiled down upon me and brought this wreck of a glutton to within a foot of me.

I then opportunistically proceeded to tell Kevo that I was a part time bookie and proceeded to explain to him the concept. You see, he needed a slightly less ambitious, less tactful man to handle his money, just like his accountant. In our arrangement, I explained, I would be in charge of betting on his behalf. I reminded him that compared to him, I was an idler with nothing to do but keep tabs on football games and provide him with current statistics in return for 10% of the winnings. Once again, I was able to bamboozle my way into his ego and wallet with none the wiser.

This man trusted me, owing to the fact that I had the integrity to return his wallet even though no one had seen me take it (I smirk). Just by the way he spoke about me, you could tell that in a few years, I would be drafting his will and driving one of his wives home, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. For now, I had the chance to turn his large deposits into a fortune for myself. The thought of the amount he'd let me stake on the first bet reminded me of my sentiments when my girlfriend's pregnancy scare turned out to be false.

Voila! The wait was over and his large phone screen displayed the amount he wished to stake...One hundred....shillings...! I thought I read that wrong. With the confusion of a teenage boy who had had his first wet dream, I checked a couple more times. "Now boy. Let us see if you can make me two thousand shillings from that and get your 10%," he said, almost sadistically. Great! Apparently this smug imbecile thought gambling was pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Terrific!

Just when I thought my fortunes were turning for the better. What did I say about God, people and money?

 

When The Deed Was Taken For The Will

I am at that point in my life where the only thing going for me are my literal skills as well as all the odds and ends of not being a cadaver. Just like any testosterone filled young man, I am looking forward to another weekend of football filled bonanza and relaxation. Giving renewed impetus to my anxiety moreover, is meeting Kevo, my new patron (insert Spanish accent).

Yes you read right. Hell hath frozen over and the prospect of meeting this man is giving me goosebumps, sending chills down my spine. Before you question my sexuality (which is just about the most integral asset I have in the courtship industry), Kevo is not just an ordinary man, not quite.

Standing (or sitting, it's all the same really) at about 5'2, he has the weight of a sumo wrestler, a fact he seems to be rather apprehensive about. Apparently, his doctor has warned him severally that failure to keep his weight down will leave his wealth in the hands of his Nairobi bred asthmatic sons, something that Kevo cannot stand. He claims to run a mile each day coupled with a hundred sit-ups and I, of course, am not foolish enough to tell him otherwise. "The beer belly is nothing but a product of hard work, good brains and determination. Indeed you cannot own a fleet of lorries or own apartments without one," I always encourage him. To this end, he quickly orders two beers for the clever boy.

In two days, my team is playing against his. It is Chelsea against Liverpool this Friday and due to the fact that I am not a complete moron, you can gather which team I plead allegiance to. Supporting different teams is usually a make or break for beer buddies, but not Kevo and I. You see, I am always keen to remind him that they do not have football like Liverpool had back in the day. The likes of Fowler, Gerrard and the black wizard Djibril Cisse were class acts. In fact, their 2005 Champions League triumph was something of a fairy tale, something no other team has the cojones to accomplish. I furthermore point out the exuberance of their manager and the budding crop of youngsters they have in their midst. "Champions in waiting this Liverpool," I explain as bitter bile runs down my throat covered by a fake grin. The Heineken basket that comes my way does make amends nevertheless.

We met a few weeks back. It was a grim evening, watching my Chelsea take the beating of an unpaid prostitute in a religious state for the umpteenth time. After my usual two sodas which enabled me to watch three consecutive games at the cost efficient price of 100 bob, it was time to leave. As I hurried to beat the gate closing time at my apartment to avoid begging a watchman who slept outside to open the gates and hand me a different fate to his, I bumped into this fat stranger. "Watch where you're going you imbecile!" he blurted out in his drunken stupor. Normally, a confrontation would ensure as I have a certain tolerance for disrespect when my team is filth, zero! However, this was different. As I had no money to cater for broken bottles or unnecessary arrests, I chose the high road and murmured a rather silent "Bite me!" Staring down the floor in rage, there before my very eyes lay a brown, big, fat, leather wallet, presumably the drunk's. I bent over to pick it up, only to stand and meet the eyes of Kevo, this arrogant, pompous smug looking drunk who reminded me of the corrupt politicians portrayed by newspapers satire cartoonists.


To my dismay, he just turned around and walked away, only to stop a few paces away, at the club's entrance. Clearly, he had seen me pick up his wallet and was waiting for me. He signaled one bouncer, who came to him at once. To the best of my knowledge, this had all the makings of a royal beat down for his amusement. He had sadistic eyes and the physique of a child who suffered bullying and was left out of sports and recreational activities (read flirting with girls), a combination for a monster in his rich prime. I had read stories of men who'd castrated, murdered and dumped others in a ditch for far less. I shan't lie, I was so scared that my cock shrunk, my feet trembled and my lips dried. I wished I had left a will or something, disposing off my broken bed, two pairs of shoes and the jiko I had been banned from using in my rented residence. I wondered whether my girlfriend would still love my rearranged toothless face and without the ability to achieve a full erection. Gathering up all the strength I had, I walked over to him ready to give him his wallet and take the beating he deemed appropriate for scum like me.

At least this once, I got to feel the anxiety of a virgin bride on the wedding night before her groom pulls down his pants. I knew that pulling any theater would be detrimental to the cute bar-tender whom I had told endless tales of my vast background in mixed martial arts, but all that mattered little then. Right there, in that very moment, I felt everything. I felt fear, rage, shame, sadness and guilt, which was probably why his hug caught me by surprise.
Apparently, he had no idea he did not have his wallet on him. The dimwit was so drunk that he could not have told whether I was picking up a unicorn or tying laces on my sandals.

He then pulled out two thousand shillings from the wallet which seemed to have more than a hundred of where those two came from. Holding back tears of pain and regret was probably the most difficult thing I have ever had to do in my life. Flashbacks of my landlord banging down my door while I proclaimed my great abundance of wealth to my woman came to me like Noah's flood. Unpaid bills and debts owed at my eatery, barber's and shop also lingered. Anyway, giving me the two thousand from his kitty, he urged me to call a cab as he left with his newly found bulky chaperone.


As soon as he left, murmurs of how wealthy this old geezer was started to tinkle one after the other, in quick succession. Apparently, he liked to be called Kevo to feel younger, no doubt a personality disorder according to most psychologists in the local tavern. It was common knowledge apparently that he had very few friends, but his well trusted aides grew rich quite quickly. He sold drugs of course (the source of all wealth people cannot explain) but had he not transformed Mathenge (the butcher who had tested meat on a cat before serving it to him and therefore saving his life) to a probox owning, hardware owner in Thika? Had his 'drug money' not bought him a fleet of courier lorries and  more apartments than King Mswati owned topless wives? Had all bar-tenders from Thika to Nairobi not allegedly been bedded by him, and all unanimously declaring that he was as great a lover as he was a money maker? Well, at this point, I could not help but stare at the cute bartender Mwende who started to seem disinterested in the way this conversation was going. I also left the club at this point out of spite, perhaps cognizant to the fact that Mwende would notice how brazenly I had stood to her honor against such vile rumors, which I knew in my bones to be true nonetheless.


I digress, anyway, my agony turned into hope therein. As I had earlier pointed out, Kevo is not just an ordinary man. I had the feeling that our run-ins would not stop there. Nor should they. For, I had woken up lost, but now I'm found. Hopeless but now tomorrow sits anxiously is in the corner of my eye. I was destitute, but now my cup of joy overflows. I was now looking forward to the endless possibilities of having such a resourceful acquaintance. I love life!