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?
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