I once read about one Emmy Kosgei getting married to a certain Nigerian pastor honcho almost double my old man’s age. And they called it love.
I also read somewhere that it’s some West African oil tycoon bankrolling Vera Sidika’s bigger than life lifestyle.
Chic posts flashy new pictures every second on Instagram like it’s her job yet she can still afford a half-a-million-shilling weave, a quarter-million-shilling pair of heels, a supposed fifty-million-shilling surgery, three nights at the prestigious Villa Rosa Kempinski and a holiday in Dubai – if gossip sites are anything to go by these days.
Then I read again that one of my celebrity crushes, Habida, had gotten [I don’t know if that’s the word am looking for] married to an Igbo mofo and relocated to the West. That Avril has committed to a Zulu man and wedding bells are lurking in the shadows. That Jolene of Tahidi High had received a brand new Kompressor as a birthday present from her South African sweetheart.
I read in silence. Profound, albeit disturbed, silence. And I wondered what it was that these bozos had that we, Kenyan men, didn’t. I wondered what it was that was driving our lovely women away from their motherland to go ride foreign mihoigos. I wondered what a guy with an accent sounding like he had just swallowed a live frog and it spat venom in his mouth could possibly do/say to my woman that’d make her walk out my door and straight into his arms.
The ladies told me we don’t treat them right, that our Oga brodas are as romantic as it gets. And I retorted that I know I’m an ass but even I pull out the seat for my date once in a while. And I’m a broke good for nothing son of a mere high school teacher but I’ve once hired a taxi to and from a date. Coming to think of it, I never even got laid that night. Huh! Some told me it was about the money; that our pockets just aren’t deep enough. Or that we are too mean to go all out on them.
To these, I told the story of Phil [not his real name], a former campus chum of mine who moved his beloved out of the institution hostels to her own fully furnished two-bedroom apartment. With a 42’ inch flat screen television, state of the art sound system et al. He dropped by unannounced one weekend and found her swallowing some other punk’s cum in the sitting room, all over the couch he had bought with his HELB money. He came to me seeking a solution to his bliss and all I could picture before me was that one time he refused to buy me a bottle of beer but, instead, sent that mami Ksh. 5000 bob to my face, telling her to go shopping.
So I said good riddance, reminded him about the unwritten rule of Bro’s before Hoes and he broke my nose with a single swing. I didn’t care. I know I’m a bad friend. But you just do not not buy me a beer then expect me to mourn with you. Karma is two-faced ugly bish, son! When I came to really think hard about it, I realized that maybe we weren’t the ones with the problem. It could just as easily be the ladies.
See, dating a modern day Kenyan girl is as demanding as it is tiring. You’d think you were pulling an unmoving truck glued to your ass.
It will always start slow; you on your best behavior and she playing ridiculously hard to get. You will take her to lunch, probably at Galitos [because that’s where all the ‘cool cats are’]; buy her chocolates and ice cream on her birthday; take her for evening coffee at Gibson’s; meet her friends and act like you’re the nicest character on earth, tolerating all their B.S and non-stop gossip; you will even take them out once in a while for a good time, where you may end up spending much more than you bargained for ‘cause these girls “don’t do cheap liquor” then hire a cab and drop their drunken butts back to their miserable hostels and walk on home.
Then she will begin feeling and hanging around you more; getting touchy-feely with you all the time, calling you sweet names. The goodnight hugs will turn into pecks and then, with time, full blown kisses. Then she will finally open the doors of her kingdom to you and you will slide in majestically, almost like a veteran soldier heading out to war with a Third World country, and with the precision of a butcher. She will moan and scream your name with a few inferences of the glorious Man Above in within and you will feel accomplished; And proud; And more like a Man than you ever had before. And a voice inside you will – almost boastfully – say. “Yes, say my name, Baby. Say my name. You smart. You loyal!” She will agree to a relationship the next morning. [Count yourself lucky if she doesn’t ask the one question no man wants to hear after a romp. Ati, “So what are we?” My response is always BFFs. I’ve been punched by a lady before though, so don’t try this at home] A couple months or so into the relationship and all hell will break loose. She sees you talking to another mami for two seconds and she goes red. You fail to pick her calls, even if you were just in the bathroom responding to an innocent call of nature, and it’s World War III.
You can’t go out with your boys as much any more, she says she should be your number 1 priority, and that she deserves your undivided attention. No matter what you do, she will always find a way to curve an argument out of it. You will do your best to make her happy but it will never be enough. She will even start comparing your relationship to that of her neighbor Tim and best friend Daisy, who the whole town knows will open her legs to anything that drives and has a valid ATM card. She will want you to take her shopping, to the salon, even to the market. Not because she fancies your company these days, only so you pay for anything she sets her evil eyes on. Which is, basically, everything. See, I’ve come to realize that MOST Kenyan ladies are lazy gold-digging twats. Again, I said MOST…chill out Kilimani Mums. And that is why even a bigwig will say ‘Yes’ to a man with a measly 200 followers but who works at a bank and can charter a helicopter for a whole weekend to Mt. Kenya.
I’ll leave that at that before I get slapped with a law suit. Kenyan ladies want to secure their futures [which is not a bad thing, depending on how you look at it]. It’s never just about loving or caring about her anymore. It’s now about what you lay on the table; even if she brings nothing herself. Now as far as I’m concerned, Kenyan men are trying. Kenyan men are working their asses off, feeding bimbos who do nothing but sit around in the house all day wearing yoga pants. We’re holding up our ends of the bargain. Then these very lazy putas with sagging breasts and overgrown hips will be the first to walk out the door at the tiniest sign of trouble – throwing all the blame on the poor guy – and jump into the arms of the next rich bozo that comes along. Get me here, there are Kenyan ladies who know the real meaning of the overused word ‘hustle’.
But there are the majority that just want to be fed off someone else’s sweat with silver spoons. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, if you’re going out with a lady that won’t even pay her own fare then you’re wasting your time. A lady that won’t order herself the first drink at a club; a lady that won’t buy you a mere 200-shilling-watch on your birthday but will be so quick to send you a reminder – two weeks before her own birthday – about that necklace you promised her; a lady that, in this age and era, still texts with “duuuhhh [or is it, daahhh?]”, “OMG”, “Xaxa” and “K”. The last category should just die; I’m not even discussing that with you.
Chic posts flashy new pictures every second on Instagram like it’s her job yet she can still afford a half-a-million-shilling weave, a quarter-million-shilling pair of heels, a supposed fifty-million-shilling surgery, three nights at the prestigious Villa Rosa Kempinski and a holiday in Dubai – if gossip sites are anything to go by these days.
Then I read again that one of my celebrity crushes, Habida, had gotten [I don’t know if that’s the word am looking for] married to an Igbo mofo and relocated to the West. That Avril has committed to a Zulu man and wedding bells are lurking in the shadows. That Jolene of Tahidi High had received a brand new Kompressor as a birthday present from her South African sweetheart.
I read in silence. Profound, albeit disturbed, silence. And I wondered what it was that these bozos had that we, Kenyan men, didn’t. I wondered what it was that was driving our lovely women away from their motherland to go ride foreign mihoigos. I wondered what a guy with an accent sounding like he had just swallowed a live frog and it spat venom in his mouth could possibly do/say to my woman that’d make her walk out my door and straight into his arms.The ladies told me we don’t treat them right, that our Oga brodas are as romantic as it gets. And I retorted that I know I’m an ass but even I pull out the seat for my date once in a while. And I’m a broke good for nothing son of a mere high school teacher but I’ve once hired a taxi to and from a date. Coming to think of it, I never even got laid that night. Huh! Some told me it was about the money; that our pockets just aren’t deep enough. Or that we are too mean to go all out on them.
To these, I told the story of Phil [not his real name], a former campus chum of mine who moved his beloved out of the institution hostels to her own fully furnished two-bedroom apartment. With a 42’ inch flat screen television, state of the art sound system et al. He dropped by unannounced one weekend and found her swallowing some other punk’s cum in the sitting room, all over the couch he had bought with his HELB money. He came to me seeking a solution to his bliss and all I could picture before me was that one time he refused to buy me a bottle of beer but, instead, sent that mami Ksh. 5000 bob to my face, telling her to go shopping.
So I said good riddance, reminded him about the unwritten rule of Bro’s before Hoes and he broke my nose with a single swing. I didn’t care. I know I’m a bad friend. But you just do not not buy me a beer then expect me to mourn with you. Karma is two-faced ugly bish, son! When I came to really think hard about it, I realized that maybe we weren’t the ones with the problem. It could just as easily be the ladies.
See, dating a modern day Kenyan girl is as demanding as it is tiring. You’d think you were pulling an unmoving truck glued to your ass.
It will always start slow; you on your best behavior and she playing ridiculously hard to get. You will take her to lunch, probably at Galitos [because that’s where all the ‘cool cats are’]; buy her chocolates and ice cream on her birthday; take her for evening coffee at Gibson’s; meet her friends and act like you’re the nicest character on earth, tolerating all their B.S and non-stop gossip; you will even take them out once in a while for a good time, where you may end up spending much more than you bargained for ‘cause these girls “don’t do cheap liquor” then hire a cab and drop their drunken butts back to their miserable hostels and walk on home.Then she will begin feeling and hanging around you more; getting touchy-feely with you all the time, calling you sweet names. The goodnight hugs will turn into pecks and then, with time, full blown kisses. Then she will finally open the doors of her kingdom to you and you will slide in majestically, almost like a veteran soldier heading out to war with a Third World country, and with the precision of a butcher. She will moan and scream your name with a few inferences of the glorious Man Above in within and you will feel accomplished; And proud; And more like a Man than you ever had before. And a voice inside you will – almost boastfully – say. “Yes, say my name, Baby. Say my name. You smart. You loyal!” She will agree to a relationship the next morning. [Count yourself lucky if she doesn’t ask the one question no man wants to hear after a romp. Ati, “So what are we?” My response is always BFFs. I’ve been punched by a lady before though, so don’t try this at home] A couple months or so into the relationship and all hell will break loose. She sees you talking to another mami for two seconds and she goes red. You fail to pick her calls, even if you were just in the bathroom responding to an innocent call of nature, and it’s World War III.
You can’t go out with your boys as much any more, she says she should be your number 1 priority, and that she deserves your undivided attention. No matter what you do, she will always find a way to curve an argument out of it. You will do your best to make her happy but it will never be enough. She will even start comparing your relationship to that of her neighbor Tim and best friend Daisy, who the whole town knows will open her legs to anything that drives and has a valid ATM card. She will want you to take her shopping, to the salon, even to the market. Not because she fancies your company these days, only so you pay for anything she sets her evil eyes on. Which is, basically, everything. See, I’ve come to realize that MOST Kenyan ladies are lazy gold-digging twats. Again, I said MOST…chill out Kilimani Mums. And that is why even a bigwig will say ‘Yes’ to a man with a measly 200 followers but who works at a bank and can charter a helicopter for a whole weekend to Mt. Kenya.
I’ll leave that at that before I get slapped with a law suit. Kenyan ladies want to secure their futures [which is not a bad thing, depending on how you look at it]. It’s never just about loving or caring about her anymore. It’s now about what you lay on the table; even if she brings nothing herself. Now as far as I’m concerned, Kenyan men are trying. Kenyan men are working their asses off, feeding bimbos who do nothing but sit around in the house all day wearing yoga pants. We’re holding up our ends of the bargain. Then these very lazy putas with sagging breasts and overgrown hips will be the first to walk out the door at the tiniest sign of trouble – throwing all the blame on the poor guy – and jump into the arms of the next rich bozo that comes along. Get me here, there are Kenyan ladies who know the real meaning of the overused word ‘hustle’.
But there are the majority that just want to be fed off someone else’s sweat with silver spoons. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, if you’re going out with a lady that won’t even pay her own fare then you’re wasting your time. A lady that won’t order herself the first drink at a club; a lady that won’t buy you a mere 200-shilling-watch on your birthday but will be so quick to send you a reminder – two weeks before her own birthday – about that necklace you promised her; a lady that, in this age and era, still texts with “duuuhhh [or is it, daahhh?]”, “OMG”, “Xaxa” and “K”. The last category should just die; I’m not even discussing that with you.
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