They will meet in a club like Best Westerns Level 8, somewhere the coined-up Kenyans with salaries that read like mobile phone numbers go to burn their pocket change—the residue that remains after they close million dollar deals. She will just have cleared campus, a plain looking girl, with bronze skin, big tits and a nice frame, the kind they call laptop. Life hasn’t exactly been kind to her. She just cleared campus and she thought she would fall into her dream job, her dream man and her dream life, but so far all that has been happening at night when she falls asleep. She’s been tarmacking and collecting dust all over the city and she’s managed to land a job. A mediocre one that involves filing and data entry for a paycheck that couldn’t buy her two cups of Senator KEG at her local pub.
She feels as if she’s at the end of her rope. Living a borrowed life. A life where she’s constantly staring out the window wondering if there’s something better out there. But not this Friday, no. This Friday she won’t be wondering. She won’t be scrolling Brighter Monday’s page nor asking that connected relative of hers if he’s found something for her yet. Something worth the Bachelor’s degree she has collecting dust on the shelf. This Friday she will gather her coins and call two of her friends and they will go to Best Westerns Level 8. They can’t afford it but they talk and whisper and they’re of the idea that that’s where men hang out. Real men, not boys who only have their sperm to offer, no! Men who hang out here know things and do things.
The three musketeers will enter the lounge and percolate in a corner—order something thrifty like Delmonte and sip it while hunched like crumpled papers, looking odd and out of place.
He will be seated at the bar counter holding a glass of Johnnie Walker Gold Reserve on the rocks in an expensive, sleek, silver Armani suit. You can tell it’s genuine because when the dim club light hits it, it doesn’t reflect the light; instead it absorbs it the way water disappears in a dry sponge and becomes part of it. He is in his mid thirties and has his hair combed backwards—Don Corleone style. He’s built like the Artur brothers, big and heavy-knit. A French man doing business in Kenya. Business that he doesn’t talk much about but judging by the Porsche Panamera car keys on the table, his skulduggery seems to be doing well.
He will scan the lounge and his light blue predator eyes will fall and stick on the three ex campus girls cuddling a Delmonte in the corner, and because he’s into businesses he will immediately smell vulnerability. Their posture, the way they keep breaking eye contact to look around the club; everything about them says misplaced and in need of rescue. Monsieur Armani Artur Corleone will call the waiter and whisper something in his ear and he will scamper and pour three umbrella drinks and take them to the girls. Monsieur is especially interested in the plain looking girl with bronze skin and gigantic tits. Sure, the tits will sag in a couple of years or even a couple of months judging by what he’ll do to them but that can be fixed with a few hundred dollars and a good plastic surgeon. A wry smile will jump on his face because he’s here for a good time not a long time.
He’s a seasonal chap who has his sights on a girl looking for a long-term thing. He will approach the table with swagger, one hand in his pocket and the other holding his Porsche Panamera car keys. He will say “Hi girls” in a deep honey coated French accent that cuts like the edge of a razor blade, and the girls will giggle and break their backs trying to say hi back because they’re used to being approached by dusty boys, boys who still live in their mother’s houses. Boys who would go flat broke if they bought a bottle of water at Best Westerns Level 8 bar and lounge.
“What’s your name?” He will plow on.
“I’m Tris,” the tall one with white braids called Beatrice will prattle like a parrot, eager to please even though she is not the one being addressed. The question was directed to the plain looking one with boobs that could pass for hot air balloons.
“I’m Samuel,” he will pronounce it Samu-well while sitting down. “And you are?” He will say while burning his sky blue eyes into hot air balloon boobs eyes.
“I’m Sonnie…ahm….Muthoni….I mean, Sarah. Sarah Muthoni.” She will stammer, almost spilling her umbrella drink on her flowery, purple sundress that kisses her shy off her Achilles.
“Nize to meet you Sarah.” He will go on and place one of his big fat hand on her knee as if it belongs there, and Sarah’s cheeks will immediately flash red hot in excitement. He will move his assassin light blue eyes on the other girl—the eyesore with frumpy short, Donald Trump styled hair and a ring hanging on the bridge of her nostrils like a broken chandelier. “Liz, short for Elizabeth. That’s my name,” she will say hastily while holding onto her umbrella drink like a dog holds onto a bone and nodding her head rapidly not knowing what to do with herself.
He’s a straight shooter, it’s a business thing. He will pull Sarah to the side and they will exchange contacts. He will then leave the girls to their umbrella drinks but Sarah won’t touch her drink again because she’ll be busy answering her nosy friend’s questions and trying to tame the butterflies fluttering in her stomach. ‘Sarah Muthoni Samu-well’ it has a nice ring to it. She will think and chuckle to herself.
He will invite her to his house in Lavington on a sunny weekend.
“Wear something nize for me mmkay, the shorter the better mmkay?” He will say in a teasing serious tone without knowing that Sarah already has plans for him. She looks at him and sees a salary, bonus, pension and retirement plan.
She will show up in something seductive. A lacy knee high cream minidress and ominous, blood-red wedges.
“You look nize, very nize.” Samuel will say as he opens the door to his rented bungalow. “Just one little detail, sugar, unbutton your dress just a bit. It’s too hot you’ll suffocate.” She’ll scan the house, and take a minute to breathe in new air into her lungs. The air of opulence. “Just one button,” she will say with a cheeky smile then proceed to undo all three buttons on her bust and her cleavage will spring out like a fountain.
“Nize, what will you have?” Samuel will say while sprawled on his couch with a glass of something on his hand. And Sarah will get up from her seat and walk briskly to him and sit on his lap. “I will have whatever you’re having,” she will chime in with her exposed legs crossed and her fingers running rings through Samuel’s silky smooth Mafia style combed hair.
Three months of fun and debauchery and Sarah will be pregnant.
“It will be a girl, I can feel the kicks, those are runway-model kicks, not kicking-a-ball kicks.” Sarah will exclaim with a streak of excitement smudged on her face like a stain.
“No, no, it’s a boy, I can smell his charm from here; just like Daddy.”
Guys I decided not to finish this one because you’re always sweating me about how I always leave you in suspense, so let’s do something different and fun. Pick up this story from the last full stop, do a write-up on how it should end and send it to me on firstname.lastname@example.org I’ll edit the one that makes my stomach flip and post it here one of these Wednesdays. Cool?
Hey there, we don’t (yet) have the budget to buy space on prime time TV or full page ads in the Daily Nation, so your shares are what help us get discovered. Feel free to whisper us to a friend and leave a comment.