Diary Of My Ex-Girlfriend.

There is a seduction that comes with writing at night. Wee hours of the night when there is pin drop silence; you can hear the sound of your breathe. Wee hours of the night when drunk texts are sent and booty calls are made. Wee hours of the night when the guy living in F1, just above my bedsitter house (if it qualifies that name) is having bed breaking sex and her damsel is moaning , making weird sounds as if she is saying the Lord’s prayer in mother tongue. Wee hours of the night when Range Rovers are being parked in a servants quarters somewhere in Kileleshwa. Wee hours of the night when the Instagram socialites are cashing in big cheques in a hotel room in Paris, before they shove it down your throats with a gazillion nude selfies on IG come sunrise. Wee hours of the night when the man of the bottle is making his way back home reminiscing on the good ‘head’ he just got from that Sharon chic she met in the club and wishing his wife could hone similar skills. (Women who just lay in bed like a dead chicken during coitus have no right to complain when he cheats. Up your game ladies, up your game.) Wee hours of the night when clandestine sins are made, political assassinations executed, mysterious deaths occur, love consummated, a plethora of activities happen albeit the silence that may fool you.

 It is in this hour that I love to write.

 During this hours, words agree to speak your language. Words mate in a divine manner and out of it comes a satisfaction that every writer desires. You can hear the sound of thoughts as they stream from your mind. This is a profound serenity. 

You wake up and grab your laptop. Try to place it on your laps amidst a boner so hard it would cut diamond. The buzzing sound of a notification from your phone which is just beside you will distract you. It’s a message from a number not saved in your contacts. 

 “Hey, just checking up. Hope life is good.”

 You are startled. You notice the number ends with a 100 and starts with 0722. You smile. It’s your ex. Your ego is fellated. She still has your number? You are wowed. It has been three months now and she still feels she should check up. You can tell that she has not moved on. I mean, who moves on after dating the Eros you are. It is 3:00am and you remember that this is the time she would wake up and write her diary. A thing you found to be pretty weird but didn’t mind, since ‘morning glory’ would come shorty after. You are not dubious that she has not moved on and she is definitely scribbling something about you in her diary today.

 You smile again. Perhaps because you remember a time like this some months ago, your legs would be intertwined in hers. You would be whispering sweet nothings to each other. You would be breathing on her neck.  She would be lying on you and your heart would be pounding like dully on your chest. You would be telling her of her beauty, the warmth of her laughter, the wind in her hair. That you would stay there looking at her eyes forever, 24/7, 365, days an year. You would be telling her that you forever want to wake up beside her. She would be telling you that you are the best she will ever have and that she will never leave you. Your stomach would clench. You would then tell her that you will have no life after her. (Hogwash, right?). You two were good with cheesy lines and sparkly conversations.

Then life happened. You still have a life after her. She is no longer beautiful like you used to say. In fact, to you, she looks like the rear end of your grandmother’s knocked kneed, tick infested bovine. A host of visual terrorist. Why we term our ex’s ugly after we breakup, I don’t know. As if you were blind when dating them. Am still of the opinion that my exes are not as beautiful (avoiding to use the word ugly for security purposes) as my current missus. (Someone will sleep in her shoes today.) 

Too many unwelcomed thoughts are buzzing around like a swarm of hungry wasp invading your already overwrought brain. You are thinking of what she could be writing on her diary about you. Does she refer to you as the one who got away or the bullet that dodged? But you set your bar high, you are definitely the one that got away. She has to write good things about you. 

If you have been my girlfriend, or planning to be my girlfriend, or you are already my girlfriend (People this days will be in a relationship with you and you don’t know), this is how you will write your diary after we have dated:

**********

Dear Diary,

My demons today told me to text him and guilt is killing me right now. This bottle of chivas is doing me no good either. Am sure he knows I must be tipsy to do what I did, but again my truthful self is epitomized when am drunk. If he would call me now, I would rant to him that I still love him, but fret not diary, I have switched off my phone. I have already massaged his ego as it is and making a conversation with him while drunk would make me seem desperate. Of course I am, no woman would resist this man’s charm. He is the kind you want to inhale, bit, suck and turn him into a part of whom you are. 

It has been a constant autumn since we broke up. He made light of the absurdity of life. Where there was darkness, he shed light and even in my darkest hours, he made me smile. When I found myself running from all the things that chased me, even the once I secretly hoped would catch me and hold the verses of my skin together, to keep my soul from the clouds of loneliness, I found HIM. Regardless of his sarcastic self, he offered me quite an optimistic world view.

He is a voracious reader. He will involve you in quite intelligent conversations and even when we argued he would sit me down and try to sort things out in a calm and lovely manner. He is smart and I would at times wish to fuck his brains. In ugliness, he found beauty, truth in lies, hope in desperation. Anything I threw to him was an inspiration. With him, I saw things in a different light, what I detested, I began to like. (Feeling like a poet here). He would stroke my ego at times, praise my flattering qualities and make me feel good about myself. However, he did not relent from shedding light on my less flattering qualities. How am I not supposed to miss him? How am I supposed to resist this urge to text him, pretending that I am just checking up on him, while I want to know everything about his life after me? How am I supposed to stop myself from wondering whether if he still misses the touch of my lips? Hur?

And yet his fire still burns within me. I wish to weep for him, but it will not be enough. I want to look back at our romance and laugh, but it will not be enough. My heart sang a different tune. It was more than chocolates and roses. Romance was when he knew how I wanted my coffee, sugary. Or when we would walk home, holding hands after a night of binge drinking. I miss when he would tie the laces to my shoes because he knows I hate it. He was my slice of heaven.  You see, it hard to find a person who can dig deep into the quarry of your emotions and know how to make you skin turn out of excitement. Such a species is rare to find and his next will definitely be a lucky bastard! (You do not expect an ex-girlfriend to refer to your current as a queen, right?)

He will perhaps call me tomorrow morning and I will pick up and we will have a slight awkward conversation that will raise my adrenaline levels to crazy. I will lose my senses when I hear his husky voice over the phone, and perhaps I will orgasm, because he has that effect on me.

Him: Hey

Me: Hey, how are you doing Isaac.

Him: Am very fine Lisa (Lets call her this) I found your message this morning and thought it would just be courteous to call, thanks for checking up, you are doing fine right?

Me: Yes I am. I just thought it’s humane to check up once in a while. Am glad you did not ask, who this is.

Him: That’s why they invented true caller for us, right?

Me: Hahahaha……As if! Could you do coffee this week, Friday? Kaldies?

Him: Sure, why not!

Me: Thank you. See you.

But those are just fantasies. The kind of fantasies that make me hold on to some illusion of hope that we will get back together. I do not know where things went wrong. I think I should abide to the words of the last message he ever sent to message he sent to me. “When you come to the end of a book, you close it.” It’s high time I closed our book with these words of affirmation. He was A-Z. Athletic, brilliant, charming, dependable, educated, fit, generous, humorous, insightful, jovial, kind, logical, manly, noble, outgoing, peaceable, quotable, resilient, strong, trustworthy, understanding, virile, well-built, he had the X-factor, he was youthful and zesty. 

He was Z-A. Zealous, yummy, a xenophile yet grounded, wise, veracious, unequalled, truthful, superior, refined, quintessential, polite, open-minded, noticeable, masculine, learned, knowledgeable, jaunty, impressive, honorable, gregarious, fair, eclectic, dynamic, classy, bodacious and definitely attractive.

*************

Missive to My Wife In Waiting.

Dear Mama Nyakio,

My darling, I christen you Mama Nyakio since you will be the mother of my kids. I want to have kids, lots of them. Perhaps ten (if you can manage) and preferably a girl for a first born. She will be called Nyakio named after her grandmother. You see, my beloved, I have taken to writing to you here with the hopes that you are reading this, since you have decided to become illusive to yours truly. Read it one sentence at a time.

My beloved, since I started writing here, I always look forward to finding myself seated behind my laptop, fingers on the home keys, ready to inscribe words that clobber my mind at the moment. I delight in writing. There is an orgasmic feeling I get when I put down words in a quintessential manner. When those words express my sentiments, when they come out, glistering with sheen. It took me time to begin this my beloved, (blame the fear of mediocrity) but do I say? Brevity has become my forte. Today, being my birthday, I want to write to you. I am growing old and it's time I started to think about us.

I long for the day my love we will be lost in our world together. The day I will take you home to meet Nyakio, my mother for her acceptance. She will welcome you with Sufurias and ‘Kanyumbani’ soap and will want see how well you can make those sufurias shine. (What is of a woman who can’t clean utensil?) I cannot wait my love, to see you walk down the aisle, dressed in that Black Vera Wang bridal dress( White is so mainstream, love) and those fine Jimmy Choo six-inch pieces of heaven. I long for the day we will take a sojourn to the Maldives for our honeymoon, or visit the Bora Bora Islands for a lifetime genital tangle in the renowned Islands. 

My Eve, your Adam here awaits in patience to be lost in your charm. How I will always lick my phone screen when viewing your sexy Whatsapp display photo. How my Phallus will pulsate when your name lights up on my phone screen as you call. How I will woolgather after I read that “I can’t wait for you to get home’” text message when at work. I long for the days I will come home, after a long day, only for you to receive me at the door, naked, in six inch heels holding that bottle of our favorite French cognac. I long for the time I will slide my fingers up your dress, naughtily, as we have diner at that fine restaurant, (Villa Rosa being my semblance of preference) and not give a bat’s nipple if people will see us or not. I am waiting my love, for the days, I will pull myself behind you and breath into your neck and nuzzle it with my tongue as you cook breakfast, in my kitchen dressed in my white shirt. (There is nothing that turns on a man like a woman in the kitchen dressed in his shirt and nothing else on.) How long will I wait to have you drinking wine from my mouth? Do you know how I long for time you will lick yoghurt from my back?

My shameless adoration, I am waiting for those sweaty nights, our endless nights that will be marked by mind blowing, sheet staining, bed cracking genital tangle. I will make you scream and writhe and explored.  I will pull you close to my chest and pin you against that wall as I lift your thighs with my hands. How I will kiss the woman out of you, as my palms delve throughout your body to explore your body geography.  Matters coitus are fundamental in this institution of marriage. Therefore, I will not hesitate to do you in the car before I drop you at your office for work, or at the maize plantation behind our house, my love (mafefeini- in kikuyu), or at the shower on those early morning, and leave you glowing for the rest of the day. I want your nipples to harden when I kiss you goodbye for work, I want them to harden when you spot my car driving to pick you up from work or when I send that basket of chocolate to your office to make the ‘cramping’ more bearable, when it is that time of the month.

Mutumia wakwa (My wife), my sunshine, my stomach butterflies, yours truly over her is a man of his own chivalric codes. I am gallant and can be over caring, especially when drunk. I want to be your provider and sustainer. I will clothe you, feed you and shelter you. You will drink from my pocket. You want that Coco Chanel shoe, I will pay for it. Hairdo? Come get money. Money for your mama? You can have it. You will never want. You see my love, I am not of that tomfoolery school of thought that a man should bear the burden of bills with the wife. That you should pay for the cab as I pay for diner. That is hogwash. Utter bullshit. If a man cannot provide to the last coin for the wife, then he should not marry. That is the mantra I have conformed to. I am a worthy custodian of testicles, two of them, balls big can’t even dance in my pants. I herein confess to make sure you are one gratified missus. 

Rib from my own, I only ask for your understanding. Just understand me more than anyone else ever will. Understand my insecurities and my fear of failure. 

I love to read. I am a voracious reader. I will occasionally spend a night on the couch engrossed in that Nora Roberts, Dean Koontz, Danielle Steel, John Green or Sidney Sheldon book. 

I love Pilsner. I adore Pilsner. I drink Pilsner. Pilsner loves me back. Pilsner will be the bitch I will cheat on you with. Her taste, horseblankety. She is spritzy. She is where I find solace, especially when am listening to Mugithi by Murimi Wa ka Half or Mike Rua. Bummer, right? 

I am a lover of rock whichever type, soft and heavy brutal metal rock. I listen to Lady Antebellum and rock on Behemoth's Ov Fire and the Void brutality.

I have one conspicuous celebrity crash on one Ciku Muriuki of Nation FM, I oogle at her cellulite, but that will not compromise my love for you.

Lastly my Love, I am a man of God, and I will be here praying that my Almighty Deity reveals you to me soon.

In absentia, I Love You, with a cunnilingus love that is gracefully given, with the air of ardent worship.

Body, mind, soul,

Mwaura Mburu Nyakio.

The Womenfolk of Kenyan Clubs!

She is elegance and freedom. She makes her way into the club, a patina of beauty and grace. Her walk, smoother than Denzel Washington’s while going to receive an Oscar. She sashays to the counter and perches herself on the stool besides the counter as every custodian of testicles drools over her.  She smiles at the mixologist who hurriedly gets her a dignified glass of whiskey. At this point, she is delving through her purse, perhaps looking for a fuck to give since all eyes in the club are glued on her. She gets one thousand shillings note and hands it to the barman for her drink. She looks around, her eyes sparkle with knowledge. This woman is adorned. She is curvy, even the bodacious Kardashians got nothing on her. Height, 5’ 6’ inches. (I am good with such estimations). Her hindquarters are a sight to behold. How those pair of sweethearts spread on the stool make my ‘Mighty King Kong’ pulsate at an alarming rate. She is naturally light skinned and the deep dimples on her chubby cheeks are just a turn on. She pauses before everything, including a glass of whiskey. Isn’t that sexy?

This female is a razzmatazz. You wish to inhale her, absorb her, chew her, suck her and turn her into a part of who you are. But dream on brother, dream on!

She is indeed a unique creature.

Allow me to digress.

See, the women in Kenyan clubs vary like the 50 shades of Christian Grey. Being an imbiber of all kinds of liquor, both frothy and distilled, I have had the privilege of meeting quite a number of these ‘ladies’ in the many liquor dens (read clubs) I have been to, in Nairobi and beyond.

There is much to be said about these clubs though. The stinking lavatories of Molly’s club (Westlands). The high class hookers of club RnB (Westlands). The one eyed bouncer of Club Brown Bottle (Thika). The old, beer drinking mums of Lazino’s (Nairobi west). The mask wearing barmaids of Natives (Thika road). The homosexuals of I club (Nairobi). The socialite wannabe yuppies at Skyluxx et al. It is in pursuit of frothy moments with the spritzy Pilsner that I have found myself in these mouth irrigating dens where women take the largest number of the hoi polloi.

As your hangover is killing you softly, my mind is reminiscing on the various women I have seen in clubs. Amusement galore.

v  The all-time worshiper of the ‘D’

She is dressed in  ‘tights’, which resemble the United States of America flag, a crop top (despite the fact that she has an award winning pot belly) and ‘condom shoes’.( These plastic doll shoes girls put on). Since she entered the club, she has been on the dance floor. Ask me why, it’s because she has no money for beer and does not want to be thrown out of the club for idling. She twerks better than she can write her name. And sings the lyrics of (insert an Obb Guru Tone) ‘Vybz Kartel’s- Rambo Kanambo’ better than she can say the grace. Her business here is to rub that wiggly mass of flesh she calls an ass on every crotch in the dance hall. She takes no offense at all when butt slapped by the men on the dance floor and even thinks it’s erotic. I don’t mean to be blunt but she is a whore. Spare your cheesy lines for another day, getting underneath her clothes is as easy as A, B, C. Young man, why endeavor paying for a lodging while she is ready to do you at the parking lot? She likes ‘D’ and has it for breakfast, lunch and supper. Ninjas, whatever dry spell you might be experiencing, this is a no go zone. However, if you must hit that, dress that Kong in a couple of latex, this girl has suffered from STD’s  more than common cold.
 She is the real 'poko haram'.

v  High class Hooker.

Spot her in that tight gripping, hips suffocating knockoff Versace mini-dress just to bend men’s sweaty necks, six inch glow-in-the-dark high heels to attract the roving eyes of ordinary hustlers. She is carrying a trench coat on one arm and a clutch bag on the other. Notice the overdone make up and the huge weave on her head that looks like a bird’s nest.  She positions herself at the center of the club and orders a glass of caprice wine. When she spots a possible client, she endeavors to catch their attention. Rolling of the eyes and curling of the tongue, winking, crossing her legs for you to see that hip, she will even fake a call of nature so that she can walk next to you shaking vigorously what her mama gave to her. You finally invite her to your table. Here she will let her hands do the walking. Immediately she lands those fingers on your groin, you do not know what demons tell you to lead her to your car and drive to a hotel lodging where she will treat you to a ball sapping game before you hand her a pretty amount of money. She is at work and must earn. Desperate moments call for desperate actions. If you play hard to get, she might as well spike your drink with 'mchele' (Drug) ,you fall unconscious and she pick pockets you peacefully.

v  The attention hungry maniacs

Nothing much to be said about this dimwits. This are mostly the hippie yuppies of campus. They want to show the whole club that they were born dancers and that their meakins-drinking, HELB (P) misusing, Galaxy pocket owning, Bachelor of commerce studying boyfriends are getting them rounds of Smirnoff Guarana  as if the rest of citizens in the club are drinking on charity grounds. They will shout ‘Awwwww, that’s my song’ everytime the Dj plays ‘Wine and kotch’. They are here to take selfies for their 50 instagram followers which will be hashtaged #TurntDownForWhat. Their vocabulary is bloated with curse words and at some point you feel like blessing them with the shut-up bitch slap.

In this category too are the damsels who like summoning attention by kissing among many PDA activities to shove it down our throats that they can kiss a girl. I think it’s time someone built an only ‘lesbian’ club to accommodate these ‘just turned lesbian’ women. (No homophobic bigotry intended)

v  The midlife crisis mama

This mama will buy any man willing to give her company the whole counter. She has money but lonely. She is 40 and midlife crisis has hit her so bad. Her marriage is a mess and her children are just a waste of ovules. She seeks solace from the Kingfisher. She is vulnerable. Make her smile and she will be begging to take you home. She remembers not the last time she had an orgasm. The husband is abroad working I mean. She will make a very good sugar mummy and she prefers boys who she will toy around with.

Back to where I started. The lass at the counter. 

This female is the kind I wish to see in the club. The independent and elegant woman. The one sitting at the counter alone and seems to enjoy self-company. The self fulfilled lady who has become an extinct species. The lady who affords her own drink and needs no man to pay her bills. The lady who does not throw tantrums in the club for cheap attention. The one that that does not endeavor to harm her backbone by balancing her body on six-inch heels on the concretes of Westlands. Spare her the cheesy pickup lines, she has heard better in her life.

 The wind in her hair. The bewitching gap between her teeth.  Everything about this woman is a razzle-dazzle. She is done taking her cognac and enjoying her time in the club.She tips the bartender.Yes she does. She leaves and does not even crab walk despite the strong whiskey she has been downing. Thought she is heading for the bus stop? Jokes on you, her taxi man is waiting for her outside. I escort her out with my eyes and wait for the day i will tener cojones to approach this madam.