But do I say?

Posted: July 21, 2016 in Nairobi
Tags: , , , , ,

 

I met a guy one night,

I had little cash on me, only enough to help me wait for another guy who ended up standing me up; thanks a lot ‘another guy’.  Anyway, guy number one was a different specimen all together. He came to my table, introduced himself by all three names, stared blankly as I introduced myself as if I was talking about the weather. Right off the bat,he insisted on telling me how he owns land in Mombasa and Nakuru. He made sure I knew how humble he was by constantly reminding me how he struggled in his childhood and how that if it wasn’t for God, he would not have the big luxury car he had parked outside. He encouraged me by saying that one doesn’t have to hustle at all.

“I mean look at me,” he said, “my sister now lives in a house at 200,000kshs per month.”

He did not have the courtesy to buy me a drink to help me swallow the ‘bs’ he kept spewing out but he did repeat all three of his names more than twice just in case I had forgotten. He also made sure his voice was heard by everyone in the club because everyone needed to know how the good lord had blessed him and his family. I definitely needed to know how he was no longer living in his mother’s house but that he was living in his own house (rent unknown) and driving his own big, luxurious car which he bought with his own money. I also needed to know that he had a really nice job.

He must have also seen how curious I was to know how he could spend over 10,000kshs(that’s a lot apparently) on a night out and how he can drink on credit at The Tribe hotel because, well, they all know him there. He must have also heard me enquire why the club 3 floors up treats him like royalty and how if any of the waiters from there were to see him drinking at another pub, they would immediately swoosh him up to the top floor because they couldn’t afford to lose their biggest customer. He must have also noticed how I was dying to know how his father was the wisest man that ever lived and made sure he left his children a truck load of inheritance that included land in several counties.

Of course every sentence was punctuated by ‘I owe all this to God’ because then if I scowled or rolled my eyes I would have been that girl (rude bitch) who doesn’t want to listen to testimonies of the lord’s goodness.  He paused after every few sentences to dance to a song and to think of the next thing he could brag about obviously. The Dj and waitresses, whom I know personally kept looking at me and smiling empathetically. It seemed they too had heard this story a few times. I silently cursed the friend who had stood me up; this was wholly his fault.

I’m sure he thought he was really testifying as he loudly and drunkenly rumbled on about all his riches and glory in the name of God. He finally left my table without so much as a ‘What are you drinking’ and ‘can I get you one’. If only I had carried my savings account (a sock full of one bobs) and left my politeness at home, that man would have been telling a whole different story about the girl at the pub who attacked him with a sock full of coins.

But that night I was just a girl who went to her local pub to have one drink for the road and contemplate why she had so many stories in her head and no money in her pocket.

NB: I was embarrassed to note that the guy hailed from a village just next to mine somewhere in Western so no stereotypes to be qualified here. Turns out, a douchebag is a douchebag and they come in all shapes and sizes. We are one.

 

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