A friend of mine recently bought his wife a new mobile phone for their first wedding anniversary. The damn thing cost him a painful Sh79,000.
That’s enough to irrigate throats of a few adults at the local for weeks.
Interestingly, and which is why my friend is losing sleep, this expensive gizmo has been lying in a drawer, next to their giant bed counting days.
Apparently, the wife believes her husband is a ‘CIA agent’ and that the new phone may have been configured to allow him listen to her important business calls.
See, city couples are a witty lot, they no longer accept electronic gadgets — especial phones — as gifts, even if they were to be delivered by Angel Gabriel himself.
Now you understand why attempts by the Communication Authority to spy on Kenyans have elicited heated debate.
The city spying war is often started by the man of the house, but perfected by the woman.
First, she will use proceeds from her chama to install secret cameras everywhere in the house.
It could be on your shoes, on the tissue box, on the waistline of your underwear, in the fridge or on the doorframe overlooking your king-size bed.
See, it’s a pretty expensive affair, not like those days in the village when all you had to do to know if your spouse is cheating was to wait by the river side, or climb the highest mango tree in the village to see who was dating who.
Now, since your husband is no fool, the camera will never capture him in his amorous acts. Mind you he too has mounted spy cameras in the house to see who visits the house when he is on a business trip to South Africa.
The good news is that the camera will capture your son sneaking into that small room your curvy house help calls hers. Two hours later Rambo, whilst sweating like a pig, emerges from the chamber with a heavily panting Mwende in tow.
She is covered in something that resembles a handkerchief, and which reaches the neighbourhood of her waist.
Your son, Rambo Junior, takes things in his hands, in your seating room, drinking your expensive wine. Of course you had no idea that your 16-year-old can smell good wine from as far as Nairobi River. Now you know.
The next day the damn camera captures your most precious little thing; Angelina Jolly, your sweet daughter whom you have all along been thinking is a virgin. She is hosting a party in your house. It’s a big crowd of mango heads.
Angelina’s ambition has always been — and is still — to become a socialite, something she has taken as seriously as studying for a degree.
Chanting footy songs
Which is why they are about to engage themselves in a day-long bender of conspicuous consumption of alcohol, shisha and bhang that would easily put them on the front pages of newspapers.
The girls, some of whom seemed to have had boob jobs, party like rock stars and are dressed as if they were on their way to a strippers’ convention in Kisumu.
Drunk and disorderly, the girls, most of who have tagged along their boyfriends, will be mounting their own invasion of the local bars and boutiques a few hours before you and your husband return from work.
Angelina, who has developed a particular dislike for Dr Fred Matiangi since December 2016, is seen in the footage exchanging saliva with Johnny. It’s actually John.
This young lad is known in the estate for peddling bhang. But now he is headed to being your son-in-law.
Johnny, who is on the CID list of most wanted drug peddlers, is chanting footy songs and chugging down vodka shots in your house.
Your house help, who is a partaker in the little crime; she too can down five gallons of booze, will not utter a word, so you will never know a thing.
In the evening, when you return from work, everything will be back to normal. The house help will be busy humming to her favourite gospel song as Angelina rests her drunken frame in her room, locked up and feigning sickness.
Meanwhile, Rambo will be reading a novel by Sidney Sheldon in his room. That’s the city.