Beautiful men who make money doing ‘nothing’

His name is Edward. 29. Edward is a beautiful man. Tall. Slim. And dark. Very neat. Looking at him settle in the passenger’s seat, I feel a tinge of jealousy rise in me. Why am I not half as beautiful as he is! His greasy hair cut to size tells me two things; he took his time in front of a mirror and, that he doesn’t do vinyozi jua kali! His sideburns, eyebrows, teeth alignment and makeup only add more colour to his pomp. Swaga balaa! The suit and shoes are all Italian. He’s wearing lip gloss too, I think. Ok. Now I am definitely jealous.

“Hey, Galleria ngapi?” He poses in this smooth, insulting voice, while stretching out his hand to shake mine. So soft. “Twelve hundred,” I reply. “Ok, thanks, bur lemie ngojaa here kidogo for someone.” Sure, nodding. He has two gold rings on the same hand that is holding a gadget valued at well over a thousand dollars. No pun intended. His cologne won’t leave me alone either. Ana smell fresh kama lavender na cherry. I feel like throwing myself at him. By any measure, the chap seems to have his pocket kinda straight.

I get cracking and soon, we are conversing like two long-lost brothers. So what do you do for a living dude? See, I’m curious. He smiles patting my right shoulder. “I did IT in campo bur it never paid, hustle hapa kule bur still nothing! I got tired and quit the grind and settled for something else.” He concludes, still smiling. As if so pleased with the decision he made. “So what is this something else that brought in so much paper?” I probe further. He looks at me squarely in the eye and makes as though to say something, then instead,he tilts his head to the left. I look.

 Walking towards us is a lady clad in blue jeans and white T-shirt. Plus size, pumpkin yellow. She bends, leaning right in front of him with her giant tatas all up in his face as if to allow him that close up shot. Bouncy. “Press one,” the T-shirt reads! Maybe I should, I think. She looks fifty or thereabout. The lines on her face give her away, telling of a once beautiful girl who’s now dishevelled by the hand of time. “The bank is jammed with queues, wacha we wait kidogo then we go look,” she says, giving him a peck. She too has a phone similar to that of the fellow. Quick mental arithmetic reveals that both handsets are worth nothing below two hundred thousand shillings, or, as my Central relatives would put it, kafuroti!

“Si we go get something to drink meanwhile?” she urges, swaying those humongous hips away in a balancing act atop needle-sharp stilettos headed towards a cafe just meters away tagging at his hand. He lingers,momentarily then leans towards me and whispers, sponsor, babaa. They fade out of view disappearing inside. I am hungry. My mind is on shuffle, torn between the food for thought I’ve just been fed, or, just drop by Waithera’s for the usual ugali wembe na mara mix, with ka firifiri on the side!


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