The Hooker In A Green Dress

anteah-suttle

I am seated on a high stool in Samba Club. Moi Avenue. Before me is an untouched bottle of cold Tusker, which I contemplate for a second, wondering whether I was turning into an alcoholic (Just coming from Heritage Club). Right ahead of me, on the wall, is a flat screen TV showing Liverpool Vs Tottenham Hotspurs, and I am kinda pissed that Liverpool players are playing like they have Weetabix for breakfast (Not sure I am making sense though because I hear Rugby players have Weetabix for breakfast).

On the table beside mine, a few centimetres away, seats this awfully collected woman, drinking Tusker Malt from a glass. Two bottles of Tusker Malt, one unopened and the other half empty, seats beside the glass. She has on a short green dress which folds early, leaving a great portion of her thighs exposed. She is light skinned. Two cute dimples dig on her cheeks when she smiles after reading something on her phone. Her left hand, elbow on the table, rises to hold her neck, gently running her fingers through it. So I can see her thin golden wrist watch. It is cute.

A strikingly beautiful woman drinking. Alone. It doesn’t get sexier than that, man. I only wish she had left her red weave at home. Or better still, at the beauty shop. I do not want to call that weave ugly because that will be a misuse of both space and time. Ugly and weave are synonymous by the way so you can understand my point, No? (Hehee, stop rolling your eyes ladies, if anything, I am not sober as I pen this. And you cannot hold anything against a man who is under the influence of alcohol, can you? I am a generally peace loving man, ask Joey Tei, my Sister in Christ. Can I hear an Amen? No? Moving on…)

Liverpool game is shit (I am an Arsenal fan) and they are making me angry. I need a drink…Oh, I already have one… I need a girl to lighten up the mood. And it is time to put aside any differences I have with weaves for the greater good of this nation. So I pick my untouched Tusker and move to where this lady in a green dress is and I politely ask if I could sit with her. She looks up. Rolls her eyes up and down me. I love her eyes. They make me blush. And tipsy. Then she says, “I don’t mind.”

I climb on the stool and as I am making myself comfortable she asks, “A Liverpool fan?”

I want to laugh. Or cry. I have on an Arsenal tee shirt so it means she is either too short sighted (Cant see my motives, which is awesome), or she is already drunk (even better) or she is simply being disrespectful to Arsenal (an understandable but not an excusable mistake).

“I am simply rooting for them but…” I point to the Arsenal logo on my tee shirt and she chuckles.

“Oh, so why are you rooting for Liverpool?”

“Because Tottenham is ahead of us and we need them to drop points.”

“Oh.”

She surely doesn`t understand what the hell I am talking about.

“Tottenham is the team they are playing with. They are our arch rivals.”

“Oh. Like Uhuru and Raila?”

“Raila and Uhuru are not rivals. Just two men with money & a bunch of silly sycophants.” of course, I do not say that loud. What I say is yes, like Uhuru and Raila.

“And you?”

“I am not really keen on this football thing but I love Chelsea. Cute name”

At that time, I have two options. One, kill myself. Two, Kill her. All my ladies friends love Chelsea ati it has a cute name. They should try liking it for this Azpilicueta (don’t care if the spelling is right) of a guy who plays for ninety minutes with his shirt still tucked in for the whole freaking 90 minutes!

Anyway.

We somehow manage to go through that Chelsea ordeal with both of us still breathing. And drinking. I can see through her eyes that she is not regretting me coming over and I do not take things for granted by buying more drinks. For her of course. Me I need to be sober, hehee! But the drinks keep coming and going and every time she excuses herself to go to the ladies she does not even stagger. This one is a guzzler. She did not have blood in her veins, I was sure. She had sand. Soaking the drinks as they came. Then at some point, I start feeling I might be dealing with a hooker situation. For the first time. In my freaking awesome life! Okay, not the first time.

So the game comes to a disappointing end. But we continue hanging out. The drizzling rain ceases. People start leaving one after the other. This old man with a kitambi so big you can actually drill a well on it leaves with this petite girl, his large arms wrapped around her tiny waist. She is in a black pair of shorts and a sheer white top, saying fuck you to the cold. I wonder what that old man is going to do to this little girl, or rather, what this little girl is going to do to this man because girls with tiny waist are freaking murderous in bed! You need to hit the gym 98 times a week and eat raw cabbage to at least come near to handling them properly (Again, I am under the influence).

“Do you smoke?” she asks.

“I am sorry?”

“I am stepping out for a smoke.”

“Oh, go ahead. I am good.”

I do not smoke. But I find women who smoke sinfully sexy. Mention this to Angel Gabriel when that day comes and I will deny saying any of this. So she pulls herself up, and here is where it gets interesting, stand beside me and runs her hand over my shoulder before quickly lowering it to my thigh and I am trying so hard to maintain a straight face like I am used to this shit. Then she walks away with a smile, promising to be back in a few!

I am damn sure this is a hooker. I could be wrong, of course. The only way to know is to take her to my place, and see if I will wake up to an empty house. Her having cleared everything and left me there to be chewed by cold. And I have never been with a hooker before. Okay, that is assuming things, let me say I have never paid any woman for sex. I have met hookers, of course, flatted with them, gave them false hopes (unfortunately like Arsenal) and then took to my heels. Because I am not sure how to make love to a woman you have paid money to spread her legs for you. Do you whisper things to her ear during the act? Do you tie her legs apart on the bed and whip her kidogo coz now you are the master? Or what do you do? Peter Prince, not pointing accusing fingers bro but what do you do?

I just feel that paying for sex is lame. Of course being paid for sex is awesome, because just like my good friend and the best DJ, DJ Kingsley Martin Jnr, always says, If it is okay for a bouncer to use his body to earn money, then why should it be wrong if a woman uses her body to earn the same money? Clever guy, this DJ. And witty too. And I am sure he loves this immoral example of his because he has triceps & stupid six packs, you doubting me ladies? Check his Facebook Profile. Any time I am with this guy everyone thinks I am his son. Which is totally unfair, especially when ladies are involved.

So paying for sex? No. As much as miss Weave here is sexy and seems like the kind who will do crazy things like nibble your ears and stick a finger up your ass during migwaitos, startling the hell out of you, I am just not feeling it. Okay, I am feeling it, but the thought of her dragging my ass out because I am unable to pay her the next morning (because Nyeri is threateningly near to Nairobi), and then silly neighbours taking the opportunity to snap my naked body and circulate photos and videos online for their own amusement, scares me to death. When neighbours see your naked butt things will never be the same again. Plus the caretaker will no longer take it easy with me the next time I am late with rent, “Usiniambie unashindwa kulipa rent kama vile ulishindwa kulipa ule malaya. Hapo hatutaelewana nani!”

So you see.

I wait for the girl to come back. Order another drink for her, pay for it and then tell her I need to be going.

“Just like that?”

“Sure. It’s already late.”

She smiles and then says, “You are a nice man.”

“I am?”

“You bought me drinks, entertained me with your many stories and not asking for anything in return?”

I want to say, Actually I am asking you to pull off that weave because it is not just working for you. I know your friends say that it is working for you, but it’s not.They are just jealous and lying bitc*** so ignore them. But of course, I don’t say that because again, remember what I said about Nyeri being near to Nairobi.

I am having mixed feelings here.

“Actually, I am not like that,” I say. “Sex, if that’s what you are implying, is not always the reason men play nice with ladies.”

For the record, this is bullshit. Utter nonesense. I do not even believe this crap myself (I mean this playing nice for nothing thing).

“Amazing,” Then she reaches to her handbag and I think she is about to unleash another packet of ciggarrate but instead she pulls out a purse, and then a Business Card reading, Angela…. Senior Copywriter…. and suddenly I am thankful I did not ask how much she charges for a night! 

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12 thoughts on “The Hooker In A Green Dress

  1. Gracie Kari Wang'ombe

    I love this though next tym you mention Nyeri women I will pull your ears

    • brianmbanacho

      Hahaa, I won’t. Not again

  2. MOKUA MAISIBA RICHARD

    It is just a nice story if you had written it in past tense. I personally, I don’t like stories written in present tenses,
    Anyway keep it up brother.

  3. PETER PRINCE

    paying for sex???? allow me to reserve my comment. did you finally make her stagger??

    • brianmbanacho

      I staggered out myself, hehee

      • PETER PRINCE

        hahahaaaaaa……

  4. Dennis

    Good Article.but check on the typos.

  5. susan

    waow.this is such a brilliant n relaxing piece brian…plus lots of humour.. ati men wud eat raw cabbage for wat?hahaha.

    • brianmbanacho

      Hahaa, thanks Susan.

  6. Milkah petrova

    Good article, getting better and better

  7. Isz

    Well written as usual, love the humuor and the sudden twist…..

  8. Eunice

    Brian you have some issues with weaves….. Funny I also don’t like them

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