Tall Shadows, Slender Dreams

 

Mark angrily warned me, "You're too poor to woo a woman with a ring nose." He would have slapped to reality if I had been younger.

"Duke! A Tracy can't be seduced, can she? "You haven't finished with the Susans, Marys, and Carols of this world yet," Joe interrupted.

Here were my too-close buddies attacking me during a quickly deteriorating evening. Their frustration with my predicted protest was genuine.

Well, as agreed on over the phone, Tracy had arrived. However, she had done the customary Kenyan thing of showing up with a friend. However, Shamoon, a location of her choosing, was the only central location where we met. I realized as soon as I saw her that I must have been too drunk to think she was even slightly attractive. I got a migraine right away since it hit me so strongly.

To start with, she had stained teeth, like she was from Nakuru. Her face was not as glowing as it had been the Saturday before, and she spelled "ORDINARY UNI GIRL" in every way!

WARNING. Given that we had gone over 100 kilometers to get the money I was going to flush down the drain, I could see why my friends were upset with me. Worse still, the money was for a job that can only be considered a construction job.

In situations like this, I usually advise Joe to use his head instead of his dick. It was Joe's time to lambaste me. I was going to dismiss the women according to our plan, but I was driven by a great sense of altruism to find a less unpleasant approach for doing so. Like a glass of juice before permanently parting ways?

After my buddies gave me a long tirade that culminated with a pained F**k U, I decided to accompany them inside. 

We selected an empty lounge, and took our seats. While I sat with Tracy at the next table, Wendy (her friend) was deep buried in her phone on the opposite seat. Since I take the greatest satisfaction in having the most acute sense of beauty among my peers, I was still getting over the shock of how alcohol could have so severely affected my optical talent.

The disastrous evening was spiraling out of control when she ordered a meal, claiming she hadn’t eaten all day. She then handed the menu to Wendy, asking her to make an order. Being well versed about the situation, Wendy chose to order a drink. Smart move, Wendy! However, she ended up ordering fries and chicken for what was destined to be an incredibly long night, even if it was just a Monday.

So how did we end up here?

Broke on Saturday.

On Saturday, at precisely 6:33 p.m., I was craving a beer.

Issue: I was parched, and only a cold Tusker would satisfy me.

Elephant in the room: I had only Ksh 70, barely enough to get me home. I had spent the entire day chasing after my freelance employer for my payment, which she insisted on giving me in cash and she kept moving from place to place.

Crisis: I had foolishly taken an Okoa Jahazi loan of Ksh 100 that was almost depleted, and Safaricom was threatening me. My ATM balance was tragically at an unrecoverable Ksh -2000

Disaster: Tracy just called, wanting to go out. The real catastrophe is that she genuinely believes I’m rich. Another disaster is that I’m interested in her, and she is incredibly attractive, even for me. Either she has been around too much to care about finding her next boyfriend, or I’ve struck gold. Regardless, I want to take her out. I had met her at some luncheon, bragged a bit, and she fell for my lines completely. But I had been dodging her since, claiming to be busy. However, like every classic uni woman, she can easily tell between a man who is truly busy and a broke guy pretending to be. From the tone of her voice, I realized my cover was blown.

So, with all this in my mind, I was biting my lower lip, and muttering curses as I walked down the road. I was cursing whoever brought me into this world. They should have used protection, or my mom should have simply aborted to save me from all these troubles. A man my age should be able to buy himself a beer. A man my age should be capable of taking a 23-year-old girl with an elegant name like Tracy out.

I quickly ran some mental statistics on the men who could buy me beer, and I narrowed down to ten possibilities. Of those, I still owed six of them a round, so I didn’t want to stir up old wounds, and I let sleeping dogs lie. Two who could buy me were out of school and kept promising for next time, a promise that never actually materializes. The other two were simply jerks who wouldn’t ever uphold the manly code of reciprocating alcohol favors, and I promptly deleted their numbers. Believe me, I did. A man is worthless if he cannot eventually return the beer favor at the table, sooner or later.

This was likely going to be the dullest evening ever. Then, the phone vibrated and bounced in my pocket, as if to announce that the excitement had arrived.

Tom, was on the line…

“Where are you, you idiot?” (Pardon the vulgarity, but he used a much harsher term).

Everyone has that one friend who can insult them at any moment, in any location, without hesitation. For me, Tom is that friend. I’ve warned him recently that one of these days, I might become president and then he’d have to start showing me some respect. Fingers crossed.

After exchanging a minute of insults, he tells me that a major insurance company is hosting a dinner for journalists and writers at Rupa. He asks if I’m free.

I hopped into a matatu and  to town, I left. It seemed like the dinner couldn’t start early enough. The journalists, despite their inflated egos but dead broke like yours truly, seated themselves far from the main table. This was apparently a tactic to ensure they could drink as much beer as they desired without upsetting the higher-ups.

Tom and I took our spots at the main table. Thankfully, it was one of those rare occasions when I was dressed well, and there’s something about broke men trying to put on their best front. Tom was also looking sharp, but I knew that a few Pilsners in, that would vanish. The boss arrived moments later, followed closely by the most stunning woman I’ve encountered this year, so far.

Picture a typical Kikuyu light-skinned woman, strikingly beautiful, in her early 30s, wearing little to no makeup, sporting the reddest, most kissable lips. Add a curvy figure, an impressively attractive backside, and long ethnic hair that could belong to a singer, like Samantha Mumba. To top it off, she was tall. She had these bright, shifty eyes that radiated vulnerability. As expected, she was likely snobbish, driving a Benz or at least a BMW.

She took a seat next to the boss, closer to Tom, while I faced them. I noticed Tom practically undressing her with his eyes as he began his flirtations. Tom had that lustful gaze directed at her. I can say the same for myself. We exchanged quick glances and agreed that she was stunning. Shortly after, Tom slipped into his usual lewd self and texted me, “That guy could easily take these girls and even make them comfortable!” I couldn’t fault him, considering he was already on his fourth Pilsner.

After engaging in some lighthearted gossip with the manager, she turned to us and greeted us with a classic, corporate ‘Hii’. I must admit, it sounded so genuine; you could almost grow a flower from it.

“Hii,” we both responded.

“I’m Cece, I work with Google.”

We introduced ourselves from our respective media groups, and she noted that she reads Tom in the newspapers and had come across one of my opinions on women in those very pages. It made a significant difference. Once the informal chit-chat concluded, we had her on our side. While she was undeniably intelligent, she also had a bit of a blonde side to her. Before long, we were taking the lead in the conversation.

“Cece, that must be short for Priscilla, right?” I inquired.

“Yeah, exactly. But Priscilla is a bit of a mouthful, so I prefer Cece.” Tom  shot me a look that said, ‘Dude, where did that come from?’ I can have my moments of brilliance.

“I know this because I’m a big fan of Cece Winans. Amazing voice. Gorgeous (I mean, great figure, anyway), and it seems that the name Cece is ideally suited for stunning women,” I remarked, turning on my charm.

She seemed unsure how to respond, so she just gave a shy smile. I let that hang in the air until Tom chimed in with his cheeky comment, “Yeah, I totally agree.” He had the grin of someone experiencing a not-so-random attraction, and this time, it wasn’t unwarranted because Cece was present.

We both recognized that Cece wanted the spotlight as she began sharing about her job and how busy it was, though she enjoyed it nonetheless. Before long, she was telling us about all the places she had visited. Thankfully, both Tom and I had also been to these places, making us feel like we were on the same wavelength. But that moment was brief. The boss returned, and we shifted to a more collective conversation.

The boss fits the type I admire. In his mid-40s, he leads what seems to be an ideal life. Driving his dream vehicle and sporting a family photo as his screensaver, he is quite the smart guy, even if his accent still lingers. There’s something inherently motivating about these kinds of men.

Tom, on his sixth beer, was starting to speak more freely, and I felt a bit apprehensive. The boss had only consumed two White Caps and was acting, predictably, quite authoritative (I don’t know what gives White Cap its reputation). Nevertheless, he embodied the brand. Something was happening at Eldoret that seemed superior, and the manager wanted to express his gratitude to the journalists, who were now too tipsy to care about anything said. Before he left, we engaged in a refined discussion regarding the evolving nature of business journalism. He was optimistic that things would improve, believing that journalists were becoming less corrupt and more objective. He was confident that with individuals like us, journalism was on an upward trajectory.

He criticized the current generation of journalists for their corruptibility, frequently asking for tips. Then, Ben, a respected name in the industry, approached the boss and asked for a tip outright, without even attempting to mask his request. He completely undermined all of our efforts, causing me to lose respect for him in the process.

Kesses 

We approached the table with confidence. And Mathew  did the most manly thing of 2025; he sent over ten beers, making our table the most notable  at that moment. Sitting opposite me was the previously mentioned slender, light-skinned woman—Wendy . She was wearing a short black dress that was eye-catching. Her ‘I am in charge’ smile was both charming and alluring. Her feet captivated me first; they were slender, unblemished, and hairless. They reminded me of someone from my past. Our eyes met, and it became clear that she appreciated my height, just as I had taken a liking to her, and before the night ended, I intended to get her number.

I settled into my chair while Tom hit the dance floor. We kept sharing knowing and familiar looks. Her boyfriend was present, seemingly as lazy as I was. He noticed my interest in his girlfriend, but he seemed relaxed, almost indifferent. He probably understood that whether he approved or not, she could easily stray. This is what men have diminished into.

He stepped away to use the restroom, and I took the opportunity to approach his girlfriend.

“Give me your number before your boyfriend returns,” I said quickly and in a conspiratorial tone. She snatched my phone and dialled her number, instructing me to call her the next day. I felt a twinge of guilt, but I was old enough not to care too much.

I honored my word. I called her at 5:07 pm on Sunday. She sounded like she was in a busy Matatu somewhere in Kesses; it was quite noisy. She mentioned she had been swimming and promised to return the call.

She didn’t call until the next day. At 9:31 am, she called back, but apparently, she only had KSh 0.87, as she barely greeted me and apologized for not calling sooner.

I called her again, and we arranged to meet for drinks that evening.

So here we were. She arrived with her friend and requested food. A true kenyan- uni girl. Then Gedi, my Nigerian friend, appeared. He noticed the two light-skinned women and became excited. He decided to buy drinks and meals since he was well-off.

On a Monday, one might think it was a celebration of Gedi’s birthday. His attention was fixated on Wendy, and he was sure he was going to score.

Meanwhile, I was with Tracy, both of us completely disinterested in one another. She revealed that she identified as a lesbian, claiming, “It’s been that way since high school.”

We had come to a mutual understanding that nothing would happen between us. She didn't meet my physical expectations, and I didn't meet her financial ones. We were quite distant with each other, only putting up with one another because Gedi, who was footing the bill for our drinks, was getting comfortable with Wendy.

After a number of drinks courtesy of Gedi, we eventually went home, and Tracy was really acting out. Wendy was now upset. She wanted fries and chicken. She got what she desired, and Gedi was very determined. However, Wendy made sure that Gedi’s physical hopes were dashed as they insisted on taking a nduthi home… No, we had to take them home ourselves…

I ran into them last Friday on their way to the drinking hole. Likely to meet someone else. The Duke and the Gedis of this world. And the cycle continues. No one has reached out to anyone else in the meantime. It’s mutual.