I lived in Kampala (or Champara) for three years. The city on seven hills, they call it. For those three years we tried to have fun on a shoe-string budget, as only students can. We crashed some house parties in the highbrow Muyenga area, flirted with pretty Ethiopian hookers on the bubbly Kabalagala strip during the small hours of Saturday mornings as we headed back to the hostels after a night on the tiles. And we lifted heavy weights in some dark and seedy makeshift gym in the squalor area of Nabutiti while Jose the Chameleon and Madox Ssematimba blared from worn speakers overhead, urging us to beef up our scrawny muscles. Sexy memories. But for all its unrelentingly effervescent night life, I found Kampala somewhat uninspiring by day. A bit lukewarm. It didn’t have that throb that Nairobi possesses, that pace. I think you have to have lived in a different city in the region to appreciate our uniqueness. And unique we were. In Uganda I could spot a Kenyan guy a mile away, they were aggressive and cocky. They took what was due to them and quite often what wasn’t. They felt entitled, yes, that’s the word I was looking for; entitled. And they stuck together, spurred by a common ambition to take over, to dominate. Back here in Nairobi there is an unspoken nomenclature of men, a nomenclature defined largely by influence and money. Money, in Nairobi, doesn’t quite snooze, does it? And influence? Well that never often come with money, not necessarily. Larry King in one of his many exit interviews told some New York Times writer, “I will get the best tables in any restaurant in this city that not even the richest men in the land can, that’s influence.” I loved that. We all seek influence in one way or the other. If you want to see the face of influence hang out with a newspaper crime reporter for a day. Very important people pick their calls, from powerful politicians, top cops, right down to a taxi driver in Ongata Rongai. And these guys get results at the snap of a finger. If you are in a bad jam, any jam, they will get you out of it by calling a number. Or numbers. Influence. Enough of that windy intro. This is about us men who live in Nairobi. This is about who we are in the pecking order. This is about our uniqueness and our quest for dominance and money. And how it all defines us. This is also about our limitations us men but better still about our strengths. And this is about sex because, come on, everything in this town is influenced directly or indirectly by sex. Think about it. Introducing the Nairobi man… The Magician Do you ever meet those guys who never seem to do anything in this town but seem to be doing well? Come on, you must know them. I know this guy, let’s call him Mark. Mark lives in Kileleshwa (but then again, everybody seems to live in Kile nowadays, it’s like you get a tax cut when you live there) and he drives a Subaru Imprezza. Every time I run into Mark – mostly, at Java Upper hill – he is usually meeting someone, a laptop humming between them. Mark dresses sharp and talks sharp. Carries two phones, one which is normally a Blackberry. Mark is what you’d call a metro-sexual; scrubbed up good. He says he “runs” this town, like he’s Jay Z or some shit. He’s a subtle braggadocio, dropping names shamelessly, talking about what deal’s he’s about close. Or the million shilling check he’s expecting from a job he did. But the question Mark never answers, and which perhaps is the most important question is; “What do you do for a living Mark?” Thing with guys like Mark is that they are never doing as well as they want to make you believe. Their validation comes from the car they drive, the women they date and where they drink. Life to them is about image, and they wring it dry. And they are very secretive and vague about their lives. Once in a while, Mark (if he feels he knows you well enough) will call you and ask for 5k, payable when “my cheque clears next week.” Give him; he will normally pay you back… when pigs start flying. Mr. Self Made First time in Nairobi was when he joined main campus. Or UoN as it is sweetly abbreviated. He joined because he deserved it, not because his parents were rich enough to force him into that Parallel learning thing that has now cheapened degrees. He joined because he got an A- in high school. Shit. He comes from some little nondescript village, let’s work with, what, Kisii? Mom sold bananas and pineapples to send him school fees. He always knew that only education would give him his breakthrough, and he knows what poverty is. In campus, chicks ignored him, because he didn’t wear Fubu (hey, that was hot in the 90’s) He must have gotten laid about thrice the whole of his university days. Ok, make that twice, the third one doesn’t count, that chick came visiting from Kisii. But as such stories work out lady luck smiled at him; he finishes and lands a job with a multinational. He gets a swanky pad in Lavington. He buys a Prado VX. He starts drinking Heineken. Last week he was in Geneva. Next week he is off to Istanbul; Business Class all the way. If you don’t believe him, check out his pictures in Facebook. He’s balling. He shops at Burtons in Village Market, but although his shoes cost a staggering Ksh 52,000 it doesn’t show. It’s how he wears them. You can’t buy style. He isn’t suave or anything and money hasn’t quite taken away the roughness around the edges. But you can tell he’s knee deep in the cheese. Chicks that used to sneer at him start crawling out of the woodwork. They say they love his goatee. Now they find him funny. Now they describe him as “very interesting.” They now want the man from the small village in Kisii. But he is smart, he knows the score, he knows they are batting for his money and he makes them earn it in exchange for sex. He only dates hot chicks, chics who were created by a different god, a god in a very good mood. He’s one of those guys you will meet at Mercury lounge, a bit unrefined but always running some extremely bewitching woman. And he dates them for a few months, and then he moves on. Money has given him the power of choice. This is the kind of guy who looks in the mirror every morning and staring back at him is a man who is slightly bewildered at his good fortune. Heart of the party I know of a guy with the most brilliant personality. If I had half his personality and brains I wouldn’t be writing this blog, I would be writing for The New York freakin Times. The thing with this guy- and many guys like him in this town – is that he has nailed the art of schmoozing to a pat. He knows how to get his foot through a door, any door. There is nobody he can’t shake down. There is nothing he won’t get if he wants to. He has never paid entrance fee to any shindig in this town. He has positioned himself in such a way that the right people know him. It’s not like he dresses real sharp, or even drives a serious car, no, but when he starts talking you will listen, and then you will remember him. His knowledge of current affairs is on point, his analysis of things is erudite but chatty and he is funny. This kind of guy is also very dysfunctional; parties hard, hardly ever holds a job for long and doesn’t care for a three year plan. What three year
plan? He is not attached to anything in this world, he will change house on a whim, he will sell his phone if he has to, he will change jobs without notice. He’s a man constantly in motion, and he doesn’t know what inertia is. And you should see him turn women into putty; he looks into their eyes like they are the only two people in the room, he remembers their names and even the name of their pets, and he always tells them they look gorgeous even if it’s obvious that they aren’t. But he gets bored of them very quickly especially when they start asking, “So who is Julie and don’t you think that hug went on for a little too long?” These guys mostly are broke because they live their lives for the moment, but you won’t mind buying them a drink when you meet them because they are tons of fun. Joe Hustler Do you want 1000 bags of cement by tomorrow afternoon at 20% discount? No seriously, do you? No? Ok, do you want 38 top of the range blackberries at almost half the price? Don’t ask where they are from, do you want or not? Sawa, what about an acre of land in Juja at Ksh 1.1mil, nice location? You know that the city is spreading out, no? Do you want four Russian pole dancers for your bachelor party? Those are the questions that this guy deals with everyday. Nakumat stole their slogan from him; you need it, Joe’s got it. He doesn’t have an 8-5 job, oh no, that’s for dorks. He’s not a big wheeler deeler, but he wheels and deals. He folds his sleeves and he isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He will meet you at The Crowne Hotel if you want, but he also won’t hesitate to meet you in some dingy spoon of Mfangano Street. Money is the denominator that matters in his life. He talks fast, and thinks even faster. Joe Hustler is a real hustler; forget those blue eyed boys who run around Nairobi selling computers bragging that they are hustlers. He might be living in South B, or C. He drives a simple Toyota, maybe a Premio. Joe practically lives in that car. He operates three phones, all old and battered. This Joe guy doesn’t have a lot of time for women, romance isn’t something he takes too seriously, so you won’t hear him asking you, “So, which the best restaurant I can take this chick I met for dinner?” No, that’s a question Mr. Self Made would ask. Mr. Silver Spoon This is the kind of guy who was born privileged. He doesn’t know where Tom Mboya Street is. The one time he was in town center was in 2004 and that’s only because he was chasing a very hot girl from the “wrong side of the tracks” and she wanted him to pick her up in town at 10pm. You should have seen him, he thought he would get shot in town and his dad’s Jaguar jacked. Hehehe. He thought Kimathi Street was so damned dangerous, like it was downtown Mogadishu or something. He went to Ivy League schools before being shipped out to some University abroad which didn’t help him much academically because all he came back was an accent and an addiction to booze and hedonism. This guy constantly talks about his father. He talks about their businesses. He lives in one of his father’s apartments, rent free. He doesn’t know how much fuel is, hell he can’t imagine people actually make a fuss when fuel goes up by a shilling! He has never worn mitumba in his life. What is that? He doesn’t work, okay, he does but in the family business where he shows face when he isn’t hangied, which is hardly ever. He changes cars every year. This is the kind of guy who is so insulated from the realities of life and of living in this town, a utopian existence which sometimes you can’t help admiring, albeit fleetingly. Small-time hood This is the most annoying guy. Annoying because he’s not who he says he is, who he projects to be. When you have put together his salary and his side hustle he doesn’t pull more than 100k a month, but he lives like he pulls 350k. He drives a car he can’t really afford, perhaps a used Subaru Forester (the loan is literally killing him), he lives in Kileleshwa (hehehe), he used to drink Tusker but he switched, now he drinks Sierra beer not because he loves the taste but because of it’s status, plus he loves its TV ads. This guy is defined by who he knows and what he did over the weekend. He will borrow money to seduce a woman, and he seems to pick the ones who are impressed by glitz and lights; the ones who are also in shameless pursuit of affluence. He never misses Blankets and Wine or Concur De elegance*, always pitching up in his huge-ass shades, white linen pants, 8k loafers and sometimes this is the kind of guy who will be hanging on to a leash which at the end of it trots a white designer dog. Poor dog. He will update his Facebook with cheesy words like, “Just got off the phone with Fidel Odinga, the plan for the weekend is so on!” Of course he’s lying; Fidel doesn’t know his ass from Adam. But you should see the 100 or so chicks breathlessly comment on that update, “Can I come?! Can I come?!” You can tell this guy’s level of vanity when you visit his Facebook photos which are updated almost daily with pictures of where he was and with who. This guy has more pictures on his Facebook than most campus girls do. He updates his profile at least four times a day – that number goes up over the weekend. He doesn’t like twitter very much because twitter limits his word count. This guy’s friendship is defined by how good you can make him look in terms of status, so that means he will throw you under the bus at the drop of a hat. If you want to know how it feels like to keep a hyena as a pet, befriend this guy. *** My word count on this post has run out, so I will anchor it. But let me say one thing. Being a man in this city is daunting. It’s a great a challenge and to stay afloat you have to do what you have to do. You do what floats your boat and anybody who finds a problem can suck your toe. It’s the defining maxim because people will always judge you, even if you are doing the right thing, so eff it and do what makes you happy. Life is short. But still our destinies, as men, in this town is shared, and all the guys above are chasing what they have to; fame, affluence, sex, love, approval because it makes them feel complete at the end of the day, even if it also makes them look pathetic and sorry. Ps. I’m looking for a buyer for my car. It’s 1995 Toyota Corona, you know the ones with a huge ass? She’s old, a KAN but she has kept herself well; alloy rims, music system, speakers and the works. She’s 1800cc. an ST190 engine. She smells good. She is white. I mean, in color not race. She’s been very good to me and if you treat her right she will be good to you too. I’m letting her go for Ksh 345k. She’s called Juanita, but you can call her whatever you want to call her when you buy her. If interested or know anyone who is, flip me an email: [email protected]