The dating game in Nairobi is a beast. The kind that looks alluring and calls you to it by laying out all the goodies you dreamed of as a child. It promises that you’ll find that person that all the books, movies and daydreams were written about. Then when you bite, it turns into a grotesque, armpit smelling, shit throwing, hunchbacked, hairy beast that makes you jump through ridiculous, unfair hoops as it laughs in your face for the amount of naivety you hold. But, no matter how many times we fall, we keep at it. We wipe our eyes, hit the gym and create a new profile bearing our new selves.
It was while I was at it, that the beast brought a particular Man Child into my radar whom I later invited to mine after his hunting skills won me over. He had been insistent on this invitation and though he didn’t add the infamous ‘so you can cook for me’ statement (an entitlement I find with most Nairobian men after two coffee dates) it left me wondering why.
Far from hoping to get some, I think he wanted to check out the area and see what kind it was. If I lived in the kind of neighbourhood he could park his car and not have it or pieces of it gone missing in seconds. Or, and I suspect that this was most likely, to see and judge for himself that, despite my say so, there was no evidence of other male presence in my house. Like large house slippers that could not possibly be mine, or cases of Guinness in the fridge, or a suspicious unladylike looking deodorant in the bathroom. Whatever the case, I liked him enough to come and lay stake. And because he didn’t ask for it, I cooked.
On the day of his imminent arrival, he called to ask what he should come with. Now on the one side, it was good he knew not to show up empty-handed, that spoke a great deal to his upbringing, his mama did well. Thank you, mama.
On the other side, he was leaving the decision to me. What the f*** was I to say? “Ah let me get my shopping list… ok, grab some Omo, vim, 10 pack tissue, make sure it’s Velvex, three-ply, oh and it looks like I ran out of tampons, so get me Kotex, the regular size, do not get that wrong.”
The question felt heavy, it injected a large dose of awkwardness that I would have liked to go without since my nerves so far were on high alert knowing he was about to see where and how I lived. I had thoroughly cleaned, scrubbed, tidied for the umpteenth time that morning (yes yes yes… I liked him) so I blurted “get some lime.”
I don’t know why (since I had asked), but I was surprised when I opened the door and there he stood with nothing else but a bag of lime and the self-assured glaze of manhood that weakens my knees on sight (deep breath). This man either lacked creativity or took things literally, but because he was prompt (and I like a man who respects time), I decided to pack that fact and dissect it later when summing up his character. I wanted to show him the result of my overworked morning by giving him a tour around the house.
In every corner of the house, I grinned at the gleaming surfaces, the meticulous arrangement of my stuff, the ostentatious display of my Gin dominated bar, and I followed it up with detailed descriptions, “that’s where eating of food happens, in there is where I sleep to dream of you, here is where peeing is done” but all I got was a nod and a smile.
My knuckles, by that time, were bleeding raw so I wanted glee and admiration, pots banging, possibly a shower of confetti or even a simple show of gratitude for not walking into a sty but I think I was asking too much from a man who came with only a bag of lime. So I gave myself a pat on the back, knowing my mother and high school matron would have been proud. And led the ungrateful brute to the seat.
Another fact to dissect.
Whenever I’m a guest and the host extends an offer for refreshments, as a courtesy I make it a point to ask what they have first. I wouldn’t want to ask for a glass of Château d’Yquem when what they wanted to offer was a box of orange juice (and because if they did oblige me with a glass of red, I wouldn’t have known what side of France it came from).
So to avoid further awkwardness with Man child, I listed his options, water, water with lime (that he brought), Gin, Gin with slices of lime (I had so much of this lime it begged to be used), mala, coffee (I would have been tempted to squeeze some lime in that).
He contemplated for a hard minute then asked for tea, black tea to be precise.
Say what!!!!!!!!!!!
My mind was racing at that for many reasons, among them was,
- Tea was not in my list of options
- For all the days leading to, he had never once mentioned he drinks tea.
I began to wonder if this guy was testing me or if he was nervous at being here. I decided to go with the latter, an easier option since I was quickly getting drunk at the sight of seeing him seated, legs sprawled showing off his runner’s things and oozing testosterone.
Bloody hell though, tea???? So I got my phone and got onto Glovo
“What you doing?”
“I’m placing an order”
“For?”
“Teabags”
Perplexed “Don’t you have any?”
Calling onto my spiritual sisters of peace, sat next to him, tried not to drown in his beautiful black eyes and explained the fine detail of living single and how it does not call for us to stock things we don’t use. I also threw in a polite suggestion that perhaps next time, he should come with some, you know, together with the lime.
Samburu Girl 