Thank you all for indulging me last week as I ruminated, some would say endlessly, on matters not relationship/sex/dating. For your generosity of spirit, and time, I shall now reward you with a suitably foolish tale of (almost) lust and (not great) misfortune. Yes folks, I bring you yet another foolish tale of foolish men.
Last Thursday night, tired and frustrated with work, I dragged myself down to the local for a drink, or four, with Mkubwa, proprietor extraordinaire of said lovely establishment. I trudged into the bar at around 10.00 pm to find it half full, with a few groups clustered around several tables and the odd couple here and there, trying to get romantic(?) despite the blaring music. Mkubwa was in the back, finishing up paperwork or something such like, so I happily plonked myself at the counter to wait, catching up with the barman in the process. There I am, sitting at the counter, empty seats on either side of me, a group of three to my far left (two guys and a girl) and a pilsner bottle to my right. Yes, a bottle, half empty (or half full if you’re an optimistic drunk), owner of said bottle nowhere in sight, but somewhere on the premises the barman tells me.
Last Thursday night, tired and frustrated with work, I dragged myself down to the local for a drink, or four, with Mkubwa, proprietor extraordinaire of said lovely establishment. I trudged into the bar at around 10.00 pm to find it half full, with a few groups clustered around several tables and the odd couple here and there, trying to get romantic(?) despite the blaring music. Mkubwa was in the back, finishing up paperwork or something such like, so I happily plonked myself at the counter to wait, catching up with the barman in the process. There I am, sitting at the counter, empty seats on either side of me, a group of three to my far left (two guys and a girl) and a pilsner bottle to my right. Yes, a bottle, half empty (or half full if you’re an optimistic drunk), owner of said bottle nowhere in sight, but somewhere on the premises the barman tells me.
In due course, the bottle owner shows up to top up his glass, this as he shouts over my head to one of the jamaas in the far left group, who then shouts back and a conversation ensues, over my head. Now I’m slow, but I’m not that slow. In theory, a man shouting over your head is the cue to look up, smile fetchingly and invite him to include you in said conversation, no? Thing is, I was tired and not particularly interested in talking to a stranger, definitely not a loud stranger, so I kept my head down and lengad. After a minute or two the overhead conversation ended and bottle owner wandered off, bottle left on the counter, again. A couple of minutes later, bottle owner returns, tops up his drink again, this time shouting to his pal sitting at a nearby table. He moves off to join this guy and his girl, but only for a couple of minutes and then he’s back beside me, and this time he sits down and proceeds to stare, either at me or at the barman who is busy making a fancy cocktail, all shaking this and pouring that. The reason I’m not sure is we were both in his line of sight, and these days you assume nothing, no?
Drink complete and dispatched, I start asking the barman questions. What was that you were making? What’s the blue stuff? And that stuff in the odd looking bottle with no label? He gives me said bottle to inspect, and sniff, bottle owner sees a gap, and quickly pounces. “What’s that?” he asks me, and I hold out the bottle to him so he can read the tiny label on the neck of the bottle. “Is this what you’re having?” he asks, glancing down at my glass. My drink was amber coloured, stuff in bottle is clear. For a second, I contemplate a smartass reply. “No,” I reply, “I don’t trust anything that has a label I can’t read.” “Ha ha ha!” he laughs, “Kweli. Inakaa cham hiyo drinks…”
Eh? Hiyo drinks? Really? Sweet Jesus !
I smiled briefly at his cham line and turned away, having written him off as an unserious individual. (What? There’s a time and place for ‘hiyo drinks’ type geniuses, but that wasn’t one of them, trust me.) Cue silence. A few minutes later he laughs and says to me, “You should just go the barber and tell him to cut it all off.” “What?” I ask, confused, his sudden words dragging me away out of my reverie. “Instead of trying to pull it out,” he points at my hand tangled in my hair, “just go the barber and tell him to cut it all off. It will be faster and less painful.” I laughed, a real laugh, pleasantly surprised. He continued, “just go the barber, sit down like this,” he turns and sits up straight, facing the counter, “look at him like this,” he says, stern but comical look on his face, “tell him, ‘Boss!’” he turns to me and smiles cheekily, then turns back and puts sura ya kazi back on, “Say it again, ‘Boss!’, you have to say it twice so he knows you’re serious…” Laughing, I ask, “Twice?” “Always twice…” he replied, laughing as well.
And so began a half hour or so of easy conversation spanning Christianity and atheism, ‘his boys’, men with no balls, bar fights, the guy on the adjacent table who was really struggling with the girl he was trying to confuse (poor bastard was going down like a lead pipe in a shallow pond, only faster). It was a rambling conversation, sometimes funny, with flashes of clever, but for the most part vague. As we were talking, he made a couple of references to campus, so I asked what he does and he ducked. Later he said something about being younger than the rest of his crowd and I asked how old he was. He ducked again. I looked at him for a couple of seconds and realised I didn’t really have the energy, or the interest, to push the issue. The conversation went on a bit longer, until Mkubwa finally pitched up to put me out of my (not so great) misery, bottle owner looking him up and down as if to ask, ‘Is this it?’, an incident that would be irrelevant save for the fact that Mkubwa is so named because he is not a small man, and bottle guy was, if only by comparison, a small man. Feigning nonchalance, he mumbled something along the lines of, “I saw him here earlier, does he work here?” to which I replied, “You could say that.” I figured there was no sense bursting his bubble and all.
As Mkubwa was pulling a stool to join us, he paused to greet the guy who’d, a few minutes earlier, taken the empty seat to my left, yet another pal of bottle owner. Turned out, Mkubwa knew this dude pretty well and they began chatting, and then we began chatting, new dude and I. Listen closely, this is where it gets interesting. New dude had struck me as a bit of an odd duck sitting there quietly by himself, when he first sat down all he did was say a quick wassup to bottle guy and then proceeded to do internet stuff on his phone (Galaxy S yawa! But do I say...), so of course I’m curious, what’s his story? Talking to him, he immediately impressed me by not bullshitting my ass. In the five minutes we spoke, he told me his name, his profession as well (accompanied by a business card), his age, then his current relationship status (baby mama drama, not good) and his preference in TV series, just in case I was wondering. And be knowing, he’s taking my info as well, in that same 5 minutes. This bugger was a bloody professional, a serial funga-rer if ever I met one. I almost gave him a standing ovation, is how smooth he was. If it wasn’t for Mkubwa’s presence, I suspect I would have been derailed by new dude, quick fast and in a hurry, and not just because he was (acting like) the shit (flash bastard), but also out of sheer relief. Finally, a man who knew what exactly he wanted and wasn’t beating around the bush trying to get it. It was bloody brilliant!
As Mkubwa was pulling a stool to join us, he paused to greet the guy who’d, a few minutes earlier, taken the empty seat to my left, yet another pal of bottle owner. Turned out, Mkubwa knew this dude pretty well and they began chatting, and then we began chatting, new dude and I. Listen closely, this is where it gets interesting. New dude had struck me as a bit of an odd duck sitting there quietly by himself, when he first sat down all he did was say a quick wassup to bottle guy and then proceeded to do internet stuff on his phone (Galaxy S yawa! But do I say...), so of course I’m curious, what’s his story? Talking to him, he immediately impressed me by not bullshitting my ass. In the five minutes we spoke, he told me his name, his profession as well (accompanied by a business card), his age, then his current relationship status (baby mama drama, not good) and his preference in TV series, just in case I was wondering. And be knowing, he’s taking my info as well, in that same 5 minutes. This bugger was a bloody professional, a serial funga-rer if ever I met one. I almost gave him a standing ovation, is how smooth he was. If it wasn’t for Mkubwa’s presence, I suspect I would have been derailed by new dude, quick fast and in a hurry, and not just because he was (acting like) the shit (flash bastard), but also out of sheer relief. Finally, a man who knew what exactly he wanted and wasn’t beating around the bush trying to get it. It was bloody brilliant!
Which brings me to the point of this long winded saga. Gentlemen, if you meet a woman at a bar, at the counter no less; and she looks like a mama, as in not spring chicken, as in is fully clothed, with a ka-fulana to boot; and she’s drinking yellow shit that comes from a green bottle, and its not beer; and she knows the barman, by name; gentlemen, you might need to rethink your game plan. This is not the mama you want to impress with how many beers you can drink or how many bar fights you’ve won. She will not be impressed by your mastery of the hustle and implied street cred that comes with it. And she will definitely not be impressed by your silly attempts at being mysterious. Gents, the only men who hide their age and/or careers, are boys, and boys aren’t allowed to sit at the counter, or at least they shouldn’t be. Thing is, by the time a mama is sitting up at a counter by herself in her local, she’s earned her stripes, so if nothing else, please, don’t hit on her like she’s a campus student looking for a free sambuca, not unless you’re looking to get bitch slapped. Useless idiot being coy and shit, what the fuck? Next thing you know an idiot will be asking me to hold his purse when he goes for a tinkle.
As you have no doubt picked up by now, I’m slightly bothered by this nonsense.
As you have no doubt picked up by now, I’m slightly bothered by this nonsense.
Gentlemen, I understand that sometimes, actually most times, it’s hard to approach a woman, half the time you’re wondering what the hell to say to not look like an idiot, the rest of the time you’re worried she’ll think your dick is too small, literally or metaphorically. Relax, we’re just as worried as you are. As you’re fumbling with your lines, she’s fumbling in her head, debating whether she looks good enough, should she come on to you or will you think her too forward, should she have another drink or will you think she’s a bit of a lush, when was the last time she shaved her legs, and other. She’s freaking out too, is all I’m saying, so your job is simply to put her at ease. That’s it. Really. Make her laugh, flirt a little, or a lot (if you’re sure you can back it up), tell her a bit about yourself, then ask her about herself, and then tell her more, and ask her more… Most important thing, though, is to lay your cards on the table, up front. I guarantee you, the mama will be suitably impressed (or repulsed, but at least you won’t have wasted precious time and money trying to seduce her ass, no?). Then before you know it, it’s one in the morning, you're having the conversation and she’s giving you the look. No, not the ‘lakini, you’re a bit smelly’ look, the other one, the ‘I want to lick whipped cream off your chest’ look.
Why are you staring at me blankly? You don’t know the look? You just shook your head, didn’t you? Okay then, for the clueless ones amongst us, and that might include me, if this blog is anything to go by (that’s my disclaimer by the way), let me make it even simpler for you.
Gentlemen, if at no point does she touch you; no fingers brushing yours, or a light touch on the shoulder, or a warm sweaty palm on your thigh, sorry, I mean arm, a palm on your arm; if there is absolutely no contact, then she is not feeling you, at all. Really. If she doesn’t try to grab you within an hour of flashing her with your big smile, or wallet, then she’s either too sober, or you’re not what she’s looking for. Stop wasting your time and go try your luck elsewhere, with any luck it will be late enough that you won’t have to work too hard to funga a desperate one at that hour, no? Don’t look so offended, it’s true, any mama picked up after 2 in the morning can only be looking for one thing and one thing only, and it’s not your (not) brilliant mind. Good news is, if she does violate your personal space, say a quick prayer of thanks to your gods for their kind mercies my friend, because that means she wants to violate you. Play your cards right and that mama might even funga your ass. That’s much more fun, right? Cheaper too.
Why are you staring at me blankly? You don’t know the look? You just shook your head, didn’t you? Okay then, for the clueless ones amongst us, and that might include me, if this blog is anything to go by (that’s my disclaimer by the way), let me make it even simpler for you.
Gentlemen, if at no point does she touch you; no fingers brushing yours, or a light touch on the shoulder, or a warm sweaty palm on your thigh, sorry, I mean arm, a palm on your arm; if there is absolutely no contact, then she is not feeling you, at all. Really. If she doesn’t try to grab you within an hour of flashing her with your big smile, or wallet, then she’s either too sober, or you’re not what she’s looking for. Stop wasting your time and go try your luck elsewhere, with any luck it will be late enough that you won’t have to work too hard to funga a desperate one at that hour, no? Don’t look so offended, it’s true, any mama picked up after 2 in the morning can only be looking for one thing and one thing only, and it’s not your (not) brilliant mind. Good news is, if she does violate your personal space, say a quick prayer of thanks to your gods for their kind mercies my friend, because that means she wants to violate you. Play your cards right and that mama might even funga your ass. That’s much more fun, right? Cheaper too.
