Life lessons from Githurai.

You know how your mother always told you not to go to strange men’s houses?  She was right.  Do not go to a strange man’s house for lunch.  Ever.  Said man may have a room full of women’s clothing, and accessories, clothing he makes his women wear on a night out, because he likes his women to look a particular way.  Now understand, I make no objection to a man providing his woman with a selection of high street fashion, but when said man is providing what appear to be whore outfits to a bevy of females, well then, I have some reservations.  Who does that?  Gentlemen, is this a thing, outfitting your girls in skimpy, underwear-revealing dresses, and stripper pumps, and stockings?  How?  Why?

You buggers need to stop laughing, this here is a true story.

when we...
should we say...
lemme see your hands up baby...
hii ni remix sawa
kwa mamanzi sawa

Slight detour, my life is a tragic comedy.  Further detour, this post was inspired by The Spinster, she who’s returned after too many months away, and is dedicated to OGAO (hello madam), whom I owe a good tale (I owe her more than I owe the rest of you, she's nicer to me, and she derives great pleasure from my troubles, perhaps too much?).  Detour over.

I met this man at the almost local, the karaoke bar, at the counter, where all the self respecting drunkards sit.  He was, I thought, a pal of a pal, and thus he became my pal.  We got to talking, hit it off somewhat, and before I knew it, he was my ‘karaoke husband’, twice a month, on Thursday.  Hang on, it occurs to me that you could use that information to stalk me, but you won’t, because you’re not batshit insane, right?  Right?  Shit.  Please don’t stalk me…  Now this ‘husband’ of mine is a ‘bar pal’, not someone I planned on ever meeting outside the dark (and slightly dingy) confines of that fine establishment.  It’s not that I wouldn’t have wanted to meet him outside the bar, it’s just that I know better than to try.

Lesson Number One: Friends made in the bar are only friends IN the bar.

See, most of these so called friendships we make at the local are seldom substantial, more often it’s a relationship based on one’s ability to imbibe copious quantities of alcohol, or one’s ability to share copious quantities by way of purchase, or one’s ability to conversate while doing either, or both.  It's beer goggle friendship, in my experience, made greater by the spirits, but ultimately an illusion.  These are not the people you’ll call when your mother dies and you need to raise money to take her home to Nyandarua, or when your business is crumbling and you need to raise a loose million overnight, these are the people you call when you have a spare ticket for a ragga concert (not reggae, reggae you share with your mother-resting people, no?).

Thing is, after almost two years of ‘friendship’, you kinda become friends, no?  We did, kinda.  Not so close that I was confessing my deepest darkest, but close enough that I was privy to the details of his last date.  Ah yes, I was also his confessor.  Another lesson I’m learning, don’t let men tell you their problems in the bar, they never stop, even outside the bar.  Woi…  Moving right along.  The man would sit there and rant about whatever was up his ass on that particular night, and I’d listen, happy to let him talk, often enjoying his misguided tales.  Then, as tends to happen with these things, it came to pass that we exchanged numbers, and with that we entered a new realm in our relationship, we became text buddies.

Lesson Number Two: Don’t give out your number unless your phone has a blocking thingi that allows you to ignore a mother.  Mother here refers to both your mother and that mother… who needs to stop texting your ass.  Gentlemen, a free tip, if a woman wants to talk to you, she calls. If she texts, she don’t wanna talk to you.  Unless she’s cheap, in which case she will never call you.  (That’s to cover my ass, because I never call.  Ahem.)

This man can text.  Lengthy texts.  With smileys cum emojis and shit.  Many smileys.  Kendo three in a row.  Now, I don’t particularly like smileys, I see their usefulness, but I can’t say I care too much for them.  Doesn’t help that I only know two smileys, happy and unhappy.  This man has a smiley for every occasion, I think he even has one with what looks like an umbrella.  Have I digressed?  I have.  So the man took to texting me, condensing his day into chatty little messages, breakfast, lunch, football, bar, and back around again.  Did I mention the man is retired?  No?  He is.  He’s blissfully unencumbered by the daily demands of earning a living, lucky bastard.  Which in turn means he has time to cook lunch for his many ‘friends’ (euphemism for random women), any time he damn well pleases, and he pleases to quite often.  After reading way too many lunch texts, I asked him why he hadn’t offered to cook for me. (I know, foolish.) He then offered to cook for me.  (Walked right into that one.)  I had to accept the offer, no?  No.  I should have followed my gut and said, ‘Hell no, you strange texting wierdo!’

Lesson Number Three: Listen to your gut.  That queasy feeling you get when you look at a suspect piece of fish is a warning, don’t eat it.  Wait, that’s a different story, but it applies here, no?  Perhaps not.

And that is how I found myself in a strange man’s house on a Saturday afternoon, staring at pictures of way too many women in various states of undress, and listening to his tales about the women, and the clothes they were wearing.  That’s right, he’s been providing women with clothing for many, many years.  And he has proof.  Walalalalalalala…  For the first 30 minutes, I was working out my escape plan, because a man with pictures of random, yet seemingly identical, women scattered all over his flat is not a man I feel comfortable around, and this was before he told me about the clothes.  I know I joke about men making like Lecter and eating my ass, but this guy had me scared, for real.  I was trying to work out if anyone knew where I was, in case I never made it home.  At one point I considered calling the mother (my mother, not the mother…).

Lesson Number Four: If you’re going to a strange bugger’s house, tell someone, and give them directions too, in case they need to bring the po-lice.  The only people I told about this plan were my penpal Blue and the pal who introduced me to this pal (he now denies any involvement, useless…).

There I am, in a strange house, surrounded by pictures of young women in as little clothing as possible, with a man who talks lovingly, way too lovingly, about the clothes he makes them wear, and I have an epiphany.  The man is insane.  Not mad, not delusional, batshit insane.  My friend, there are bodies buried in his garden, bodies of women who refused to wear the lycra mini dresses he is so fond of, or perhaps women who questioned his taste in shoes (not that bad, surprisingly).  On the up side, the man cooks, so…

Lesson number Five: Life really is too short for this bullshit. No really, it is.

Dear batshit insane men, please stop talking to me. I promise to stop talking to you from now on, and I will never listen to your tales of woe if you promise to never, ever buy me a drink.  No more drinks from chatty men at the counter.  Ever.  That’s how I end up sitting next to a framed picture of a lingerie clad Pamela Anderson, the only woman whose clothes, or therein lack of, he did not procure, because he's never met her, yet he has her picture sitting there like she's family.  And we were in bloody Githurai.  

In the words of a great poet, whose name I don't recall, fuck my life.

Which brings me to today's track, the timeless 'Wasee (Githurai) Remix' by Mr Googs, Vinny Banton and Mr Lenny.  

whose got the biggest appetite for Kenyan ladies
when them move a thong
wakijua them wearing tighties
when them move a short silky skirt with no high heels...

These Githurai fellas are a little kinky, no?  Yes, I realise it gives away my age, but come on, no one in their 30's hears Githurai and doesn’t think of this song, it's like their national anthem.  The lyrics are no good, but dammit if it wasn’t the funkiest thing out of Ogopa at the time.  After E-Sir.  And Historians.  And a couple of others, but it was definitely top 10 funky, shallow, but funky.

na wasee tumetoka Githurai
tumekam kukupa rhymes zingine dry-y
tuki-fry whack MCs ka mayai kwa kara-ai
ikiwa zimeshika sema my!

Lakini these lyrics (courtesy of Ghafla) are suspect...