But You’re Married

Embed from Getty Images

How easy is it for a man to run away from sex? Let me rephrase, how easy is it for a married man to run away from illicit sex? Here’s some perspective; if there was a race and sex was a crawling toddler and you were Usain Bolt, you would not win that competition.  So how do the men who run away from sex do it? They don’t show up for the race.  Why show up if you know you’re gonna loose? Then again there are daredevils among us who like a good challenge. All the best with that.

It’s fun being married though. The attention is amazing. Some of my pals call it joining the Lord of the Rings. You’re like Frodo Baggins, and everyone is trying to get a piece of you.  And all you’re trying to do is get through this married life. It’s an adventure.  Very much like the J.R.R Tolkein tale. (Some people think it’s just a movie. Sigh)

I know many who have fallen in the course of this adventure. Most have come out alive, some haven’t made it. But that’s just life I guess. I and my Frodo-ness have not been left behind in this adventure.

On this adventure there’s sex everywhere. Especially on Instagram. That devilish invention. Just the other day I was scrolling through my timeline, looking at short clips of wonderful rugby world cup tries, obnoxious selfies and hilarious memes when I come across a picture of a girl. Ok, not a girl, mainly her perfectly rounded behind. It looked like it was sculpted by a kamba soapstone carver.  And they were symmetrical spheres too. One not any bigger than the other. They protruded gently from her small back and without bias to any geometric degree they curved outwards with confidence. As if  to say, we are here. Two halves of the same whole. We are ass. And a beautiful ass it was. The bearer clothing it in black faux leather pants.  The caption though, through me off. This ass bearer had quoted a bible verse right at the bottom. At the bottom of the picture of her bottom.

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me #OOTD #HatersgonHate #WhatMyMamaGaveMe #AmBlessed #BlessedDay 

At this point I was confused. My mind was conflicted. My thighs hurt too because quite frankly I had been sitting on the toilet seat for too long. I got up feebly, completed my final rites and exited the bathroom. I hobbled into the sitting room and the missus gave me a look that said ‘He’s probably walking weird because he had to hover over the toilet bowl since he hasn’t fixed the toilet seat yet. Serves him right.’

I interpreted that look to mean that I couldn’t stay in the house doing my Dedan Kimathi thing and lie on the couch arms across chest. That despite the hangover gnawing at my head. I had come in late the previous night after hanging with work colleagues. Silent treatment had followed me and staying in the house was untenable. I quickly put on my takkies, and mumbled something about meeting the boys to discuss that plot in Isinya. She waved me off like a fly at a meal table.

I did meet up with the boys. But not to talk about that plot in Isinya. It was about last night. Debriefing they called it. Of course the loudest of the boys started before I could take a seat.

Ehe. You guy. How did it go with that mama? She had thighs for world cup you guy.

I could barely keep my head intact as I ordered a Fanta blackcurrant. Why is there always that one guy who can drink like sponge and be perfectly active and energetic the next day?

You guy. Nothing happened. I even deleted the number. I replied

Aii. Ati nothing. The way she was all over you like a scandal on a politician.

Haha. They all laughed.

I didn’t . My head hurt. But it remembered the previous night and how it went down.

This beauty had sat across us at the opposite end of the square shaped bar. Peering into her phone like it gave her life.  The glare from her handset illuminating her face like a spotlight at a theater. She was the main act. I was the audience. Once in a while she would glance away from her phone to twirl her hair between two manicured fingers, sip her mojito and look at me from the corner of her eye. I’d look back and she’d shift her gaze back to her phone as she chewed gum like a masticating goat. We played this game as the club grew fuller and the music louder.

My pals all said she was looking at me. Even the barman agreed. I thought they were drunk.

As the night wore on, it just so happened they were right.  Or I started to believe them. I’m not sure which. Her friend joined her. After girly giggles and pointing they came to our end of the bar.

Heeey.  You guys look cool. Can we join you?

Of course. I mumbled. Subconsciously straightening my shirt.

Soon we were having a jolly good time. Swaying to the music and telling bad jokes. She was swaying, I was telling the bad jokes. She’d slap my arm playfully and say how funny I was.She wasn’t staring into her phone any more. I had her attention. We talked. We danced. Some dances a tad too naughty.

Her pal asks her, what’s going on. We look too cosy together. Then she utters those words in response.

Aiii. Si, we’re just having fun. Besides, he’s married.

And just like that I sobered up briefly. She had flirted with me, and danced like that in that short white dress and now she throws that phrase out. She must have thought it was safe to mess around with me. She didn’t have to worry about me following her home. About me asking for her number and inundating her with countless Whatsapp messages asking for her nudes.

I looked within me and knew I was not going to win that race.

And so as we left the club, each seeking their Uber driver as we parted ways.A lingering hug at the entrance of the club and a whisper of ‘We should do this again some time’

I got into my uber taxi and closed the door.

Get me home driver. I said this as I deleted the number of the white dressed seductress. Against the wishes of the ‘man’ in me and my now blue balls.


You Can’t Handle The Truth

Embed from Getty Images

So I haven’t written much lately. I’m going through a phase. Work doesn’t seem to make sense any more, and I’m bored out of my mind. Considering I spend a good percentage of time at work, that’s trickled into my life; and my writing. Everything gets me riled up. Even simple things. Like why is the mouse cursor on the screen an arrow pointed slightly to the left? Why? Why not the right? Or in a vertical position? See what I mean?

I have a demanding job. Very high pressure, with tight deadlines and shifting goals. It’s as amazing as licking a cheese grater. (Please don’t try lick a cheese grater). Maybe the pressure is getting to me or maybe it’s mid career crisis or it’s my A.D.D. kicking in. I have the attention span of a child goldfish.

So today, as if I didn’t have enough pressure in my calabash, I get summoned to court. No, I didn’t commit any crime. Not yet at least. I went to court on behalf of my employer. As an expert witness for my employer in a long running fraud case. I mean this case has been going on so long, there have been two presidents in Kenya and 651 corruption cases since it began. In that time Donald Trump has gone from billionaire, to reality TV show celebrity, to vilified politician, to maybe loved politician, to ‘how-did-this-guy-get-the-nomination?’. I think you get the point.

Now, I’m a lover of court room dramas, movies and books. Legal dramatization enthralls me. This was the first time I was attending court as a witness. An expert witness no less. I was going to take the stand and undergo cross examination. To the uninitiated, that’s when the other lawyer, who’s not your lawyer, asks you questions. Not me analyzing the fine details of a crucifix.

All the courtroom drama scenes played in my head as I headed to the court house. In the cab on the way to Milimani Courts I went through my witness statement. I practiced my expert witness face, and voice. I asked the cab driver if I looked like a serious witness, even though I didn’t’ have a tie on.

Mkubwa, wewe unakaa wakili. Ata nilifikiri unaenda interview ya Chief Justice

We both laughed.

Maybe it was sarcasm on his part, but you’ve got to love cab drivers and their ability to make you feel good.

I got to the court house and met up with my lawyer. We’d just talked via phone and email but had never met. He looked very lawyer like. Designer spectacles, custom fit suit with tonnes of luo-ness oozing from every perceivable pore. He had that academic smirk too to crown the look. He was the master, I was too do as he said.

We had a walking meeting. Like in the movies. He briefed me on the case as we walked along the corridors of justice. The actual corridors of justice. Literally. I nodded and tried to match my step to his as he mentioned words like ‘witness statements’, ‘evidence’ and ‘jurisprudence’. We walked. I nodded. And walked.

The court room looked like a cross between an Ally McBeal set and Vioja Mahakamani. Modern, but with large, manila file, sisal bound court documents on the court clerk’s table. The defendants and their lawyer were present already. I was nervous. My lawyer told me to relax and explained what would happen. I’d be called to the witness stand. Which is a stand. There’s no seat like in the movies. Maybe the seats are for American courts. No wonder they have an obesity problem. The clerk and judge were yet to appear. So I sat on the hard wooden bench and waited. Those benches reminded me of my grand father’s church in Seme. I could almost hear those high pitched, off key old women singing Tukutendereza. 

All of a sudden everyone stood up. The judge, Her Majesty, had entered the court. This was really happening. We sat down and my lawyer cleared his throat and spoke.

If it would please the court, I would like to present our first witness to this case.

 The pressure. What if the court was not pleased? I started to choke as I headed to the witness booth. This was my moment. Expert witness. I better not mess this one up. There’s too much at stake. If I say the wrong thing, or contradict my witness statement, the organization I’m representing could lose money and I’d be a failure. I didn’t need this pressure.

The court clerk came up to me and asked me which religious book I’d like to swear on. I forgot my religion.

Bible? , he asked

Yeah. Sure. I responded.

Repeat after me. I..


State your name

Your name

I mean, say your actual name

Oh. Right…

I was off to a bad start. After being sworn in. It began. The torture. Cross examination sucks. All my watching of Suits had not prepared me for this. It’s like being caught cheating by your wife and you’re defending yourself. It’s very nerve racking. I don’t like that lawyer. I mean she was pretty, and had these perfect eyes. Like orbs. She was evil though. She ripped through every word of my witness statement.

You swore using two names, but your witness statement indicates four names? Are you really who you say you are? Can we rely on your testimony?

And she’d stare at me with those orb like eyes. Into my soul. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Yes. I think those are my names.

I responded shakily, my sweaty palms forming hand prints on that old, hard wood witness dock table. Just like that, I’d joined that group of guys who say, ‘My names are...’

Question after question. She hammered away at my witness testimony. Like a woodpecker. Chip. Chip. Chip. I hated her. I felt the blood boiling within me. The anger festering from within my rib cage. Is this how Jack Nicholson’s character in A Few Good Men felt? I went into the zone. She kept hammering away like she was a gold miner in Ikolomani.

Is this statement true? Is it?

I went all Col. Jessep (Jack Nicholson’s character in A Few Good Men. Please watch the movie if you haven’t) on her.

 You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth!

At this point the judge interjected, and everyone, including my prim and proper lawyer was looking at me like I’d lost my marbles.

I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes.

Is this statement true? Madam evil lawyer repeated

Thankfully, I had blurted out those A Few Good Men words in my head and not to the court.

Yes. The statement is true. I responded.

No further questions My Lady. 

And, just like that, Madam evil lawyer backed down.

Maybe the damage had been done. Who knows. There were other witnesses, who were not available. So the case was adjourned until next year for mention of a commencement date.

I went back to my tongue grating job, with still a lot to figure out about the rest of my life. One thing I knew for sure, if I ever meet that lawyer girl in a club, I’m definitely not buying her a drink.