Of Mum, Sex and Overated Valentine’s

It’s Valentine’s Day again, everyone’s orgasmic about it. Shopping here shopping there, presents here porn there. People are having sex, licking each other while speaking in tongues like it’s some revival. And yes I just had to put the sex part  there, last week I got laid, so I can go and tell everybody…I’m the man I’m the man I’m the man.
Girls are busy writing their Valentine shopping list, writing how they want to be bought Huddah lipsticks and Durex lubes for Valentine. The single ladies are just having sex all over and getting pregnant even before Donald Trump can complete his wall. To the guys, well, single guys are wanking so hard their dicks have begun to swell. So now they’re walking around town with swollen dicks like Biggie and Tupac.
And me l, well me am just here typing this. I’m still single AF, single as usual. The only women I know in my life currently are my Mum and Mary…Mary the mother of Jesus. And since the three wise men from the East said that Valentine’s day should be about spending time with your loved ones, I’m thinking of going home to spend it with Mum. I mean she’s the only woman who never reminds me of how single I am, though at times she gets worried that I might be gay. But yesterday I called her, telling her I might sneak off my job and go home to spend the day with her. Funny enough she said no. “Wee fanya kazi.” She said.
Mum still hasn’t seen the thrill about Valentine so am still hesitant about planning to go for that holiday in Mfangano dala. I wonder if Dad even does her anything special on that day. “Valentine is just like any other day son”…that’s what she told me when I asked her what I should buy her. She said no, and I know better than to buy her a present when she doesn’t want one. She’ll probably just whip my ass regardless of how old I am and tell me to take my present back to Nairobi. She insists I should just send the money instead.

Kwani umeskia nakufa this year?” That’s what she asked me when I still insisted on traveling home to see her. Maybe she fears I might get a village girl pregnant, I got laid last week remember? And that means I’m currently in the zone. Any single girl I meet along my way will probably be screaming hallelujah in that maize plantation we got behind our house at home. Even William Ruto’s got nothing on me here. Mum  still remembers the last time I was there, I almost screwed the chief’s daughter…long live the chief!
But on the other side I think she just doesn’t want me to go home just for the sake of opposing what I’m planning to do. Mum always opposes everything.  Yeah, and she’s always unlucky too, she never gets what she wants. The other day she ordered for some dress online and the delivery guy brought her a pair shorts and those sweaters that have Vybz Kartel’s face printed on them. She never gets what she wants. At times I even think the only reason I was born a boy is because she wanted a girl.
Back to Valentine and funny dress codes. Valentine is overrated, as overrated as the Johnson Mwakazi and his adolescent voice. The guy never grew past that adolescent voice and now he’s stuck with it, making money out of it and making us, the men of girlish voices, sound like girls.  And speaking of girls, the other day I met a fan, a fan of this blog and that’s when I realized my fear of girls isn’t going away anytime soon. It’s a trait I inherited from my father’s father who also inherited it from his father’s father’s father and so here I am stuck with it. She complimented me (or wait, maybe it’s the blog she was complimenting and not my black face) but she was saying how she reads these posts and I was just there seated, grinning sheepishly without even noticing I had a piece of sukumawiki stuck between my teeth. Anyway big up Doreen, I know you’ll win that Chief Justice’s post. #WillyMutungaMustGo! Big up all the way up. And come 2022 we’ll be supporting you for the Presidency. Kazi Kwa Bloggers!!! Should be your party slogan.
Again back to Valentines Day. This Valentine I think I’ll just shower, put on my new jeans and spend the day indoors, probably just wanking my dick off to some new porn video I got from this new site I recently discovered.  My neighbor travelled upcountry and was kind enough to give me his WiFi password on condition that I look after his cat when he’s gone so I’ll have unlimited downloads at a speed of 10 Mbps . Yes Omollo, I will, I will look after your cat so long as it doesn’t interrupt my sessions now that Mum has insisted I don’t travel home.
I know some of you will be travelling too, most of you have already reached home by now and are now faking accents and making life for the friendly villagers in your homes difficult as they try to understand that heavy Nairobian accent you spew even when talking to your grandmother. To those who haven’t travelled, especially men, I feel sorry for you. All buses are booked, now the only option you’ve got is walk down to Machakos Country Bus station and take those Mbukinya buses home, those ones which leave the station the minute they get enough passengers on board. Getting the sitting space on the bus itself is a problem, and when you get a seat next to a complete stranger who you have to travel 10 hours with is even more scary. Its evening, you’ve spent the whole afternoon fighting and arguing with those rowdy guys who are always there waiting to pounce on anyone with a bag. You find a seat beside some fat beautiful lady, so beautiful that you’d let her give you HIV. She’s dressed in these tight dresses that almost every girl wears nowadays, these tight nylon miniskirts with the flag of USA printed all over. Weirdly enough the weather’s cold but she has opted for some white sleeve-less top that reveals her brownskin arm all the way to her shoulders. She’s listening to some music on her earphones, you guess it’s probably another one of Adele’s song where she cries over her last boyfriend like she always does in all her songs. So you just say your Hail Mary and thank God for making you two meet.
Anyway, your journey’s a long one so instead of rushing with the intros, you politely make a gesture asking her to open the window. She innocently agrees to open the window. Then you get some smell. A whiff of some bad smelling air. But since you’re in a good mood today, you let it pass. Probably it’s just a Maina or some Otieno guy selling boiled eggs outside the window. Ten-twenty minutes later the bus is full, your journey begins and since the lady fears that the breeze jetting in through the window will rip her weave off, she decides to close it. “Its okay, funga tu”, you reply and use that as a silence breaker. She smiles and closes the window. Then the smell comes again. This time a little stronger. You decide to ask her where the smell’s coming from but obviously, she won’t know where it came from, so she just shrugs her shoulders and the journey continues.
“I’m Marvin by the way, but my close friends call me Marvin or they just call me when they want money.” You begin the conversation. She’s called Apondi, Apondi Situnya. She’s in her third year at the University of Nairobi…comrades! You extract all the information you’d like to know about her and just as she’s about to spit the all-important phone number, the conductor arrives at your seat. It’s time to pay fare, or bus ticket as some elite folks would call it and since there’s this unwritten rule in the Songs of Solomon that says any man who speaks to a girl in a public service vehicle has to pay for her fare, you offer to pay hers. She declines, probably she’s those Martha Karua-Caroline Mutoko kind of girls. They have this natural hatred for any assistance being offered to them by a member of the opposite sex. You see that as an opportunity to save that bonus your boss gave you after the end year party, probably you’ll use it over the weekend to bet on Arsenal beating Bayern Munich.
After you’ve given your cash to the conductor, he extends his arm towards Mariana who’s really struggling to trace her money in the deepest point of her handbag somewhere in between all those crazy stuff ladies carry in their bags. She finally gets the money and just as she stretches her arm towards the conductor, that’s when you see it. Its dense, its thick, its overgrown and overcrowded. A huge mass of black human hair peeps at you from under her armpit. Actually it’s not even black, looks like the malnourished version of black, its somewhere in between brown and…maybe grey. And in between the greyish and brownish look you can see some thick jelly-like fluid, some thick sweat fluid that is also screaming to be set free from the armpit but has been unable to coz of the tight security of dark overgrown hair that has set up camp in her armpit. Jeso!  So you’re left wondering why our MP Millie Mabona is busy in parliament fighting men with all her energy yet Apondi  here cannot even spend her time to shave those things.
Shave those things woman, shave them, wax them even if need be. Just don’t let them overgrow there as if it’s some research you’re doing with the United Nations on natural vegetation and habitats. Is that the image you’re taking to your village, that here in Nairobi we just let everything hang loose, from balls to hair in the armpits? Then you begin blaming ISIS for your misfortunes of not getting a boyfriend yet the solution to most of them is just a shave away.  Shave them!
Anyway let me not bore you with some bullshit stories, Valentines is here and chemists are going to be making a helluva money. Me on the other hand..well, I just need an extra pair of socks, tissue  and new Vaseline..this time I think I’ll try the scented one..I hear it reduces friction by 84.23%. Redtube here I come!!!

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