I don’t go to high-end restaurants. High-end restaurants will give avocadoes and Chapo-Madondo fancy names and serve them in nice plates, then price them at Ksh. 10 000. Food you can score for Ksh. 50 at the joint. That’s my definition of robbery with impunity. Also, high-end restaurants don’t know how to properly make kick ass Chapos for the ordinary man. It’s the Luhya and Luo women with arms the weight of a bull’s thigh at the kibandas that know how to really pound the unga and come out with Chapos that deserve pet names and a good night’s sleep. Chapos so thick and soft and warm you could lay your head on them and drift to the Promised Land. Chapos so fine you’d want to take out to dinner and pull out their chairs for them. Chapos so vintage they should be taken to museums for exhibition to Kikuyu women (No shade, by the way, but, is it just me ama Kikuyu women need lessons in cooking Chapo? I’ve tasted four Kikuyu women’s Chapos and the best of them all tasted like an accompaniment of mutura and mouthwash. I almost bit my own feet.)
And, see, the good thing about me is, I don’t lie about such things. You ask me what my favorite dish is and I’ll tell you Chapo-Madondo. You say you want to take me out and ask where I’d like to go and I’ll tell you Mwikali’s kibanda in Juja. Pointblank. I don’t care what you think of me afterwards. Besides, I find it hella easier for someone to think less of you as not to expect much than to put you in a higher pedestal and expect the world of you.
But ask a lady today what her favorite dish is and watch her cute little round mouth curve and say things like “sesame crusted tuna” or “garden pea falafel” or “grilled mixed vegetable salad with balsamic reduction and feta cheese.” Then tell her you want to take her out to a place of her own choosing and come back here and unsubscribe from this blog if she doesn’t say The Steak Out, Ocean Basket, Marula Mercantile, Chowpaty, Fogo Gaucho or some of those other high-end restaurants where the waiters bow after serving you and ask you to “kindly, come back again” as you leave.
All women are fake. I repeat – and unapologetically at that – all women are fake. When they’re alone, women are probably the most disgusting beings you’ll ever find. People say Men are untidy, but that’s just because we own and profess it, proudly, while women try to hide theirs beneath the heavy makeup and the borrowed accents and the horse hair. Go to a woman’s house on a Sunday noon and you’ll find her lying on the couch, watching Spongebob, hands dipped in peanut butter, wearing a disgruntled sweat pant, filthy socks and a pink thong that was last washed when Lil Wayne was still the shit.
A couple weeks ago my boy and I are in line at the joint, waiting to make our orders. We had been drinking – heavily – the previous night and were still pretty much high so my sight – and a couple other senses in my body – might not have been working to full length. Usually, at the joint, you shout your order to a bored wrinkle-faced lady behind the counter, she bangs it down, gives you a receipt, you hand over your cash and move on to the kitchen section where you’ll be served by sweaty chaps in attires that are supposed to be white but are now a shade of brown and black; attires that look like they should be on the CDC’s radar.
We make our orders, head over to the kitchen section and find some other lady waiting to be served as well. She’s in decent white shorts, a black fitting top and sandals. She’s fidgeting on her phone, earphones plugged in, swaying her hips – slowly, left to right – from time to time. I conclude she’s listening to Wizkid’s ‘Daddy Yo’. She lifts her face up and can, by any means, be called pretty. She has long eyelashes, a tiny nose, huge – albeit sexy – eyes, and pinkish lips resembling those of a newborn baby cat. I feel like chatting her up. But I fear I might say something stupid (I always say something stupid while drunk or hung over). Because, like I said, a few senses in my body might not have been working to full length.
And then her order comes and I freeze.
The jamaa on the other side of the kitchen shouts, “Ugali-Madondo ni ya nani?” and she quickly grabs it, without as much as an acknowledgement. At first I’m unsure if the incredibly hot lady in front of me just bought a lunch of Ugali-Madondo, so I tap my boy on the shoulder and ask him what that lady just took away and he confirms, “Ugali-Madondo.” And then, in unison, we burst out into loud laughter.
I could almost picture myself chatting up that mami. And the conversation would go something like this;
“And you are?”
“Great. Pretty name. Where you headed to?”
“Of course. I meant where’s your place?’
“Oh. Are you in a hurry?”
*Looks at me head to toe* “Very much so.”
“Okay. How about your number then? Let’s have dinner sometime, Yes?”
“Depends. Where do you want to have it?”
*Pretending* “Never heard of it. Where’s that?”
And then, this is when it would hit you that this mami with fine legs and a paper bag containing Ugali-Madondo wants to be taken out to a five-star restaurant she doesn’t even know its location or a single thing about their menu. A restaurant she probably read in the December issue of Yummy magazine or heard some rich Luo mentioning on call. I can bet my life on this; if anyone were to ask that mami what she had for lunch she would never say Ugali-Madondo. “Nilipelekwa Pizza,” is what they always say.
Later that night I carried out a social experiment, just for shits and giggles. We were drinking fairly decent fifth generation whiskey; the kind that makes you feel like a wedge is being driven through your intestines while you sleep. I asked this mami 2 feet away from me what she would have if I were to take her out for drinks and she said, “Red wine.” And then she added, “It’s classy.” I looked her in the eye and posed, “What type or brand of red wine? Besides Four Cousins and Cellar Cask, of course.” She glanced to the left, then to the right, and went mum. Of course she didn’t know any other type of wine besides Cellar Cask or Four Cousins. Typical Nairobi woman.
All women are fake because all women are pretenders. Most of you think Men want high maintenance women with long nails and six inch heels and glossy lips. But, the truth is, sometimes a man just wants someone they can be real with. Someone that doesn’t have to pretend with them.
Someone that proudly confesses that she took Ugali-Madondo for lunch and not Pizza.